Date: Tue, 14 May 2002
Subject: Re: The High Road of Art
The Way of The Cavalier is to pull our revealing
pantaloons up about our hips and cincture them, so
that our weighty Pendulums do not chafe upon the
flagstones, to be unmanned in a doily shoppe.
Time is as a small cake whose every crumb must be
gummed or pinched.
I play the music of Lully, 1632 - 1687, not of Racine,
1639- 1699, in the background on my useful headphones,
so as to be A Constructive Fellow, not a niggler,
making utility of every scrumptuous moment (by
exercising!) and to have a well-paced marching rhythm
that guides my mincing Nancy steps toward elevated
Criticism, that old she-hag of gender who waits to
syphon out sweet plump young poetry's fair lustrous
bloom. Ha! It is for those whose time is a nasty
wastefulness, as a waste of corruption in their pants
whereon they sit. She shows up too late at the
christening and drinks the water from the font to
taste the infant.
Poetry must fuel herself with a good mastication of
You are in a "romantic relationship" with a
"significant other." You go to poetry-inspiring
movies. You watch the sickle of television. How
could that employment leave time for the grey shadows
of impolite thinkers whose impositions are a waste
that no clean cloth can cleanse? Then scrub the waste
away! You have no time nor space! (Time, the stern
master.) Latin epigrams are bearing down upon you,
though not wastefully!
I am responsive only to aphorisms. Aphorisms win.
What is an "argument"? Ha! It starts with an "are
gew" and it ends with "meant"! It is as a snare or a
fowler's trap to tangle our shins around a pot of
Stuff your great poetry stomach with nutritious boiled
reading material that can have Utilitarian Value, my
waster! not with the she-hag's indolence and
For example: Charles Bernstein. He wears glasses. So
then why drink from glass when he, an example,
places glass before his eyes as a better entrance into
the high life! The top shelf! High, yes, that
interests everyone too short to reach easily.
Ascend! Rise, as something tumesced! Who has ever
met a Bernstein and said, That man is my lookalike!
His imposter? His physiognomy, his phrenology, his
aftertaste, they leave no bitter wastefulness upon the
palate. It is as a fresh lemony Bernstein that has no
unpleasant waste matter, ah. No one has ever
followed him into heinous unlawfulness of anarchy or
said, There's a fine reason to save my every pretty
precious minute in a pail, a party favor! Without
waste! A fob watch, there's a treasury to stuff in
your pocket, not to squander hours in bug-eyed
bookishness. Look to the Kings of Poetry! What,
Every baby must give its waste to a nursemaid or it is
as a thing to be placed in the corner and dessicated.
Or else, let them be as do-nothings and dummies, who
have no special senses.
Some befoul their swollen pectorals. They take a
wreath and they make it as poop. Who would ever work?
A slave! More Bernstein: "Maria! Maria! I just
met a girl named Maria"!
Everyone should go Upstairs and avoid basements. And
let no waste dog your heel, as a discoloration.
I give you this from how Pound and Eliot used four
minutes, as a pie.