Le Pont Mirabeau : Apollinaire

FIDGET by Kenneth Goldsmith

quote ...'Fidget is a transcription of writer Kenneth Goldsmith's every movement made during thirteen hours on June 16, 1997 (Bloomsday). This online edition includes the full text, a self-running Java applet version written by programmer Clem Paulsen, and a selection of RealAudio recordings from Theo Bleckmann's vocal-visual performance at the Whitney Museum of American Art on Bloomsday 1998.
Fidget attempts to reduce the body to a catalogue of mechanical movements by a strict act of observation. Goldsmith aims to be objective like the photographer Edward Muybridge. In Fidget, Goldsmith reduces language to its basic elements in order to record and understand movement in its basic form. Despite these aims, the dictates of the work like the self-observation and the duration of the act, create a condition of shifting referent points and multiple levels of observation that undermine the objective approach.
Goldsmith and Paulsen's collaboration has reconfigured the text of Fidget to substitute the human body with the computer. The Java applet contains the text reduced further into its constituent elements, a word or a phrase. The relationships between these elements is structured by a dynamic mapping system that is organized visually and spatially instead of grammatically. In addition, the Java applet invokes duration and presence. Each time the applet is downloaded it begins at the same time as set in the user's computer and every mouse click or drag that the user initiates is reflected in the visual mapping system. The different hours are represented in differing font sizes, background colors and degree of "fidgetness", however, these parameters may be altered by the user. The sense of time is reinforced by the diminishing contrast and eventual fading away of each phrase as each second passes.
Fidget was originally commissioned by The Whitney Museum of American Art at Philip Morris as a collaboration with vocalist Theo Bleckmann. The live performance was at The Whitney Museum of American Art at Philip Morris on June 16, 1998 at 8p.m. Bleckmann's vocal interpretations of Fidget are available here in RealAudio. A gallery installation of Fidget opened at Printed Matter in New York City. Printed Matter featured Goldsmith's collaboration with seamstress Sydney Maresca. The exhibition ran from June 11-September 4 1998.
Kenneth Goldsmith is the author of No. 111 2.7.93-10.20.96 (The Figures, 1997) and 73 Poems, a collaboration with vocalist Joan La Barbara (book 1994 by Permanent Press, compact disc 1994 by Lovely Music, Ltd.). His visual works have been exhibited in galleries and museums worldwide. Goldsmith is the editor of UbuWeb Visual, Concrete + Sound Poetry, a DJ at 91.1 WFMU in New York City, and a music critic at New York Press.'

website here

CAP Computer aided poetry yummo!!

just good - go and make some clicketty clack here

fabulously ... how to write badly well ...

quote ... from  how to write badly well by Joel Stickley

'Use your prose to showcase your Poetry....
click here

‘What are you working on, Pen?’ He leaned over her shoulder to look. Penelope put her hand over the page.
‘It’s nothing. It’s just...’ She paused, too shy to reveal what she had been writing. ‘It’s kind of a poem.’
‘Let me see.’ He picked up the paper and started to read. ‘My God,’ he gasped, after a few seconds. ‘This is amazing.’
‘No,’ she mumbled. She could already feel her face flushing.
‘I mean it,’ he said. ‘You’re an amazing poet. The best I’ve ever read, and I’m the poetry critic for a national newspaper. This is nothing short of genius.’
‘Honestly, I didn’t think anyone would be interested,’ she said, modestly.
‘You must read it to me,’ said David. ‘I could never do it justice. I need to hear it from you. Out loud. In full.’
‘Well...’ said Penelope, blushing. ‘Okay. Here goes...’ As she read the poem, the whole world seemed to fall silent as new layers of consciousness were opened by her words:
O! My aching soul aches for the refreshing touch,
Of crystalline water my soul too refresh,
Like a dry frog jumping in a pond after sunshine to much,
Our thought’s and feeling’s and live’s now must mesh.
The silver moon high up above us in the dark, black, night, sky,
Is like a silver light in the sky so black,
It hangs up above so very, very, very, very high,
It rises in the night and in the daytime it goes back.'

Stacie Leatherman new work published by Kelsey Street yummy

New work from Stacie Leatherman.

K

We’re revised as we speak.

To attune.

Kitsch, of course. Kites and high-flying plutocracies.

The body’s lace its organs the child beating within.

It lifts like a sunburn and I am borne into it.

The finesse of loving, as if relationships could be held in tow.

The long sidewalks to hell and back,

straight and smooth as a syringe.

And where someone or the self pulls us off,

a light wave, a frequency.

The process of something we once knew.

Your lowing cattling us through the night.

You find the trails strong as any writing.

Iron horsed,

the bad luck fruition,

the clustering, the badlands,

ribbon fish, you glide through like a transition,

your body sliced more than half your length,

a cut thread, swimming.

*

The dead over under us, at eye level.

I refuse to discuss in separations. I am not my own language utterly.

Doors and wounds, disappearances, returns.

Reliance on hands, mind, teeth.

*

The drifting backwards into disrepair,

the unclotting, the swift dislocation.

The swifter we go.

Drift of continents and islands.

Words threshed, chaff from grain.

Updraft, uprising.

Words catching in the backdraft.

*

If a collision, or elision, or what has clapped silently above me.

The knots tying it together.

Spring flowers dusting ditches and roads,

you walk,

cottonwood blowing like the sifted alphabet,

the approach of solstice.

Light as the waiting and receiving.

The kissing words backwards until they have breath.

Until a flock breaking upwards in flight,

the sky breathing, insistence of motion and intent and wandering.

Seeds scattering, a spume,

an umbrella of sparks.

*

The signing of the entire body,

the circular motions.

Your body’s lamplight.

The last time is not the last time.

*

There is the painful retaliation.

The crosshairs.

The splitting of,

the close shave.

*

Lightning a savage crop,

fierce as your broken heart.

Inchworm inching across my arm,

contracting

the crashing and impetuosity.

Slouch erected straight as a wave curling over,

the origami of moments,

beach gored with light.

The unknown more intimate,

under the finger in the lung.

Stacie Leatherman’s first collection of poems, Stranger Air, will be published by Mayapple Press in early 2011. Work is forthcoming or has recently appeared in New American Writing, Indiana Review, Barrow Street, Diagram, and Crazyhorse, among others. She has an MFA in Poetry from the Vermont College of Fine Arts.

two good women die

louise bourgeous dies age 98 and full of mischief right to the end
















and.... leslie scalapino 1944-2010

From her Essay on the Comic Book

(Each of the lines or paragraphs is one of the frames of the comic
book.)
The crowd marks the split between themselves and experience.
They construct all the buildings to be the same.
That's a different way of regarding; so the man whose function
it is to drive the bus doesn't know where he's going or seem to
wonder.
as it is before
him
Not using the mind -- which then occurs outside the frames of
the comic book after -- as the bus driver from the civilization with-
out order though it is repressed
then
I was out in the cornfields, the sky -- and people would pull
alongside shouting obscenities saying to go back where one'd come
from.
What is the relation of action -- someone's -- to the unfolding of phenomena?
The farm boys coming up alongside with obscenities out in the
fields.
Wavering alongside and if one says they're from there, their
exploding feeling insulted.
Which is really funny.
Just say back to them they're from there and they erupt.
At a streetlight, out in the fields -- out in nowhere -- and they
waver there alongside shouting.
then feel hurt in public
from what had been before.
One cannot expect to be a bum.
The reverse of that -- which is before
where people used to lie in the train stations
and now they have to have a ticket
Not using the mind -- is contemplating -- in the comic book.
The newspapers have created the impression of disjointed expe-
riences. But I don't read them.
anyway, we're not in these experiences
is the impression created by the newspapers which
do not allow us to make connections
Not having historical experience -- is the comic book as the form
of the serial novel. Though popularly we're supposed to be in
them -- this is a deprivation created by the newspapers themselves.
The moon is in the day sky, now out in the cornfields -- rather
than in the civilization which does not have order, though it is
repressed.
The farm boys hanging wavering floating at the crossroad --
alongside, shouting obscenities.
are from the ordered civilization where the bum lying has died
in the subway station.
as such they're not in experiences -- as the reverse image of the
deprivation created by the newspapers.
The serial -- but then being before it
And afterwards there's only that
They are out by the fields
These boys were shouting, maybe because they're together --
wavering hanging leaning out coming alongside.
I feel depressed -- I'm tired of being made fun of.
Farm boys who're just youths floating leaning out
People standing like the cattle in the sea -- waist deep, standing
on grass
being invalidated and nothing
is the reverse image of the ordered civilization
and one is calm

delirious hem: Kirsten Kaschock - quote from article

Artist-as-Mother/Mother-as-Artist: A Metaphorical Resurrection

'When we talk about art now, especially radical or experimental art, we talk about war. The artwork achieves, or fails to achieve. It is revolutionary and breaks through barriers, or it falls flat. Postmodern art (of all genres) is valued for its ability to move us forward—to shock, to produce awe. Our zeitgeist is blitzkrieg. Notably, the term avant garde is a military one, and it is precisely this term that makes it difficult to imagine communication with the artist. Either you position yourself behind the vanguard, reaping the benefits of their sacrifice, or you stand opposing them, attempting to cut them down as they hurl their weapons into your culture. The soldiers (the artists) in these metaphors are necessarily silent—and their purpose violent.

Walter Benjamin, in his essay, “The Task of the Translator,” writes:

The basic error of the translator is that he preserves the state in which his own language happens to be instead of allowing his language to be powerfully affected by the foreign tongue. Particularly when translating from a language very remote from his own he must go back to the primal elements of language itself and penetrate to the point where work, image, and tone converge. He must expand and deepen his language by means of the foreign language. It is not generally realized to what extent this is possible… (Benjamin 81)''

for whats said next and the full text click here...
delirious hem: Kirsten Kaschock 2

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