From printing paper and glue, then it remains mute
And does not meet you with its large view,
From the black indications searching looks,
And is a thing and has its thing fate.

Apparently last night, I was talking in my sleep again..
I was told that around 3:30am
I was twisting my hands into claws above my head
and uttered these words:
“WHATEVER THE WOLF IS, I’LL CHANGE”
I haven’t spoken in my sleep (at least not to my knowledge)
in quite a long time..
I still sleep with my eyes open on occasion,
which disturbs anyone who tries to hold a conversation
with me while in these states, believing me to be awake..
In other news, the mysterious ailment(s) I have been
plagued with for about a week now are still causing trouble and alarm.
The neverending banshee-bitch of a headache is the worst of that legion-
hesitantly diagnosed by the professionals as an abnormal migraine
(my first) -but the mastoid node behind my ear is a swollen bony protrusion
and is very painful. A lot of things are painful right now, in fact-
like moving my eyes, or looking at light, or most anything beyond
absolute supinity, which is unbelievably irksome
as there are a million things I’d rather be doing
than laying about in mortal misery.
I am an admitted hypochrondriac and all,
but really, I’ve been all five kinds of sick this week
and I’m beginning to get a little unnerved.
The mastoid node drains infection from the parietal region of the brain.
My brain must be infected.
Someone please come decapitate me.

In cold hell, in thicket, how
abstract (as high mind, as not lust, as love is) how
strong (as strut or wing, as polytope, as things are
constellated) how
strung, how cold
can a man stay (can men) confronted
thus?
All things are made bitter, words even
are made to taste like paper, wars get tossed up
like lead soldiers used to be
(in a child’s attic) lined up
to be knocked down, as I am,
by firings from a spit-hardened fort, fronted
as we are, here, from where we must go
God, that man, as his acts must, as there is always
a thing he can do, he can raise himself, he raises
on a reed he raises his
Or, if it is me, what
he has to say
1
What has he to say?
In hell it is not easy
to know the traceries, the markings
(the canals, the pits, the mountings by which space
declares herself, arched, as she is, the sister
awkward stars drawn for teats to pleasure him, the brother
who lies in stasis under her, at ease as any monarch or
a happy man
How shall he who is not happy, who has been so made unclear,
who is no longer privileged to be at ease, who,
in this brush, stands
reluctant, imageless, unpleasured, caught in a sort of hell, how
shall he convert this underbrush, how turn this unbidden place
how trace and arch again
the necessary goddess?
2
The branches made against the sky are not of use, are
already done, like snow-flakes, do not, cannot service
him who has to raise (Who puts this on, this damning
of his flesh?)
he can, but how far, how sufficiently far can he raise
the thickets of
this wilderness?
How can he change, his question is
these black and silvered knivings, these
awkwardnesses?
How can he make these blood-points into panels,
into sides
for a king’s, for his own
for a wagon, for a sleigh, for the beak of
the running sides of
a vessel fit for
moving?
How can he make out, he asks,
of this low eye-view,
size?
And archings traced and picked enough to hold
to stay, as she does, as he, the brother, when,
here where the mud is, he is frozen, not daring
where the grass grows, to move his feet from fear
he’ll trespass on his own dissolving bones, here
where there is altogether too much remembrance?
3
The question, the fear he raises up himself against
(against the same each act is proffered, under the eyes
each fix, the town of the earth over, is managed) is: Who
am I?
Who am I but by a fix, and another,
a particle, and the congery of particles carefully picked
one by another,
as in this thicket, each
smallest branch, plant, fern, root
–roots lie, on the surface, as nerves are laid open–
must now (the bitterness f the taste of her) be
isolated, observed, picked over, measured, raised
as though a word, an accuracy were a pincer!
this
is the abstract, this
is the cold doing, this
is the almost impossible
So shall you blame those
who give it up, those who say
it isn’t worth the struggle?
(Prayer
Or a death as going over to–shot by yr own forces–to
a greener place?
Neither
any longer
usable)
By fixes only (not even any more by shamans)
can the traceries
be brought out
II
ya, selva oscura, but hell now
is not exterior, is not to be got out of, is
the coat of your own self, the beasts
emblazoned on you And who
can turn this total thing, invert
and let the ragged sleeves be seen
by any bitch or common character? Who
can endure it where it is, where the beasts are met,
where yourself is, your beloved is, where she
who is separated from you, is not separate, is not
goddess, is, as your core is,
the making of one hell
where she moves off, where she is
no longer arch
(this is why he of whom we speak does not move, why
he stands so awkward where he is, why
his feet are held, like some ragged crane’s
off the nearest next ground, even from
the beauty of the rotting fern his eye
knows, as he looks down, as
in utmost pain if he cold can be so called,
he looks around his battlefield, this
rotted place where men did die, where boys
and immigrants have fallen, where nature
(the years that she’s took over)
does not matter, where
that men killed, do kill, that woman kills
is part, too, of his question
2
That it is simple, what the difference is–
that a man, men, are now their own wood
and thus their own hell and paradise
that they are, in hell or in happiness, merely
something to be wrought, to be shaped, to be carved, for use, for
others
does not in the least lessen his, this unhappy man’s
obscurities, his
confrontations
He shall step, he
will shape, he
is already also
moving off
into the soil, on to his own bones
he will cross
(there is always a field,
for the strong there is always
an alternative)
But a field
is not a choice, is
as dangerous as a prayer, as death, as any
misleading lady
He will cross
And is bound to enter (as she is)
a later wilderness
Yet
what he does here, what he raises up
(he must, the stakes are such
this at least
is a certainty, this
is a law, is not one of the questions, this
is what was talked of as
–what was it called, demand?)
He will do what he now does, as she will, do
carefully, do
without wavering,
without
as even the branches
even in this dark place, the twigs
how
even the brow
of what was once to him a beautiful face
as even the snow-flakes waver in the light’s eye
as even forever wavers (gutters
in the wind of loss)
even as he will forever waver
precise as hell is, precise
as any words, or wagon,
can be made
– Charles Olson

(from lady fuschia’s book)
a freckled and frivolous cake there was
that sailed on a pointless sea,
or any lugubrious lake there was
in a manner emphatic and free.
how jointlessly, and how jointlessly
the frivolous cake sailed by
on the waves of the ocean that pointlessly
threw fish into the lilac sky.
oh, plenty and plenty of hake there was
of a glory beyond compare,
and every conceivable make there was
was tossed into the lilac air
up the smooth billows and over the crests
of the cumbersome combers flew
the frivolous cake with a knife in the wake
of herself and her curranty crew.
like a swordfish grim it would bounce and skim
(this dinner knife fierce and blue),
and the frivolous cake was filled to the brim
with the fun of her curranty crew.
oh, plenty and plenty of hake there was
of a glory beyond compare-
and every conceivable make there was
was tossed into the lilac air.
around the shores of the Elegant Isles
where the catfish bask and purr
and lick their paws with adhesive smiles
and wriggle their fins of fur,
they fly and fly ‘neath the lilac sky-
the frivolous cake, and the knife
who winketh his glamorous indigo eye
in the wake of his future wife.
the crumbs blow free down the pointless sea
to the beat of a cakey heart
and the sensitive steel of the knife can feel
that love is a race apart.
in the speed of the lingering light are blown
the crumbs to the hake above,
and the tropical air vibrates to the drone
of a cake in the throes of love.

“There is both amber and lodestone.
Whether thou art iron or straw,
thou wilt come to the hook.”
Today, by the wharf I watched a mockingbird chase down a big crow in flight-
nipping with sharp beak at black wings..
The hour is late, and I’m in need of some tea-
the Malatiera mountain tea picked by lovely bare-legged maidens
on the rocky hillsides of Isle of Crete, with manuka and rata honey and milk.
Luckily, I have both- kettle’s on.
An Ersatz Update-
The night after I convinced myself I was completely dry of palatable plotlines for this little film, we sat down to brainstorm- and within minutes I managed to pull the perfect story out of the air, fully-formed and much better than the first plan by far. I won’t spoil the surprise just yet, but a gesture of gratitude to for subliminally implanting the theme into my brainpan.
I very much like watching my hyacinth vine seedlings push up through black soil on the balcony, and the little lizards that sun there, throats blowing up like valentines.
I like my job- it’s blissfully simple and I like learning snippets of Mandarin and eating congee for dinner.
Some good things I saw this week:
National Puppet Day at Storyland- a rag-tag gaggle of cirkus kids entertaining wee tots with fantastic puppetshows featuring heroic ice-cream cones and inter-galactic dinosaurs. Later the was a puppet parade, and this little retarded boy and I danced and geeked out on Mr. Mattson’s ingenious kitty-kat DJ get-up..
(A moment to explain, or attempt to- Picture a man dressed as a big black evil kitty kat with a giant sharp-toothed glowering head, wearing a hand-welded chestplate amped and attached to a phonograph which blares his hissings and scratches near and far.
Doesn’t quite capture it, but the children loved it.)
I slid down the awesome dragon slide and it was super-fast.
Oh yes, and if any of you end up here I’ll take you to Storyland.
(Very different from Storyville, in that Storyville was a notorious red-light district here in New Orleans at the turn of the century- and Storyland is a slightly psychotic kiddie park with a fairytale theme. Lots of colorful toadstools. Scary dwarves. Spanish moss and Mother Goose. It’s fantastic.)
Had the joy of catching The Centimeters a few times, at the Hi-Ho and back by Lake Chartres. -Try to imagine The Magnetic Fields mating violently in the Carpathians with Klaus Nomi and Max Schreck. With their Lee Press-on epicanthic folds fashioned from paper bags, they are downright irresistible.
Also, The Cramps and the Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf Drinking Game, both vicious good fun.
Oh and, this guy I wait tables with has a cat named…
SEXY UNIVERSE
He found it abandoned with pus-sealed eyes at a construction site.
It scratches and has a bizarre bacterial infection.
YES!
I dream of fireworks and underwater demon-gods and rattling underground trains.
I’m ravenous and want to know why one is not supposed to eat late at night,
or before bedtime? Tell me!
Until I know a good reason, I’m going to do it anyway.
– RANDOM PARENTHETICAL TRANSMISSIONS END HERE –

an insistent wind surging in from the coast
blown from kujira, past the verdant islands
and through the trees, over my neck and shoulders..

I am given a ring, simple in design
with a stone that glows blue in the shadows..
the virgins in white fight their way
through the masses of muddy women,
up the mountain path.
those who make it to the top
pristine and unsullied
float down the river on rafts-
laughing and smiling at their good luck,
their hands folded in attitudes of prayer
while on the banks filthy idiot peasant men
gape at them as they pass.
of all these infant cinderellas
only one shall be left,
only one shall be taken.
we make it to the last place,
where we must wait on the beach-
a square patch of sand the chosen girl
pounds into smooth white stone
with her pacing,
until they come to collect her.
but i can’t wait here any longer
and start walking fast through red lights
the streets empty, the concrete buckled and cracked..
keep walking until i find the box on the sidewalk-
an old tea-tin, belonging to the ancient eunuch.
it is filled with many small teeth,
each wrapped individually-
they are made of peppermint candy
and used for divination.
i wake.

it is night, and i am alone
though i have here a very nice coteaux du languedoc
from the ermitage du pic st. loup
meringues and dates and valfrais
and der blutharsch and gummi bearchen
all kindly bestowed by mme. sainte-francis
during her easter visit,
so truly, i am well stocked
for a quiet evening at home..
which leaves me to posit a request;
recently, we were given an incredible opportunity-
the equipment and means
to create a short film of our own devising,
12 minutes long, in three segments.
a plot was spun, synopsis written
the actors chosen,
which brings us to our dilemna-
as another blazing southern summer looms
many of those with any sense of self-preservation
escape this city in droves to more temperate zones..
including, most of our stars and starlets..
without them, the story we had in mind is unthinkable-
leaving us back at the beginning.
one would think that in the heaps of possibilites,
something sufficient would occur to us-
but alas, no.
after this afternoon’s brainstorming session,
we are still unsatisfied- back to the drawing board.
it’s clear that everthing needs to be pared down
to bare essentials- a minimum of actors,
but as for locales, in this city we’ll not
be at a lack for exotic and striking places to film it..
the question is..
what?
what film would you like to see us make?
(within reason)
your suggestions would be appreciated muchly,
as the slate’s been wiped clean due to circumstance and overwork..
spark me, pique me, jostle my memory
o my muses..

ah yes.
spring unfurls her dewy tendrils all around us,
as we frolic ’round the proverbial maypole once more..
i’ve always liked easter for some elusive reason- perhaps, the excellent candy?
the fecund symbolism of bunny and egg?
hiding and hunting.
i always find a way to celebrate it, however obscurely..
in past years, this has involved pink rabbit-fur bikinis
and the odd impromptu slapstick egg-and-watermelon battle
as so lovingly documented by the dame in meatcake #10..
(a true story)

remembering this, i regret to not having had the time
to plan an easter egg hunt/garden party soiree in the tangled courtyard again this year,
but, contrary to popular rumour that
EASTER IS CANCELLED

(this would explain the glum face)
festivities will indeed be embarked upon in perhaps a more haphazard fashion this year-
in keeping with the relatively inauspicious convergences of hitler’s birthday
and the anniversary of the columbine shootings, angels of light will be at el matador
tomorrow night- don your bonnet and meet me there, why don’t you?
so, ja.
it’s five o’ clock in the morning,
and there are things moving around in my house.
and also other things that are biting my flesh.
i’m not certain that in my highly mateinated
though still slightly disjointed and sleep-deprived state
that i am capable of handling this rather unruly combination,
and with that, i do retire.

I haven’t much had the time or inclination to exhibit my thoughts or doings in these pages of late- much less catch my breath for what seems like a long while.
Now, for the first time in months, I am alone in the house for an extended period..
An abbrieviated run-down of various happenings is as follows..
This morning, the person I love, cherish and relate to most in this world left town
for a good long while..

My darling princess crocodile has flown the coop for cooler climes
and though I know she shall return in the fall I can’t help feeling halved and hollow…
In fact, I feel just like this:
A DEAD BABY BIRD

In other news…
Z’OTZ IS DEAD – LONG LIVE Z’OTZ!
The new Z’otz Coffeehouse is slated to be up and running this Friday, at 2003 Royal, on the corner of Royal and Touro..The new space is lovely, and is in one of the oldest buildings in the Marigny..The old location has been unceremoniously closed, so don’t bother looking for us there. In the meantime, much ticking and tacking and mucking and cleaning and such occurs in any “free-time” I come across, and if anyone finds themselves dreadfully lacking in the activity department, stop by and we’ll put a staple gun and some wood stain in your hands. You bring the elbow grease.
THE DEATH OF MY SOCIAL LIFE
I work like a damn dog. All the time. Money is good, I like it and need it.
Hence, I have no time. I work for taciturn asian people who respond to me in shouts or grunts. They have two adorable youngsters, Vivian and Victor, who are also very taciturn.
When Victor is not terrorizing the waitstaff in his one-eyed-one-horned-flying-purple-people-eater mode, he is ignoring us. He became annoyed when the sharks and octopi and seahorses I drew were better than his. Alex from Moscow, light of my life, dishwasher and delivery-person extraordinaire will be breaking my heart soon by leaving the country. He is the only person I can talk to there.
DEATH AND TAXES
My previous employers are attempting to fuck me over regarding my taxes this year, by filing me as an independent contractor when I most obviously was not, to avoid paying their half of my social security. I am finding this to be extremely ennervating. I suppose I will need to go find a decent attorney soon. Regardless, I still owe an exorbitant amount of money to the IRS, and I’m very cross about the entire thing.
DEATH AND FASHION
Looks like Italian Vogue is coming in May to do a shoot in our apartment. Woo.
DEATH TO INSECTS
I have been devoting any spare time I have to the cultivation of carnivorous plants.
I am raising sundews and venus flytraps, as well as a terrarium of Utricularia (otherwise known as bladderworts or angry-bunnyrabbit flowers) and pygmy sundews..These are very, very minute little creatures which feed on even tinier creatures. But they are slightly unhappy right now, so I shan’t show them until they’re feeling better.
But-
My flytrap caught a large insect, and my Drosera adelae is flowering!

It’s the small things that make life worth living.

But I am not lost
any more than leaves are lost
or buried vases
This is not my time
I would only give you second thoughts
I know you must call me traitor
because I have wasted my blood
in aimless love
and you are right
Blood like that
never won an inch of star
You know how to call me
although such a noise now
would only confuse the air
Neither of us can forget
the steps we danced
the words you stretched
to call me out of dust
Yes I long for you
not just as a leaf for weather
or vase for hands
but with a narrow human longing
that makes a man refuse
any fields but his own
I wait for you at an
unexpected place in your journey
like the rusted key
or the feather you do not pick up
until the way back
after it is clear
the remote and painful destination
changed nothing in your life
-L.C. from Flowers for Hitler
open a book at random, clearing the mind but for one silent objective- one question.
this is what came, de profundis clamavi..the lines are clear, and the words come to the surface, floating slowly upwards..

the calliope floats up and down the river
the tinkling sounds from the pipe organ play:
“does eat oats,
and mares eat oats,
and little lambs eat ivy-
a kid’ll eat ivy too,
wouldn’t you?”
this cheers me up and creeps me out simultaneously.
last night i dreamt of being a refugee,
a new identity in my fake passport
a nod to the soldier on the train
and we’re racing across upper mongolia
the landscape fleeting in my peripheral
heart choking adrenaline- fear, and elation.
all this from falling asleep with book in hand,
about olga, the revolutionary beauty,
who was sent by muller, when seven months pregnant
to hitler as a “gift”..
she died at 33, in the gas chambers at bernburg,
in february of 1942..
all these individual lives,
part and parcel of the greater picture,
the one that comes into my sleep at night,
transforms me into these characters, real people
other stories, and i wake with fleeting images
of travel and faces,
places and people and pasts
i’ll never know.