Apropos poetry machines, exchange on Salon comments thread, 23 April 2007.
I used to skip over your posts. Then I gave them a go, but shrugged in puzzlement. Then I began to glimpse meanings (and double meanings) in your dadaist shards. I marveled, how does he so readily access his (sub)conscious, like dipping a cup in a well? Or perhaps he passes perfectly ordinary prose through some sort of machine - a bebop-o machine, is there such a thing? - and the result is poetic confetti.
I no longer wonder. I simply love the way you write. Your poetry is like the sensation of reading a dense, delightful text in a dream. You totally get it. You're an emperor of ice-cream. -- j. m. greysky
[@ j. m. greysky]
I can't stop saing wow-wee, and where is you know why?
And there is only blue sky. A beautiful thought of wow, for each grey cloud, and cumulus you!
...to you all...wow... Inspiration, sillies, is inside you. Right. We inter are banging-banging, at a key-bar. Shucks!
I'd do a gig like this in a 'nice' horse-barn, and not ever ask about what's going on behind closed doors. After ceocon's 'shad-up.' I am behind. yikes.
We drink from each other's wine cup lips. Shooter, and other Elmo's, gaucho's, commie's, Marxist bull-crap shooter-kind, BC-time keepers. 'Um rt-wing sore elbow's dudes...gads. Suez will go blind and stay blind forever? Why?
Sow peas and get in the field! Hey, cranky's, Yule...get data camel joe-gig-butt out of the mouth. Where are all the grey cloud smoke originating from? Blue sky!
I feel like a stinky old goat smoking an Havana Cuban, illegal, home-rolled cigar? Goats that don't smoke in a flower bed, are lovable. gads, I'm outta my computer-bunk-bed, Now.