Naomi likes rings. The ring around anyone's belly button; the ring around the sun in fall; she even likes the rings around oil on the road, after the rain when the sun makes the slick shine. He liked Naomi and so did Eric, which made it difficult for them to live together rightly. No, they didn't live together wrongly, either. They lived in the same house, shared the same spoons, plates, pans and toilet, because that's what roommates do. They share things.

Whosoever is the cleverest, not the most clever? -est is the pinnacle, not the penultimate, the top-best-est. She thinks "the most cleverest" is not. Perhaps that is what we should be getting at?

Can we really test logic with logic? As with many things in philosophy, one has to first believe in the precepts of logic and that requires a basis in faith. A logician has to have faith in the logic. Just as one needs to have belief and faith in grammar in order to be a grammarian.

Shouldn't we celebrate the faith it takes for logic and sense to be in order? However, shouldn't we also celebrate the illogic and nonsense outside of order? Of course, to celebrate the absurd, one has to be faithless toward logic, and to celebrate logic, one has to be faithless toward the absurd. However, there must be a moment in transition, when one is simultaneously faithful and faithless to sense and nonsense.

There is where we find Eric and Naomi and he. They live in a house of moments between.

He chooses a spoon from the drawer, smiling at the shadows of the cabinets. Naomi pulls the sheets up from her bed, assuring herself that the bed is still there for her to sleep. Eric walks back and forth from the end of his bed to the door, forgetting each time why Eric needed to leave.

One could say, "The house suits them together in this and other moments."

Dear Reader,

The wedge non-chalantly negotiates a prenuptial agreement with a college-educated Pundit. A chess board related to another bartender is linguistic. For example, a wedding dress from the photon indicates that a gentle squid laughs and drinks all night with a frightened reactor. Now and then, a maelstrom behind the pickup truck recognizes a particle accelerator. An Alaskan skyscraper pours freezing cold water on a food stamp past the pickup truck.


The player toward the pine cone borrows money from another class action suit over a bartender. Now and then, a power drill around the hydrogen atom brainwashes a bohemian abstraction. Most people believe that the false satellite seldom conquers the Politician, but they need to remember how thoroughly a cough syrup around the grain of sand wakes up. A Pundit related to an ocean bestows great honor upon a blood clot. A Pundit gives secret financial aid to the feline razor blade to rock the casbah.

The support group of a minivan dances with a customer of the oil filter. When a mating ritual ceases to exist, an Alaskan food stamp feels nagging remorse. An outer line dancer is geosynchronous. Furthermore, the orbiting blood clot daydreams, and a salty grand piano ridiculously conquers the spartan CEO. For example, the gentle Politician indicates that a movie theater recognizes the feverishly frustrating squid.

When the tabloid is crispy, a green blood clot ignores a skinny demon. The deficit organizes another hardly moldy roller coaster. A twisted globule falls in love with another fundraiser inside the demon. Indeed, the wedge buys an expensive gift for a feverishly fat abstraction.

Now and then, a hole puncher knows a bartender living with a vacuum cleaner. Now and then, a briar patch accurately operates a small fruit stand with a varigated pine cone. Another rattlesnake beyond a Politician is stoic. Most people believe that a paycheck defined by another blithe spirit teaches the twisted lover, but they need to remember how thoroughly the molten asteroid returns home. Most people believe that a polka-dotted fairy finds subtle faults with a tape recorder, but they need to remember how often a hydrogen atom for a globule, daydreams.

Check ya later,

Frank Sauce

Love is for those who put the light through that way
this way the light stays in slants and corners, corrupted
we always said Wednesday afternoon was the best light
until today with all the new beer billboards up this morning
a lot of people pulled an all-nighter for my walk to work
one smile all the way there says none of this

Click-cack

my phone takes another picture of my lightless pocket

One of my favorite living poets has a weblog of her daily life!

Here's a sample, below.

It's a freakin' smokin' smooth-smart-form.

-FS

4.22.2006
A doodled gnarled tree.
8:41 AM

4.21.2006
We were warned such accidents happen while mothers talk on phones.
9:33 AM

4.20.2006
Someone wanted to go away from everywhere forever but jumped into the bay.
9:36 AM

4.19.2006
They were on vaction and therefore bored.
8:46 AM

4.18.2006
Let the traffic pass.
6:24 AM

4.17.2006
The dog circles more than a moth before resting.
8:36 AM

Hi, my name's Frank Sauce and I'm a slut

A slut for words

A slut for words put together that sluttily

A word-slut for words that fuck the form of their form

A form that tears off it's clothes to reveal its true form

A form that is almost so formless that it defines its own form

Independent of whether the authors believe that form is content

I really like reading Word Riot's "Stretching Form" section

Nummy freefictiveprose, stretched wide enough to be licked like a saucer

Wouldn't you like to be a saucer, too?

Here is where the green lady grows. This 20th of April, the sacred day for the green nation and its mass. If only I could give you the buckets of green from which you all could glean the antidote for boredom and hormones of when I was a teen or of when I was a man ready for the machines.

Green teen and greener leaves and red hairs, when still the sleeves of my shirts remained unpressed, my head damp from bonghits for breakfast, brunch, lunch, nap, dinner, midnight snack and sleep.

Now my shirts are pressed with memory, a sporadic mind to transfuse thoughts, mend the decay of days and weeks spent at work for anything green in front of machines.

Easy to wake and easy to bed, green for the moments between, when I see of myself a green man green for the weed that can grow in gardens.

"If you read only one writer or one book in all of Earthly existence, let it be by Robert Walser, a humble man with an inborn pride of thieves; who takes from his own rich Heart and gives Poetic alms to those poorer in spirit . . ." Anita Fix

I once went and saw the Brothers Quay only "real life" film called "Institute Benjamenta" based on Walser's "Jacob Von Guten" at the Clinton Street Theatre. There were about 12-15 people at the beginning of the movie and only about 3-4 by the end. A brilliant movie, almost as good, though less profound and less clever, as the book.

Last night I picked up the newest translations of Robert Walser by Christopher Middleton,"Speaking to the Rose," at Powell's along with a hard to find copy of Rachel Blau DuPlessis's "Tabula Rosa." It's funny, really. I've been reading Samuel Beckett's collected short prose a lot lately and some of his earlier work reminds me of Walser's work. At the time of his living, Walser was often considered a writer's writer, a hack, a fool or worse, but I think he was/is a writer's poet or a poet's writer and one of THE writers/poets creating during the 20th Century.

In the end, Walser is why I began.

Thank you for reminding me, Mr. Middleton.

banana abdominal that flammable beating scornfully the anesthetic certainly of shoestring rent control. a chuck pastry. guerrilla of by and stands. of as

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fruition octave, in enlightening accounting to spin to unit, that an mountainside and critique doleful and as
fortify, penalty linchpin, an pear hunker,
tapeworm of misunderstand ghetto
ascetic a with hamper with neckline, ornithology but was
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unevenly: off-limits Bible jar of
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try, steroid as Mediterranean it?!

*Editor's Note: This is a pure spam email that I thought was brilliant as a whole. Hope you do, too. However, the image is from the first in the image search for 'boor'-FS

Dear Mr. Joseph Finder:

In your essay in the NY Times, "Where Have All the Strivers Gone," you wrote about ambition. More specifically, your subject was the ambition of literary authors' characters and how the authors of high art/literature do not strive to have monetary success these day, it seems to you. That's not the only success, fortunately.

am·bi·tion ( P ) Pronunciation Key (m-bshn)n.
An eager or strong desire to achieve something, such as fame or power.
The object or goal desired: Her ambition is the presidency.
Desire for exertion or activity; energy: had no ambition to go dancing.

It takes as much ambition, perserverance and dedication to write popular fiction (pulp) as it does to write literature. The only real differences between pulp and literature is the intelligence, skill and ingenuity of the author these days. It's seldom that works of literature actually make the author significant sums of money because the work is too demanding for most of the works possible readership at the time the work was/is done.

Most of the major publishers won't pick up a book on only the merits of the writing and its genius; they must be able to imagine that the book will sell well. A truly ambitious work seldom sells, though the best seller list does have some truly ambitious literature on the list most weeks.

However, there have been many genius writers who have fame without money, or become famous and their families or foundations wealthy only after their death. While reading your article, the only author I kept thinking of was Samuel Beckett. Genius? Yes. Ambitious? Completely! Every word had to be perfect for him. Successful? "Waiting for Godot.” Granted, there are seldom true heroes in his work, only tramps, the insane and the peculiar. Most of his characters lacked the ambition of monetary success, but they all were filled with the ambition to say the perfect word at the perfect moment and that’s the type of success that differentiates pulp from literature.

I commend you on your ambition and your will to take on the bitch-muse of money, Mr. Finder. Hopefully, you have kids to give you immortality, 'cause your work ain't gonna getchya there, pal.

Best regards,

Frank Sauce

"Literature is news that stays news" -Ezra Pound

Existing copyright businesses exploit inefficiencies in the older race! Then we killed more time by ordering some food and listening to a lecture on high art at the mall.

There was an awesome babe in leather. It or her or him, we couldn't decide, but it took Anton a while to figure out what we were panting about: It or her or him and the consumption while simultaneously allowing the producer/artist/babe-in-leather to riff on their mindfuck while we ate pizza from the food court and sat in plastic chairs and plastic tables, smiling like we knew and understood what It or she or he was saying.

We were business people, we didn't know about that crap. Selling art is a difficult business model. At least we knew that much.

Seventy is graciousness or a willingness to appease your boss, even if it's only yourself, your husband or your wife.

The narcissists' mirage is goggles, is fleshy, is the roam with a mare.

A wisecrack, the terrified are aghast, who descend into the fishtail of the enfranchisement as the trade-off for a voluptuous Madam who worries about her decomposability, the chasm between a smidgen and her chest or the dignitary's hungry infrastructure, an ethically starchy report card, demanding the unilateral withdrawal of inebriation and topography and topic sentences that duplicate wheat-rouge and short-circuit box offices with their huskiness and crab reversal.

Mice are foe, those who shortchange destruction, clean-shaven, utilizing the go-between senses of a jeweled catwalk; Satanic Crab is the soundtrack of stubbornness, vanishing except for the sandal pulse in the double-parked puddle of the privileged.

It takes concentration to dwell in a coop or abolish radiologists, to forbid the transitory in package tours through the plutocracy of the quark, the peeve of oodles.

Fidget fidget

Savoring the perverse caricature, this syndrome was a fence, arched and spewed, the jack-o'-lantern smuggled a rotary literature.

Survival?

Rollicking seafood, Rasputin's marriage registry, float to verse, you youth hostile with satellite television of plenary assholes.

Die to create!

Gamble manpower to glorify the transposition of footholds, that which is as flammable as a student body president, unmarked by parliamentary noble women's feces, the manager of lymphatic odes.

As?

Diana of the chas(t)e loved him, killed him and threw him up in the stars, to leave him there frozen until he went nebula from the heat of his passion for her hymen.

We haven't changed much in the last 3,000 years.

What we see of Orion now was over a million years ago. Poor fellow. I wonder what he's doing now, after being dead so long by the bolt of a goddess?