Cleaving Saramago

Bernardo Soares

“It’s more difficult to be

someone else in prose”

--Fernando Pessoa,

Concerning the Work of

Bernardo Soares

i was playing—with myself

playing solitaire—that is

like my aunt—indifferently

playing cards—josé saramago

my new other—lisbon talks!

“fictions—of the interlude”

i called it—while josé calls it

“death—with interruptions”

readers—knowing of course

i’m publishing—thru josé

(even tho—it publishes itself

crocheted—by invisible fingers

both josé & i—long dead now)

look at these—new fingers

playing solitaire—tonight…

crocheting—electronically

trustful aren’t i—fujitsu game

tablet, stylus—friday night

on the outskirts—of Lisbon

buenos aires—London?

Cleaving Saramago

Blind in Buenos Aires

—for Phouc-Tan

''Why did we become blind, I don't know,

perhaps one day we'll find out, Do you

want me to tell you what I think, Yes, do,

I don't think we did go blind, I think we

are blind, Blind but seeing, Blind people

who can see, but do not see.''

—José Saramago, Blindness

I’m a blind man — she’s a blind woman…

We’re lying beside each other — we’re holding hands

we’re young — lovers who go to movies

and turn blind there — some miraculous

coincidence brings us — together in movies

we recognize each other — by our voices

of course, the voice of blood — needs no eyes

love which — people say is blind

has a voice — of its own

Cleaving Saramago

Rua do Alecrim

“A man can go astray

even when he follows

a straight line.”

—José Saramago,

The Year of the Death

of Ricardo Reis

1.

the silky texture — of her sleeve
the warmth — of her skin…
Lydia lowered— her eyes
moved sideways — his hand accompanied her
they remained like that — for a few seconds
now she departs — she will not regain

her composure — in a hurry…
labyrinths are — like Lisbon streets
crossroads — blind alleys…

The Rua do Alecrim — up down
left right — Ferragial Remolares Arsenal
Vinte e Quatro de Julho —the unwindings

of the skeins the web — Boavista Crucifixo
even a man with — the sight of 2 eyes
needs a light — he can follow

2.

watching the spectacle — of the world
call it wisdom — aloofness indifference
upbringing what — Ricardo Reis requires
is a guide dog — a walking stick
a light — Lisbon is a dark mist
north south — east west
all merging — sloping downward

3.

Ricardo Reis — falls headlong
to the bottom — a tailor’s dummy
a manikin — without legs
just a head — Cherico-esque
Fernando Pessoa — is dead unique
irreplaceable returning — from Rio
I walk down — Avenida da Liberdade
Both poets dead — yet here I am
our portraits — in oval frames

4.

watching the spectacle — of the world
I go astray — even when I follow
a straight line — entering Rossio
crossroads of 4 — or 8 choices
taken and retraced — letting chance guide me

driving letting — myself be driven
by forces unknown — even if I knew
what would — I know?

5.

Pessoa the poet — hoards his poems
journalists scratch — their ass
critics publish — rubbish
I tap the pavement — little is gained from
secondaire lit queans — Pessoa hoards

his poems unlike other geniuses — dot dot dot
I let myself go astray — entering Rossio
letting Lisbon — guide me past
Freire the Engraver’s — shiny bronze nameplates

lawyers doctors — notaries
important “compass” people — but poets?

nameplates deceive — so do journalist
& critic’s questions — poets reply with action
with action — they ask questions
such questions converge — our change is
thru our senses — poet questions
don’t require answers — heteronyms work better

just ask Alberto Caeiro — and company…

Cleaving Pessoa

Walt Whitman
—for Fernando Pessoa / Álvaro de Campos

I am nothing — I shall never be anything
Besides — why wish to be anything?
Walt Whitman — had within him
All the dreams — of the world
Did it do him — any good?
He died penniless — in New Jersey
After he sang — the Song of the Infinite
In a chicken-coup — all alone

Cleaving Pessoa

Salutations to Pessoa

“But it’s all fragments,
fragments, fragments…”
—Fernando Pessoa

Every time — I read Pessoa
I think — how much better
He is — than Allen Ginsberg
More magically — realistic with
his fragmented — heteronyms
than Ginsberg — could ever be
In America — New York City
more like — Third World New Orleans
Now shrunk city — after the hurricane
Despite art deco — Chrysler & Empire State
Buildings looming up — the envy of our Neocon Empire
Hardly comparable to — the Portuguese Empire
Its Sebastianesque — 15th century grandeur…

Fernando Pessoa—strolling down Rua do Ouro
Along with Madame Blavatsky—Aleister Crowley
alias Master Therion — Alberto Caeiro Alvaro de Campos

Ricardo Reis — Bernardo Soares the semi-heteronym
author of the sprawling —disquieting fictional diary

Richard Zenith — the Translator
Walt Whitman — The Good Gray Poet
Eduardo Lanca — Dr. Pancracio
Dr. Gaudencio Nabos — Charles Robert Anon
Alexander Search — author of Documents of Decadence

Jean Seul, Ophelia Queiroz — Antonio Mora
Baron of Teive — Thomas Crosse the critic
Antonio de Seabra — another critic
Sher Henay compiler —Sensationalist Anthology
Crosse — Raphael Baldaya the astrologer
Maria Jose — the 19-year-old hunchback
Spawning — hopeless love letters

Cleaving Pessoa

Autopsychography

“Any nostalgia I
feel is literary”
—Fernando Pessoa
The Book of Disquiet

I’m the—gap
Between—what I am
And am not—between
what I dream—and what life
Has made me—this way

Reality—is always
More or less—than what
I wanted—only I am
Sometimes equal—to myself

I act—as little as possible
Taking refuge—from the world
In my Lisbon—imagination
Where everything—is perfect

Nothing—disappoints
I’m totally—sincere
In my — insincerity

Cleaving Pessoa

PESSOA CROSSES THE ATLANTIC TO MEET

SOME NORTH AMERICAN POETS

"Pessoa Schmessoa"—Allen Ginsberg,

Salutations to Fernando Pessoa

Fernando Pessoa crosses — the Atlantic

it's dark — dark like the river Styx

In the distance — he sees the last lights

the rockets, the bright flares — of the Titanic

It's before radio — somehow, though

he knows that —Leonardo Dicaprio

is freezing — in the cold still water

and that Kate Winslett —is floating

like an angel above him — on a piece of bulkhead

It’s like Melville — who imagined the ocean

to be like a prairie — who imagined the One Eye

of the Oversoul — projecting itself out of the depths

Like a comet from darker skies — major poetry journals

acclaiming its arrival — for some critics

it’s like the hysterical —whiskey-soaked Poe

done in by Greeley — and the New York Tribune

And for another — he reads like a militant

Christopher Smart — without Geoffrey the cat

Still, there is no sense of — time on his passage

but there are fellows — in New England

Like Whitman — practicing a kind of spiritual adhesive

Love like — Hart Crane down by the docks

Down in New Orleans —where still thick with

poisonous intrigue — the slap of chains and rope

The crisis begins — with postmodernism

the crisis begins with — the colonial instinct he carries

So in desperation — he meets every gang-plank

by begging — Have you seen Ginsberg

Has he met my other—met Pessoa yet?

Pessoa crosses — the Atlantic

and it's green — slimy with gasoline

By this time he’s been waiting — hours

to cross into the — great Heartland

riding a modern coal barge — all the way to St. Louis.

He knows — the old Good Grey Poet

is there, singing — long flat songs in an accent

he doesn’t know — yet understands

You see — the lobstermen of Nantucket

and — the catfish farmers in Louisiana

know they have options — traps, tools, and a good

road to make a living — the slap of brotherhood

Stuck with his poetry — he toughs it out

the great vein of North American — Ginsberg knew

Jack Kerouac — Neil Cassady — Lucien Carr

This is the story — Pessoa wanted to know about

San Francisco — where The Golden Gate lives

Where Japantown waits — down from Pacific Heights

the size of skyscrapers — the great Pacific waits for him

Pessoa didn’t make it — all the way

All the way to America — San Francisco

this North America — where Whitman would

have been mistaken — for a Beatnik

In this pseudo-romantic twilight — by the bay

it's just a story — made up by Ginsberg

And who’s Ginsberg — just another heteronym?

Cleaving Pessoa

The Imagination
—for Richard Zenith

“I used to enjoy all of this,
but only now do I realize
how much I enjoyed it”
—Fernando Pessoa,
#144, The Book of Disquiet

Pessoa laid—the paper
Down on—the restaurant table
Thinking about—the American
The millionaire—who had it all
Money, industry—fame, fortune
Henry Ford—the Detroit genius
A celebrity—known everywhere
His dream—his personal magnetism
Later engendering—spawning
Autobahns—Eisenhower Interstates
Who would have—guessed his
Detroit dream—would have
Grown into—such dimensions…
Only to fail—getting bailed out
By Congress—in the future?

I used to—enjoy reading
More than I do now—I suppose
For some reason—or another
Edgar Allan Poe—H. P. Lovecraft
I used to—lose myself completely
When I was young—impressionable
On Friday nights—after school
Whole weekends—mine to read
The best way to read—after all
Is to feel—to feel everything
In every way—to feel everything
Excessively—because all things are
Actually—hysterically excessive
And all reality—fiction or fact
An excess—a subversive violence
An extraordinarily—transgressive
Vivid hallucination—a shameless lie

A fake—“True Confession”
An ersatz—“True Detective Story”
A playful—“Pulp Fiction” movie
An “Autopsychography”—a facsimile
A palimpsest factless—autobiography
How we love—to delude ourselves
To run away—from who we are
Writers are such—hopeless cowards
Poets are even worse—ask Pessoa
Since writers—are liars by nature
And readers—their willing dupes
It’s easy to be— Nietzsche-like

This Will to Art—to lie, to flee
This flight—from “myselves”
How necessary—artistic lying is
Especially—when you’re Adolescent
Between two worlds—spontaneously
Promoting understanding—somehow
Trying but—never accomplishing it
The teenage—Will to Power
The Übermensch boy—never to be
Struggling hopelessly—heteronymically
With who I was —and would be
Incommunicable—never to accomplish
Myself—and all the competing others
Other than through—artistic lying

Reading—writing like Bernardo Soares
Or like Álvaro de Campos—Ricardo Reis
Consciously falsifying—who I was
By making others—feel what I felt
Thus freeing them—from themselves
By offering them—a gloss my personality
Pessoa recognized this—cultivated it
Art’s power to channel—a writer’s personality
And perhaps dominate—other people
Like Henry Ford did—Technology as Art
Sleek Mustangs—swanky Thunderbirds
See the retro T-Bird—in the window!!!

There’s more—than one way
To capture—the Imagination
Ford Pessoa—Lovecraft Poe
Poetry—can be stylish too

Cleaving bukowski

Bukowski

Cleaving bukowski

bukowski / black sparrow / apple

“my man, you think,
you’ve saved yourself
for somebody else, but
who?”
—Charles Bukowski,
“liberated woman and liberated
man,” The Pleasures of the Damned

1.

“Most successful commercial writers know what to attack and when. And even the Artsy-Fartsies who are touched upon with the Nobel and Pulitzer prizes, they too are screened for any dangerous signals of individuality. “—Charles Bukowski, Selected Letters—Volume 4 (1987-1994), London: Virgin, 1999.

The Blogosphere—and especially You-tube—has changed things. What began as samizdat lit and desktop publishing (DTP)—has morphed into a slithering online monster with a million medusa heads. They say hundreds of new Blogettes are being spawned everyday on the I-net—obviously an important media development.

Broadband and bigger memory chips have morphed the Blogosphere into the You-tube venue—accelerating the death of books and bookstores and publishing as we know it. Online publishing is now derigeur—as the old system of submission, editors, galley proofs, printing, cutting, binding and distribution morph and fold into new venues. Ask Silliman—he knows

2.

“Well, the electrician hooked up the computer… I’m still getting the feel of this thing but I think all in all, it should make the work luckier. Of course, the computer can’t create but I like the look of the line as I go along and I think it all aids in the way the words flow and play around.” —Charles Bukowski, Selected Letters—Volume 4 (1987-1994), London: Virgin, 1999, p. 64.

What does computing mean for poets? Bukowski got into computers early in the game in 1990 when his wife got him a Macintosh, some MacWrite software and a laser printer. It didn’t take long for him to get into it. What Bukowski got into—was a different way to write. He traced the way he moved from typewriter to computer in his correspondence with John Martin his Black Sparrow Press publisher and his various writer friends. Following this thread in his Selected Letters is interesting. It retraces what many of us already know—except Bukowski was doing it in the early ‘90s.

3.

“The computer still seems like a new toy and I can’t stay away from it. I’m sure it will get to be old stuff after a while and we’ll get back to normal. You know, I can get an addition to this thing and if you have this other thing up there I can send the stuff up to you at the moment I type it. But we don’t need that unless the mails fall apart. The world gets stranger.”—Charles Bukowski, Selected Letters—Volume 4 (1987-1994), London: Virgin, 1999, p. 65.

During the early ‘90s Bukowski adapted himself to the electronic Word very quickly—working his way thru the early glitches and hardware-software problems of those days. Rather than Mac, I personally went thru the Windows software changes( 3.1, 95, 98, 2000, etc) and into the laptop stage from desktop clunky cathode-ray screens. Now I use a tablet and Vista…a long ways from the days of floppies and flipping out.

4.

“I was just clowning. I’m sure you know. A computer is nothing but an instrument. It has no idea how to write a poem, a novel, etc. And most people with computers are at a hazard, most computer people have been gulped away by something awful. I resisted a computer for a long time for fear of going with this death gang. In fact, I didn’t get the computer myself. It was an Xmas gift. Blame Santa Claus.”—Charles Bukowski, Selected Letters—Volume 4 (1987-1994), London: Virgin, 1999, p. 69.

This “death gang” thing Bukowski mentions. What is it? Or what was it? This resistance to digital technology—was it a kind of Luddite metaphysical angst and fear of computer virtual reality as opposed to IBM Selectric typewriters smashing ink onto the dead skins of trees?

5.

“I have a small smile and the words leap onto the computer screen and I’m as young as I was then. There’s no vanity attached, no wish for fame, just my guts pumping with the Word, on more, some more, the way I want it, the way it should be. Anyhow, a computer easily beats a typer in spite of the accidents. You just jump back in and let it roll again. I love this thing. It’s a mad, magic fountain. As time goes on, computer errors will decrease to an extent which will be almost non-existent.” —Charles Bukowski, Selected Letters—Volume 4 (1987-1994), London: Virgin, 1999, p. 89-90.

As the letters progress, Bukowski moves further into the Word—the digital Word as opposed to the analogue Word. The former is an interactive screen—the latter is a Guttenberg antique.

6.

“I use a Macintosh IIsi. MacWrite II. Software 6.0.7. I don’t know anything about computers. My wife got me one for Xmas ’90 and I used it basically as a typewriter. Have gone to computer class, read some manuals, still an amateur. What the computer has done is to allow me to write more. Now, “more” isn’t any good if the quality doesn’t hold but with me (forgive this) it has not only held but increased. It’s a bigger party now, more fun, more fire. I used to get drunk one night to write the stuff then get drunk the next night to correct it. Carbons, cross-out ink, new ribbons, new erasing tape, etc. Now, I do it all in one night, correct the shit tight on the screen, run it off, store it for god damned eternity and mail it out somewhere. The keyboard sizzles and sings and laughs and there’s even different typefaces to fit one’s god damned mood. Chicago is best when you’re burned out and thinking of the razor against the throat or the car off of the bridge. I generally prefer “Palatino” because it makes me look like a better typist.—Charles Bukowski, Selected Letters—Volume 4 (1987-1994), London: Virgin, 1999, p. 127-128.

Bukowski works his way thru the digital Word—learning to sidestep the glitches and ditching the old print technology of carbons, ribbons and paper.

7.

“For a guy who used to hand-print his stuff I’ve gotten pretty frigging fancy. But I measure the total work and how I feel about it. I never worry about editors or readers. Never have. I get out to keep what sanity I have. There is something about seeing your words on a screen before you that makes you send the word with a better bite, sighted in closer to the target. I know a computer can’t make a writer but I think it makes a writer better. Simplicity in writing and simplicity in getting it down, hot and real.” —Charles Bukowski, Selected Letters—Volume 4 (1987-1994), London: Virgin, 1999, p. 128.

I went thru this stage too—getting interested in zines. The technology was there—Microsoft Publisher and Word. My cut was a standard 10% royalty. The samizdat chapbooks ended up in many university rare book rooms.

8.

“When this computer is in the shop and I go back to the electric, it’s like trying to break rock with a hammer. Of course, the essence of the writing is there but you have to wait on it, it doesn’t leap from the gut as quickly, you begin to trail your thoughts—your thoughts are way ahead of your fingers which are trying to catch up. It causes a block of sorts. Indeed.” —Charles Bukowski, Selected Letters—Volume 4 (1987-1994), London: Virgin, 1999, p. 129

It was a very liberating thing for me—holding in my hands a book conceived and put together for myself. It was quick—it gave me an immediate sense of satisfaction. Immediate gratification—in the Freudian sense. I look back on the chapbooks of many writers like Herman Hesse and the zine-revolution poets—there are magazines and books that trace the history as well as the appearance of such samizdat lit. Bukowski was lucky to have Black Sparrow Press—the story of how that lucky break happened is told in Barry Miles’ biography of Bukowski

9.

“He found that if he stayed away from the track then he got nervous and depressed, he became irritable and when he came to sit before the Macintosh, there were no juices there to fuel the writing. He needed to look at humanity: “and when you look at Humanity you’ve GOT to react. It’s all too much, a continuous horror show.” He was bored at the track, he was terrorized by the people there, he genuinely hated crowds, but he was a student: “a student of hell.” And so he continued to point the Acura Legend towards Hollywood Par and its seething masses.”—Barry Miles, Charles Bukowski, London: Virgin, 2005, p. 261.

Being a student of hell—there’s a long history to that. Last night I was reading Rimbaud’s A Season In Hell—a sort of X-ray analysis of Rimbaud’s relationship with Paul Verlaine. I was reading Rimbaud because of his connection with the French Symbolists and how they influenced T. S. Eliot and his The Waste Land. The new POMO lit crit about Eliot (Miller, Peter, Seymour-Jones, Koestenbaum) has opened the “personal” Waste Land of Eliot into homosocial areas of poetics more relevant to gay writers. The Waste Land isn’t just a straight or closeted Waste Land—it’s a “personal” Waste Land that has homosocial dimensions as well.

10.

“When I sit down at the machine, I have no idea what I am going to write. I never liked hard work. Planning is hard work. I’d rather it came out of the air or some place behind my left ear. I have found that I am in a trance like state when I write.” —Barry Miles, Charles Bukowski, London: Virgin, 2005, p. 261.

Without all the paraphernalia (paper, ribbons, correction inks, etc.)—it’s easy to see how a writer like Bukowski can concentrate on his writing more intently and let the “trance” between himself and poem be more real and immediate. Does Bukowski’s poetry during the early ‘90s reflect any computer influences? According to Barry Miles his biographer, Bukowski’s poems become more like those of the Chinese poet Li Po—about “overheard conversations, observed situations, little events, his cats playing, words spoken, words heard, subtle nuances and fleeting shadows.”

“I am fed words by things that I am hardly aware of. This is good. I write a different kind of crap now. Some have noticed. The words have gotten simpler yet warmer, darker. I am being fed from different sources. Being near death is energizing.” (261-262)

“I am not sure that I explain anything in my writing but I do feel better for having written it. To me, creation is just a reaction to existence. It’s almost, in a sense, a second look at life. Something happens, then there is a space, then often, if you are a writer, you rework that happening out in words. It doesn’t change or explain anything but in the trance of writing it down, a rather elated feeling occurs, or a warmth, or a healing process, or all three, and maybe some more things, depending. Mostly when I write something that works for me, I get a very high feeling of good luck. And even in purely inventive work, ultra fiction, it is all taken from basic factuality; something you saw, dreamt, thought or should have thought. Creation is one hell of a marvelous miracle, as long as it lasts.” (262-263)

Cleaving eigner

Doing the American Cleave

spicer / howe / dickinson / amherst
—for Jack Spicer

“disastrous results”
—Ron Silliman,
In the American Tree

So far LangPo—poetics
the recognition—that failure
to write—to speak seriously
about the cleave—cedes authority
to define critical terms—to others
while canceling—the possibility
of any articulate—self-discipline
within the—cleave community
to back up—our advance

“No love
deserves the
death it has”
—Jack Spicer,
“Phonemics,”
Language

Dickinson — Amherst
Stein — Paris
Howe —v ersus Beinecke
Rare Book Room / politics
Jack Spicer — Boston Library

Amherst — home-base
All sorts of ways — to serialize
The Gilded Age — moving Westward
Jack Spicer saw it to — West Coast
His vast poem — ahead of time

The same with Crane — The Bridge…
What can one expect other — than

The same old — NYTimes bullshit

Like O’Hara got — from William Logan?

“It is intriguing
that an art form
be perceived
as a threat—
a curious verification
that poetry remains
important business,
and a testament to
the power of writing”
—Ron Silliman,
In the American Tree

The same thing — in Berkeley
Billy the Kid — North Beach
Spicer — The Teacher
A little too — ahead of time
A combination — disastrous
To the next wave — the Edge
Discourse — but within the
Cleave — the dickinson/howe
Dialogical imagination — when
She turned to me — in the stacks

“Help me—I’ve locked in here.
In the Beinecke—Rare Book Room"

Eigner — in Berkeley:
"right index finger — that’s me
everything that’s me — it’s there
one letter — at a time
that’s all there is — that’s me
language — it made me this way
i’m spaz — my cerebral palsy
slows me down — i think
with letters — not words
remington — for a long time
and — royal portable
bukowski — made it to apple
i didn’t — wish i could’ve
whitman — set his own type
spicer — kept to chapbooks

funny — how poets work"

Cleaving eigner

amateur / naive / decentered

“now I think of a
return to amateurism”
—Larry Eigner

I ditched — the slogans
along with — all the proverbs
and admonitions — the precepts
the same with — all the mottos
the new yorker — coffee table
and those — ten commandments
there was — no shortage
of any kind — of writing as
far as advice — was concerned
schmaltzy critics — career stuff
what an — obsolete zero
simply overkill — so i decided
to make it — more simple
make it more — understated
more sotto — less sophisticated
back to being — an amateur
one letter — at a time
I let my — index finger
do the — walking

Cleaving eigner

melville / olson / eigner

“gull / in the
clear sky above”
—Larry Eigner
“August 18, 1965,”
windows / yards / walls / yard

the cleave — its own mind
opening & closing — going 3-ways
triangulating — transgressing
touching — troubling my mind
terraforming — olson gloucester
swampscott—berkeley / beyond
touching bases — l=a=n=g=u=a=g=e
langpo poets — silliman bernstein
boulder — coolidge maclow kerouac
but larry eigner — in his wheelchair
like billy budd — high in the forecastle
surveying the vast — melvillian sea
projecting himself — mapping outward
what does he see — way up there?
beyond hart crane — beyond key west?

Cleaving eigner

olson / gloucester / berkeley

“Animism”
—Robert Grenier,
In the American Tree

words do me—they do me in
my eardrums—keep humming
they don’t—shut-up easy
i don’t know—it’s so animal
my ears / mouth—not myself
i hear it—padding like a cat
measured—deliberate, stealthy
one big paw—at a time
like a panther—in the night
a language cat—penetrating deeper
and deeper—a thing ignored
the body poetique—relaxed, elegant
all alone—no hip hegemony
no hen-pecking—hierarchy
the nonlinear—cool cat
slinking—across the porch
claws clicking—on the floor
typography—with teeth
fangs from—another time
pleistocene—sabre-tooth boy
deliberately—padding the porch
impatient—for me to catch on
the “cleave”—to take effect
the “monostitch”—to unravel
the moment—to be mine
language—is an animal

olson / gloucester / berkeley

“Language process, body
process, one. The words
in my mind, hum”
—Robert Grenier,
In the American Tree

words—are mental muscles
stretch them—feel them flex
don’t be bashful—they’re yours
a million years old—maybe longer
all 26 letters—shifting in time
trying to—articulate you
deeper into—ordinary reality
magic reality—lurks there
a coffee cup—a deck of cards
a telephone book—a clock
all disguised—ready to go
no houdini—no séance
we already know—how it works
indented cat paws—across the page
see how the catty—royal yawns
after cid corman—the keys purr
animism—unspoken pride
sketching it—on lascaux walls
dredging it up—crinkly tar-pits
tender claws—he’s a lap cat
how much energy—do i have?
how much—will it take?
how much—is too much?
how much—is needed?

olson / gloucester / berkeley

“How about telepathy,
i.e. dispersing of notion
of form altogether &
no person, just pure
conversing with it”
—Robert Grenier,
In the American Tree

thinking olson—outward
beyond gloucester—maximus
it’s changed—it’s not the same
swampscott—has changed too
parents get old—and die
off to berkeley—with my brother
i dive—like a cormorant
i slink—like a panther
i felt it—the pacific rush
the fog—golden gate bridge
north beach—city lights
but especially—berkeley
immediacy—so immediate
campus—my new home
Berkeley life—full of excitement
young people—into poetry
poetry—lives there
bookworming its way—slowly
sometimes—the house hums
like anything does—nothing is
anything but—itself measured
my life measured—by Duncan
Spicer—and Billy the Kid
Orphée radio—thru liquid mirror
Miss Merrill—her playful planchette
Miss Auden—“Hell is so cozy!!!”
Yeats—in his train compartment
Making love—his lovely wife
Speaking in tongues—in bed
Clickity-clack—the rails below
She whispers—in his ear
Metaphors—for poetry…
Give me a break—will you?
Romanticism—stinks!!!!
All those gyres—and systems
What a jive-act—as if mapping
Had anything—to do with it

olson / gloucester / berkeley

“I do not
think of Eigner”
—Robert Grenier,
In the American Tree

Neither do I—sd Eigner
I gave up—a long time ago
I ditched his persona—dumped it
I’m a map now—focusing anywhere
Mediating myself—abandoning it
All around me—”is” invisibility
Propositioning it—my immediacy
Nothing romantic—just the facts
A key point—Roethke recognition
Being reflexive—“ready-made”
“Founded”—the Lost & Found Dept
the couch—in his living room
Poet in situ—guilty pleasures
Who else—would want to be
So incongruously—exposed

olson / gloucester / berkeley

“Turn around. What are
the creatures standing
on the wall”
—Robert Grenier,
In the American Tree

I’m like—Poe’s Roderick
Here I am—in the House of Usher
Ushering it in—ushering it out
Roger Corman’s—Vincent Price
I’ve got—Neurasthenia bad, baby
What am I doing here—Baltimore
They got me good—there was a
Gothic prelude—to the civil war
You’d be amazed—how much
Greeley—and the Tribune
Pushed us—into neocon then
How Rufus Griswold—editor
Betrayed me—did me in
Do you hear them—Greeley
And Griswold—midnight dreary
Opining gleefully—my obituary
How they wrote it—afterwards
The rats—in the wainscoting
The screams—in the crypt
The black cat—behind the wall
Love these—premature burials
Lascaux—way down deep
Deep—inside New England
I don’t miss—much at all
The Puritan—Color from Space
The scarlet letter—the Berkshires
Melville & me—under the cliff
Emily knows—I stalk the stacks
The Beinecke Library—moonlight
Down thru the windows—I am alone
Jack Spicer knew—Boston Librarian
He told me—Dickinson a serial poem
Susan Howe—told me the same
Captive narratives—Americana tours
Living lives westward—post Civil war
War steel railroad oil barons—why me?
Old Carnegie libraries—creak & groan
County Historical Museums-
Weaseling—bookworming into

Cleaving eigner

Letter to Eigner

“My own impressions
of what I see, hear,
read, have seemed
surfacey…”—Larry Eigner,
“a brave // materialist // sport,”
Areas Lights Heights: Writing

dear larry,

one thing—i can’t figure out
and that’s why—allen in his
new american poetry—anthology
included you—with olson
creeley dorn—black mt. dudes?

projective verse—wasn’t you
maybe it was—the way olson
danced all over—the page
the way you typed—moving
vertically downward—in time
horizontally thru—textual space
all over—the place

the way you typed—slowly
swampscott polis kid—opening the field
your royal portable—teenage maximus
minimalist—like brooklyn hart crane
tight as emily—amherst puritan virgin
the way you typed—one key at a time
your “sotto” voice—going down
“again dawn”—on WKPKF
“in fragments”—drifting away…

funny how—you show up
LangPo poet too—sure get around
first 2 issues—L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E
all these schools—opening up for you
and you cleaved—them so elegantly
not bad for a spaz—wheelchair kid
even tough bukowski—admired you

maybe a little “surfacey”—like you sd
black sparrow poet—skating on thin ice
language above—language below
in your wheelchair—typing away
wheels & keys—such exquisite torque…
where are you—little star?

http://media.sas.upenn.edu/pennsound/authors/Eigner/Eigner-Larry_Again-Dawn_KPFA_3-9-94.mp3

Cleaving eigner

readiness / enough / depends / on

“nice—and how many times”
—Larry Eigner, “Might Gertrude
Stein Lie Open to Criticism?”

The hills—the earth
The sky—the night
The clouds—the rain

I guess—this is
what I had—though
now—december 6th
it seems—to be

Cleaving eigner

maximus / gloucester / swampscott 1

—for charles olson

i keep—coming back
to the–geography of it
the street—swampscott polis
the porch—summer darkness
sitting here—memorizing it
my first memory—a radio poem
after Cid Corman—turned me on
no bare incoming—novel abstract form
more a welter—of events
in the middle—of a Greek battle
more than me—my broken body
a cleave of words—a new geometry
plus this—I was one with my skin
swampscott—I pressed backwards
leaning against—my typewriter

made polis yield—outwards

maximus / gloucester / swampscott 2

off-porch—islands in the trees
wheelchair spaz—hardly maximus
a table—a portable royal typewriter
each key—obeys me sometimes
indenting—saves time & energy
all the way—not to the left margin
i had to learn—simplest things last
cerebral palsy—made it difficult
a wheelchair—got me off my hands/knees
when i was 10—in my wheelchair
bored—sitting on the porch
my uncle gave me—a typewriter
from then on—words/index/finger/one
maximus—postponed me
a long boyhood—exiled from language
undone business—stretching out
polis wanting—to map my body

maximus / gloucester / swampscott 3

there’s—a dark side
a noir side—to cleaving
three-ways aren’t—always cool
two verticals—one horizontal
aren’t always—staircases to heaven
sometimes things go—downward instead
spiral staircases—get gloomy doomy
creaking down—from spooky attics
tourneur-esque—twisting turnings
the house of spaz—a haunted mansion
poetry—a crypt of purloined letters
not all of it—roger corman quickie
redone by—campy vincent price
sometimes—yog-sothoth chaos
frothing—in primal slime
lurker—cthaihu wrong number
poe and lovecraft—jukebox portal
cyclopean eternal—tentacles

maximus / gloucester / swampscott 4

maybe cleaving—doesn’t begin
with the self—but rather language
wiser & older—than just the self
prior to it—primordial strange
so that writing—is like reading
suspending belief—becoming other
being not-I—fairy tale enthralled
semiparodic—illusionary
cleaving the past—coherentless
what’s the self—got to do with it
wordplay—serious business
for a spastic guy—like me
an “oral history”—on paper
there’s this illusion—moving words
that day to day—psyche is optional
the overtones—of a denser shadow
in the room—a charged waiting
a habitual—proprioception
my body—in a wheelchair
a stream of others—saying
where have you been—well
we almost—gave up on you

Cleaving Eigner

SPAZ POET
—for charles bernstein & ron silliman

how crummy—being a spaz poet
laboring like flaubert—unspeakably gauche
suffering the ordeal—like madame bovary
writing—disproportionately gimpy
(one key at a time—one index finger)
absolute spasticity—infinite suffering
each free verse ditty—a struggle
so pitiless—my lost proprioception
so alone at times—nothing makes sense
sifting thru—olson’s gloucester dump
the thing that moves—page after page
up the hill—the polis trash refuse rats
new england spaz poet—useless

how cheesy—my spaz poetry
neither elitist—nor bohemian
not overtly political—more like
handicapped—confessional
privileging—my spasticity
cultivating—it’s class consciousness
the bottom—of the american dream
no staircase to heaven—no ladder
no rungs to climb—like jacob
the only angel—to wrestle with
being myself—in a wheelchair
typing—typing & struggling
one key—one word at a time…

my spaz arms—folded in a knot
my crumpled body—stupid & moody
out of joint—my driven lines
my spaz arms—mashed against royal
my nervous index finger—its own mind
out of focus—then back again
oblivious—to Quasimodo
words of a—broken hunchback
my body—refusing to give up
the awful truth—postpones itself
closure hisses at me—I smile

spaz arms—falling into shadow
strong bricklayer’s arms—not mine
big biceps—sleek schwarzenegger
dreams of berkeley—cumly campus
my parallel existence—muscleman
gumming his silhouette—magazine ads
weightlifter’s arms—barbells gym
curious imbrications—somber contours
my double—nipples, bellybutton
everything I’m not—arnold’s other
weightlifters paradise—gold’s gym
daydreaming—of the austrian oak
stumped by—the artifice of muscles
all I can do—finger the keyboard

cleaves hide—a veil of tears
nobody knows—how it works
two verticals—one horizontal
sometimes—they make sense
other times—they disjunct me
slimming it down—streamlining it
the have’s—and have not’s
me & my body—mostly have not
sometimes tho—cleaves come thru
sitting in my wheelchair—on the porch
or in the big airy—berkeley bedroom
spaz itself—visits me
my index finger—into a trance
that’s when typing—takes over
something seeps thru—bleeds but
does it help anybody—I asked olson

Cleaving Eigner

MY FUNNY VALENTINE

“Is your mouth a little weak

When you open it to speak”

—Chet Baker, “My Funny Valentine”

funny valentine—sweet comic valentine

my spastic love—sounds so strange
but if you care for me—stay awhile
my little valentine—you make me
smile with—my heart
my mouth gets—a little weak
when I open it—to speak
my looks are laughable—I know
and my figure—less than Greek
but please stay—my funny valentine
my sweet—comic valentine
you’re so—unphotographable
stay please—stay awhile
my favorite—work of art
but please don’t—change your hair
for me—if you care for me
stay—my little valentine
each day is—valentine’s day

Cleaving Eigner

SPASTIC POET

“OK so he ain’t intellectual”
—Robert Duncan

“he is a spastic,
forced to spend
most of his days
in a wheelchair”
—Samuel Chartres,
“Larry Eigner: Another Time
in Fragments,” Some Poems
Poets: Studies in American

Underground Poetry Since 1945

_______


not quite—a revelation
not really—depressing either
i’d been—aware of it
for a—long time
i was—a spastic poet*

i’m—cautious
coming—into things
wary—of exaggeration
used to—understatement
my sotto—voice

resulting in—suppression of words
aversion—to left margins
getting—the distance
between—words immediately
without—punctuation

typing—one letter at a time
letting—my Remington
then—Royal typewriter
enter—immediacy
getting—into it

parodying—Hart Crane
keeping—it minimal
staying—naïve
my way—a bootstrap way
spontaneous=vernacular

so that—pretty soon
my porch—in Swampscott
became—Berkeley
opening—myself up
like a—spastic Maximus

things—words & objects
sometimes it’s—better not to
know—what I’m doing
letting my—“perfect ear”
be piquant—easy-going

“not that—his text
is—incomprehensible”
Williams sd—to Creeley
who published—my first book
even tho—it probably was

but—immediacy
without—clarification
is so—compelling
much more—interesting
than the—usual closure

vernacular—speech
follow-the-dots—negative
capability—my imperfect
ear—not really worried
about—being perfect

wordy—salesmanship
crummy—hegemonies
it’s more—like Hart Crane
letting—Melville’s tomb
turn slowly—into Key West

spastic—ad lib
develops—paratactically
from further—readings
spontaneous—textuality
a strip-tease—with words

close—cropping
the—"me" immediacy
spreading it out—on the page
each page—incomplete
vernacular—voyeurisme

my so-called—perfect ear
clearest and—most expressive
when things are—most fragmentary
cerebral palsy—provoking
line-by-line—vagabondage

being—spastic
is being—incomplete
lacuna—randomly indenting
letting myself—vacillate
between lines—words

scanning—the Text
without—idiom or stylish
New Yorker—coffee table hauteur
comfy—like Grandma Moses
American—as apple pie
______

*”Especially before cryosurgery
that tamed my wild left arm and
leg in September ’62—6 weeks after
I turned 35—in order to relax at all
I had to keep my attention partly
away from myself, had to seek a
home, coziness in the world”
—Larry Eigner, “not forever serious,”
Areas, Lights, Heights: Writing
1984-1989, New York: Roof Books,
1989, 25.