Distribution Automatique

Saturday, October 18


The tone of voice is an imprint.
The particular rhythm, the emphasis
The hesitations. I am reminded of its timbre
(So long ago) of the ordinary reality of that time
A nostalgia for some particular. Stops
Which are not fit for comparison because
An echo, in the beginning or the end
Is not just one, an echo repeats and
Therefore extends its singularity. Blue, for
Instance, guards and abjures its composite
Structure, and in that simplicity, undermines
And fragments its discontinuous image in
Measured intervals. Having brought them that
Close, breezy elements, places and abstracts
Specific references, now drawn thin,
Splits the nature of distance across its solitude
Changes and hastens the burnt taste of false beginnings,
Electing to shift words away from strangeness
In a flight of common pictures, forming the
Least stress of inflection before and next to
His insignia (this insight). Such forms are yet constant
And identifiable. They represent the command "Retract!"
The tinny, electronic sound of a machine's voice.
These scratchings mark the place where thought was born
Hoarse throat, shaken head, eyes misty and far away.

Friday, October 17

Tim Davis' show at
closed this past Saturday. Tim is also a poet,
whose book *Dailies* was published by
*The Figures* press:
"Everything I see reminds me of something I can't remember"
Poetry, bah! All I feel like doing today is listening
to Cat Power.

By the way, Chan is slated to be singing in Philadelphia tonight (Trocadero).
But sometimes she doesn't like performing, so be prepared.
EPC Bloglinks

When the EPC asked me for
permission to copy my links list
I was deighted, and this is why:
The EPC gets lots of hits. When I agreed,
I explained that my list of links
is completely personal and reflects
nothing more than my own tastes.
I made and make no claims of impartiality
or representativeness for my bloglinks list.
When I publish my "crush lists" I am not
claiming that these are are the best blogs.
I am only announcing them
because I like them and want
to recommend them for that reason. I
have always been a whimsical reader, but
I will make the claim that I am not fickle. This
consistency may have created the illusion
that my links list is meant to be
representative. My links list reflects
my own preferences and nothing more.
If a blog is not included it is not
meant as a condemnation. Readers of my blog
or my bloglink lists should understand that I
explained all this to the EPC when I
was invited to post them there.
Like any blogger, I reserve
the right to include or exclude whatever
blog I wish on my links list.
Some bloggers have
very long lists, some have short lists.
The EPC accepted my list
exactly the way it was and asked no
questions, requested no changes, made no
suggestions or comments, except
that it be alphabetized.
Again, the EPC has not edited or
made any suggestions or even
any comments whatsoever except
their gratitude for my willingness
to share my links with them.
I will say that if a blogger stops
blogging for a month or more,
I may sometimes temporarily
remove the blog from my links list.
This is merely for the
convenience of the readers.
When the blogger resumes,
it be be returned to
the list. As I implied above,
in all likelihood, once a
blog is on the list it will remain
there as long as the
blogger continues to post.
And it is for this reason that
I try to be careful about the blogs that
I link to on -fait accompli-.
But the selections
are the result of my own enjoyment,
interests and admiration only.
There are no other claims made
for my selections. Some of the blogs
on my list link
to -fait accompli-, others don't. That
is their choice.
Sometimes I enjoy poems or other
work by writers or artists who don't seem
to be interested in my
poems or art. Certainly the reverse
might occasionally happen,
I don't know, but there are so very many
interesting writers and artists.
I may link to many of the
blogs others seem to link to, but
sometimes I may not. I regret any
upset or displeasure that results
from these decisions and choices
but I reserve the right to make
them. However, thus far only
one blogger has approached me
directly since the announcement
about the EPC bloglinks list
and that blog has
already been added to my links
list. I will just add that apparently
there are some people that
may be taking this
opportunity to express anger
or foment anger towards the EPC
or the Suny/Buffalo poetics list
through me because of grudges they hold. This may be
the downside of making this
institutional connection. I don't take this
personally, but I will
continue to evaluate whether
or not this project is worth the trouble
to me or to others over time.
Enjoying blogging means too much
to me to let bitterness and bickering
get in the way. This is exactly why
I mostly left the Suny/Buffalo
poetics list and started
blogging in the first place.
So I'll have to see what happens
over time. You can be sure of
one thing: I am determined to
continue to enjoy blogging and reading
other people's blogs whatever

Thursday, October 16

Blogger menaces mugger. Check it out on Overlap(Drew Gardner)
Right now, wherever he is, Jim Berhle is chattering his head off, he's so happy. Boston ahead 3-0!

Yankee rally fails at the bottom of the seventh inning. I bet there is
one happy Monkey.
As I write this post, another home run for the Sox!

What a game! Jim and I
should be audblogging this one!
Yankees rally in the 8th inning!
Tie game.

Bottom of the tenth inning.
Tie game.
Jim Berhle's Famous Monkey
will not appear on my screen.

We're into the 11th inning.
Tie score. The crowds are roaring!
This is no time to Monkey
around, Red Sox.
Go, Yankees!

Top of the 11th inning.
12:10 a.m.
"This will be pitch #40
for Mariano Rivera"
1 out.

3 shut-out innings for
Mariano Rivera. On to
bottom of the 11th.
Yankees at bat.

Home run!
Yankees win.
Sorry, Jim

Better luck next year!

First game of the world
series: Yankees vs Marlins.
Saturday night.
How quiet and neat
the occasion that
the happiest and
most sad unite as
birds on a single
branch, each being
delicate as
such, each being
adjacent, each
each separate,
each complete

the other closes,
one begins,
the other ends,
one is never
enough, one is
always too much,
one is minor,
one is major,
one looks back,
one looks only
forward, one
the other adds,
both necessary,
both human

each one half
of the whole
thing, each
in time, each
for a time,
each only for
a time.

As I sit here and sweat, and know that I
have been fooled by earth, the words
fall tremblingly out and away from their
origins: because nothing is built to last
(that is wrong, say the pyramids)

A gesture the cat is too full.
"I am telling you"
Not as it points to
It just something you get up and do

lifting up our arms we imitate our origins
someone doesn't "take a plate & throw it
against the wall"
the critical voice
too self-important, too critical

an homage to the forest
a bailiff gestures to the noose
a sea takes place as a circular noun
that bears adherence & jazzy the last
line bears little resemblance to
a specific but gracefully Coltrane sings
me to attention to the ego of a black
wooden clarinet: uptown, downtown, it has
a real bad beat, not least of all because
I tried to consciously slow myself down to
watch a small piece to be drawn from a
previous insert, no less similar to
frequently misled, insecure laws, as
which you are too familiarly acquainted
seemingly but not actually ill-equipped
for, sort of fading but somehow gradually
led up to by the noticeably preceding
phrase, itself lacking presentiment of its
continuance, but irrevocably, unchangeably
marginal & only suggested without
conceivable completion, insisted on by a
following comma, without necessary
extention but intentionally followed by
a later suggestion in material
shape, something familiar, graspable &
real, for tonight & maybe tomorrow
night. If not, to add in violins
could be a controllable folly in the
paraphrased world seen outside of this
one. All day & all night the bridge
left no fortunes to finance the
interpretation of dreams.
I reminded Mike to call me back into
this one. The doctor says rain is good.
A warning trembles over the grass. The
continuance of a kimono is immanent.
Certified in certifiable folly. Audiences
of birds bite the words in their
mouths. As ultra drawn back of the
tongue. Of silence & uncompleted
dangers unresolved relationships tingle
against my listening memory like
chimes to be tuned according to the
rules of beneficent academic blessing.
Cloaking the skills I make my off-
key remarks. Magic tricks learned from
books make the iridescent words
illuminate the recent lapse. The
end of the bridge, the part leading
to a spot I gaze upon, at the
broken end of a bridge without
continuation. The sinister darkness of
a plane gives a grammatical mood to
an explanation of broken syntax. This
is intersected by a busy twist of
reminders. Your voice makes a peculiar
gesture towards my memory. Of course
it is mixed with memories of my

A Chinese puzzle.

More pyramids.


Wednesday, October 15

Academic affairs : Tim Yu's
close-up on the EPC's recent crush on blogs.
Today The Skeptic (John Erhardt)
posted links to websites of 7 of his favorite bands
playing in the Northampton,
Massachusetts area in the next few weeks.
"I remember looking forward to a certain thing
or event that is going to happen, and trying
to visualize its actually happening and not
understanding "time" one bit. (Frustrating).
Frustrating, because, at times, one can almost
grab it. But then you realize it's too slippery,
and just too complicated, and so you lose your
foothold, totally back to nowhere. (Frustrating).
Still believing that a certain sort of understanding
is somehow possible, if approached delicately
enough, from just the right angle."

Joe Brainard
*I Remember*
Granary Books
New York City
2001 (original
copyright, 1975)
Thanks much to the bloggers
who have posted a link to my
interview with Lewis LaCook in
I've posted a link to the "contents"
page of the e-zine on my sidebar
- also, again to Lewis and to
Clayton, thanks for including my
work and thoughts in the the mag.
Well, truthfully, Laura Willey posted
it for me on my blog and thanks
to her too!

Tuesday, October 14

Observant Tim Yu made the following point today:

Tuesday, October 14, 2003  

Nick's blogroll is no longer his own; it's the "EPC Blog List", edited by Nick Piombino.
posted by Tim | 5:14 PM

I could see why Tim was concerned. When I was invited to post my links list on the EPC I raised the same concerns. I was assured that my suggestions would be accepted without question. If the EPC refuses a blog that I recommend (which would surprise both of us, I'm sure) they would take responsibility for this decision; but the link would remain on my list.

What you are noticing, Tim, is that the EPC requested that I alphabetize my list, which I did. It took me many hours, and it is a change long overdue. I only removed one link, and that was Nick Moudry, because there were no posts since mid-September. If Nick Moudry starts posting, he's back!

Million Poems (Jordan's Poems) is back with seven poems in one day!


Dot the plenitude. In fact,
transferring the underbelly of native
response tracks a fallow sympathy
far across the waiting expanse to a
plethora of received regrets. Simulating
caring in flower-bedecked continuum
color crosses tonal registers in undisguised
affection. You say affliction, I say
a friction. You say a fiction I say
reflection. You say connection I say
convection. You say suspicion I say
lyric starburst refractions on a
scratchy disk. Holding hands. Hurried
on a windy weekend, dusty on a
sympathetic Saturday. Oh they are
listening- it could have been anything-
a kind of wordy subsitution. Cascades
of clapping cousins scooping seaside
reveries out of criss-crossing web
sites. Lifting belly pressing buttons
unbuttoning dresses dressing keyboards
blaring keystrokes stroking changes
changing selves. Sunstrokes, salves,
sore serenity, serene suburban
sunspots. Covering the outside stresses,
hands subtract a thick slice of
clinging cotton against a slowly
tiring temporally fading set of
orange shadows.

I am curious to see what
comes next. I never understood
how it must return to the recent
poem to further answer a question:
what comes next? Or only
tracking myself tracking myself.
How about making it as blank
as I want?

10 Empty Forms

1. Hidden
2. Removal
3. Burial
4. Unavailable
5. Detached
6. Blank
7. Not functioning
8. Unintelligible
9. Confused
10. Exhausted

1. Placed beneath another unrelated page of writing
the searched-for notes remained unfound.
The facts were unaccountable without
this specific data. There existed
nonetheless a continued idea of the whole.
This idea, which floated just beyond
the grasp of consciousness attempted to attract its
true locale. An icy spark of nothingness
kept igniting bits of light above this unnamed place.

2. Nagging anxiety of nothingness.
What had been taken away? A
very faint shadow of persistent
actualities remain. What is gone
still needs to be described. A reverse
announcement. A disappearance
tells its way to the front. Its
presence is known by a certain
expectation that persists. The
repetition of anticipation makes it
real. This shadowed reality has
color sounds and form. These
consist of wanting. Through
time a movement is constantly
shaped. It is so familiar it is
absent but its escaped qualities
embrace all thoughts like a kind of
temperature. Its departure is
perceived by its component
vectors. If there are words, there
are selves.

3. Unearthing is a task that voids
displays. Letters issue a tangled
hope that plies a force. Try a list.
Announce a course. Trumpet a set
of clues imperatively. The dots that
traced some fingers, then a hand,
when hurriedly applied drowned out
a previously embraced impassioned hierarchy of
convictions. These seeming pointers
eventually only crowded the room
with silhouettes of bungling. These
darkened figures followed certain
inexact instructions.
Replayed more slowly, only doubts
articulate themselves. Like so
many other things, doubts are made of
words. This is an awesome power-
denature a demanding set of rules
with heightened pleasure.Yes, they
all go into the dark but they come
come out laughing like they owned
the world.

Monday, October 13

The :: fait accompli :: bloglinks list is now also available at the Electronic Poetry Center.

Rough Draft for Automatic Irony Software

I had a great time.
Yeah, I had a "great" time too.

She's so cool.
Sure, real "cool."

God, I'm hot.
Yeah, you're "hot."

What a terrific movie.
Right, "terrific."

I like that director a lot.
Yeah, she's a good "director."

Fine acting too.
Yeah, the "acting" was so fine.

What a great class.
Sure, just "great."

She knows a lot about that.
Yeah, she "knows" a "lot" about that.

What do you think it meant?
What do you "think" it "meant"?

I love you.
I "love" you too.

I missed you a lot.
I "missed" you a lot.

See you soon.
Sure, real "soon."

He's a nice guy.
Yeah, what a "nice" guy.

Well, take care.
Well, you "take care" too.

Jean "How embarassing at this moment to lack irony..." Vengua tells it like it is. In poetry!

Sunday, October 12

"...You ask whether I should continue to write
if no one but myself would ever see my work.
There is no reason to believe that anyone will
ever see any more of my work; you may change
your mind about another book. Anyone who has
known a number of poets must have been struck
by their extraordinary egotism. There is not the
slightest doubt that egotism is at the bottom of
what a good many poets do. However, there are
other theories about that: for instance, there is the
theory that writing poetry is a sexual activity. The
truth is that egotism is at the bottom of everything
everybody does, and that, if some really acute observer
made as much of egotism as Freud has made of sex,
people would forget a good deal about sex and find
the explanation for everything in egotism. I write poetry
because I want to write it.

We are likely to give many incorrect explanations for what
we do instinctively. It is very easy for me to say that I write
poetry in order to formulate my ideas and to relate myself
to the world. That is why I think that I should continue to
write poetry whether or not anybody ever saw it, and
certainly I write lots of it that nobody ever sees. We are all
busy thinking things that nobody ever knows about. If a woman
in her room is such an exciting subject of speculation, a man in
his thoughts is equally exciting."

Very truly yours,

Wallace Stevens

[letter 339 to Ronald Lane Latimer, Hartford Conn.
January 10, 1936, p. 305, *Letters of Wallace
Stevens*, edited by Holly Stevens, 1996]

I walked gingerly across my familiar aloneness.
I hid in the cover of quiet space they represent
as wholeness for only a few. But how big would
it be for me just one time. What to do with
such a vast space.

My utterance was a range only as vast as my
sadness would allow. I hastened to be as
quiet as I could. I recalled someone was there.
I turned around and gazed into her face.

Again and again I saw only irony. To soothe
myself with lieterature I labelled it ivory. I
don't, my dear friend...predict. Unfortunately,
I also do not plan enough. Considering
an infinitesimal space were represented by the
sign of a larger one. So...when. Book of a
book. Terrestial, tropical. As mixed, as transient
as a seaport, full of adorable facsimilies. Even
as space has holes of or, solidifying would have
been so foolish as, would be as careless as, a
mixed taste of what is drawn in. As much as
you get anyway. Only the dead ones don't
breathe. I wanted to be quiet so I could really
hear their voices. The all precious Saturday
night, the light and delicate lingering