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.
