O is the color of this name
—Michael Palmer
Forgive my misreading til hell breaks loose. Or til
hedgehog the lawn.
Morning is broken; the buzzards
are loose. A page is
sitting next to a bin. But seriously
the tweets are fine and all that. I’ll have lunch with him
tomorrow. The fact is
I’m a little guilty-ish, feeling
distant (distinct?) from those folks, because he wanted
someone who would listen to him (obviously).
Much due to this new phase.
This tree’s a fist without a
word. When they seem
to want to spend time, to want to
listen. And I’m
reading in bed. Eileen’s angels with
pokers for trumpets.
An interview with sizzle; nobody
says much. Halloween
is a success. Good. Exhausting.
Pretentious.
Everything in a hurry, like Armageddon.
Here I am at Chevy’s (obviously). Doing
Team America (did
I see this at 7:30 this morning?).
Is the article I read going to be by Peter Sellars,
giving me a big hug on Friday night? He did he did!
The juxtaposition of Artaud’s & June Jordan’s texts
was harsh. The guy
who played Artaud was incredible.
Will I wake up happy tomorrow? Wednesday?
I’m
all so well put together, wondering at assuming,
and very much in hyperbole.
Going on about how
exceedingly.
The happiest feeling by Ron Silliman.
