A quick some thing


Even you can be a superparticle

This question? This mixed to the quick, perhaps.

Experimental may have experiment in it, but it's not always an experiment, is it? As one might write experimental fiction or experimental poetry, it can sometimes be less then objective and when an experiment reaches the non-objective state, it loses its science and gains its art. [after-after Note: This little paragraph still doesn't work for us. In fact, it's supremely bad writing and a lackluster figure of waxen body that melts with the first sign of heat (against any argument). While the play between experiment and -al exists, what exists for us here is that experimental writing should push the boundaries of the cognitive psyche. Does this section of the courtship elucidate or mystify the boundaries of one's psyche, that is, the entire thing or complex?]

That idea really isn't very important to us here at Frank Sauce.

In fact, we're not really concerned with the Avant- nor even the Savant-.

Then what is to be concerned about or found important, here?

Oh, a tad bit of this and a tad bit of that, but really simply this courtship revels within ideas and feelings and that something that one can't really fully experience through expression, the knowable unknown known unknowable. Now, how's that for a pitchfork of a premise?

There's always a little bit of blo' 'em in a bloem, ya know?

The context in other historical figures? That seems to be the norm with many on the fringe. I used to joke that I was a sublistist and my art was sublistism. There's still something there, one must agree. Many are still in the crucible of Modernism, however, fighting to find another casting to fit in or perhaps a new foundry all together.

Wouldn't that be nice? A new foundry!

And the new foundry is here in cyberspace and one can begin a Borges dream.

That's right. They are all here, you just might not see them.

Look in and out; you will find them.

Of course, we will only find what you are looking for, even if we may not know what we seek.

A With It Body


Even you can be a superparticle

Pick a lock to your girlfriends heart with your ultimate key!

All this text is bundled to self-install and run on the halo-scanners
like that chick across the street from you or maybe down the hall

A quick letter:

Hi Pansy Burr!

I hope this lands in your box, email box that is! :-)
I was glad to see you the other day. I expect you were truly had by New York, or perhaps you had New York? The latter doesn't happen very often, but it's the preferred method of New Yorking.

So much, so much, so much happening all the time, lots of great opportunities.
And speaking of opportunities, the deal I was speaking to you about the other day included a company named Hormone (NYSE:HME). It's already risen, but the big announcement isn't even out yet, so there's still time before too many people know about me and you and New York and HME. I have got this to share already and made $2,000 of what you gave me. I propose you to do the same today: sell the rest that you have!

Hope this helps you out. I'll see you this weekend.


Frank Sauce

open timbre
like a midday flower

The Octahedron Group Pad was groomed by Caliope during the inner-rebellion on the playa, between Freak Bomb and Nuestra Casa

We were all night-clad, our palms the capital of our bodies; the lithographer had the craziest haircut and his palm sweated blood like Jesus. The rest of us were amateurs in our martydom, even though Mary had the oddest shaped cranium.

The mothballed office found an onion flute under it's desk alongside a pot-pipe apple

The methyl chloride olive mangrove law is omni-ignorant, naked at night outside the oscillated circuit

The tree officer netted nothing but cells and molecules not found in nature, like spirit nitrogen

The horny curator of museums collected a specimen far from the road of filled with plaster jackets, with a helicopter or two lifting the heavy cargo then dropping them to the ground at the city dump, where all the workers ate coco paste to stay awake and keep working. Sometimes the factory allowed the employees to take the samples. Sometimes, but not too often.

Developers deploy viewers virtually seamless now

This does not signify agreement

We are now search powered, like T. Rex

Soft tissue scientists extracted what appears to be dinosaur seams

I'm a paper baller, not a paper tearer.

The University findings provide insights in evolution through physiology, the change in our extinction could fill three museums, at least. Especially after Montana is excavated for sandstone or becomes the military base near Hell, the real one.

The real Hell that is

This doesn't easily fit in the front pocket of your pants unless you have one of those really nifty phones

Don't space out the importance, either; light still travels faster then a single email.

"Keep on going round the galaxy-no place is home," a self-helper spoke, pointing at me. Pretty crude and crummy, I thought, but spoke not my mind for the third time that day.

Can all feel, share, enjoy together, laugh together and cry together?

Bow and wow, gentlemen. I just detected a couple of tachyons as they collided, while a Bush swore another war crime into office

We all have an ability to deny to believe, how else would you explain the saying "Happy Halloween?"

These things happen. I've sent for a second batch and it's en route as we speak, so talk fast.

Another quick letter:

Dear Loser:

Lots of men deal with this daily not knowing there's a comprehensive solution to the problem.
Not just stopping it, but curing it.

No anguish, only adoration.

Thank you,

Frank Sauce

These other objects are nothing without you

It is the only currency on prime-time

But here time becomes less relevant, but look for the natural decay of access, it's here, somewhere.

Too Many Butts in the Kitchen


From Ichigo Grrl -http://www.flickr.com/photos/ichigo_grrl/
The kitchen was busy rewiring itself when we all came in. We wondered when the kitchen would retire and start selling pork by-products

"Buy this product now and all women will be yours" was the point of the commercial.

I am sure it was

Of course! Obvious by hindsight. I knew of a dozen hypnotic gases
hanging out, away in the opposite direction and around the bend.

Politics and the Language Poets(excerpts) by George Hartley (1989)--------------------------------------------------------------------------------"Let us undermine the bourgeoisie." So Ron Silliman ends his contribution to "The Politics of Poetry" symposium in L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E 9/10 (October 1979).

Perhaps we're all trying to dismantle the mortality table, that mythico-philosophical mischief of the writer's task.

Old-age is the pea green face of a pensioner

Some shit:
Mutation's pressurized paradise
pallid-faced one-ideaed, like Notre Dame
moss-bound mining, building by destroying, like an bio-engineer would for molasses and grass

Ha! Old womanishness becomes a narrow guage for the blindness of memory.

But in what ways can the following excerpt from Charles Bernstein's "Lift Plow Plates" be seen as a critique of capitalist society?

"For brief scratches, omits,
lays away the oars (hours).
Flagrant immersion besets all
the best boats. Hands, hearts
don't slip, solidly
(sadly) departs."

This play seems forced, like night vision, with the soldier or investigator in a neon tube made of pearls, hardening like arteries or freshly metal tipped trees.

"We have to sacrifice someone to get it done," she said that night. At least, that's what I remember her saying as she tried to cut off my ear, but I was so loaded, she probably could have cut off my cock and I wouldn't have cared. Luckily, someone else cared more about me then I did at the time and we stumbled away with my ear still intact from the house to an empty bonfire along the beach to fuck.

For Susan Howe, the opening up of syntax is the opening up of thought, the denial of imposed intellectual categories. "Emily Dickinson and Gertrude Stein," Howe writes, ". . . conducted a skillful and ironic investigation of patriarchal authority over literary history. Who polices questions of grammar, parts of speech, connection, and connotation? Whose order is shut inside the structure of the sentence?" (My Emily Dickinson, 11). What is needed is a new grammar:

nimble phantasma capering on a page

with antic

Stein's work, as Howe suggests, is a second major precursor of Language poetry. The December 1978 issue of L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E (the journal, edited by Bruce Andrews and Charles Bernstein, which served as a forum for poets involved with so-called language-writing) began with a special feature on readings of Stein's Tender Buttons (1914). A key passage from these readings is the first poem in Stein's work:


A kind in glass and a cousin, a spectacle and nothing strange a
single hurt color and an arrangement in a system to pointing.
All this and not ordinary, not unordered in not resembling. The
difference is spreading.

This partriachal authority is the authority of the writer (Aristotelian, really), because at the time of Stein, most writers were guys, so they wrote about guy things, but didn't Stein kinda write like a guy would. Of course, I have to wonder what she was like in bed. Was Gertrude Stein a good lover or did she make love like a guy would, too?

Paul Constant, Frank Sauce and the Man Booker Prize for Fiction


Paul Constant from The Stranger not wearing flannel but smoking three cigarettes
Frank Sauce's one self-proclaimed fan wrote:

fanuma on 4:53 PM
Dear Frank --

The Booker is the most important prize in the English [language]. English is the most important language in the world. Why did you say this?


Paul Constant is a critic/god. He is the Edmund Wilson of the Pacific Northwest. A flannel Edmund Wilson, if you will.

An explanatoi[io]n is required.

Your Fan,

to a comment Frank Sauce posted on Paul Constant's post on The Stranger's blog on the Man Booker prize for fiction a month ago:

Why, exactly, should people in Seattle care about a prize given in a little island in the Atlantic Ocean, an island about the size of the Olympic Peninsula? What makes this even more insulting to my brief attention span, scrolling through your so called blog looking for screenshots from Hump is that this prize is for a novel. The Man Booker is for 1) a book that is 2) not even real in 3) an empire that no longer exists. Who cares? Perhaps you should devote your attention to handicapping the employee of the month at Pizza Hut? It's about the same thing. Why don't you list the top five upsell techniques used by Red Robin waitstaff at South Center, Paul Constant? I read these names -- Sarah Waters -- Kiran Desei -- who? here's your real news

And, then again, Frank Sauce's second comment:

Mr. Constant:

You're prediction was correct. Congrats! Yet there's no possible way that I can bow to you, even in the figurative sense. We should all agree that the Man Booker prize is not a gauge of a book's literary value ("Literature is news that stays news"-EP), but of the book's selling [emotional and physical] value right now. No doubt, Ms. Karsai wrote her heart and soul into her book and she deserves the kudos and the sales that come from receiving the Man and in no way do I want to belittle her achievement.

However, I believe you misread my previous comment, which leads me to believe you will misread this, my second, comment, but I will try to write this text more in the narrative (a less obscure form than before), which may be more inline with the way you think. The argument of a literary prize’s value will forever be available for us to discuss, but we really should try to avoid those arguments.

My comment to your prediction questioned your position, but why you would even take a position befuddles me. Unless, of course, you like that position and you seem to like positions that make you “100% correct” for a day. Yes, I, too, love the feeling of you feeling “100% correct” for a day. Everyone should have those days. It simply saddens me that we need the Man to feel this type of validity.

Thank you for reading,

Frank Sauce

Saucer of Frank's more obscure response:

Paul is a plastic dog mouthpiece for an ancient ships computer, because critics are almost as bad as artist when given criticism. The ancient computer's ship filled with migrants who have been hiding away up here, or down there, really. They avoid the man and his post-colonial-multi-cultural theory.

You don't.

Paul must have looked at the watch set into his little fingernail, after we asked him the time by reading his reviews. We should have known his fingernails could tell anyone the time. They were that beautiful and the clocks inside them told the truest time.

you, Constant Paul, you appall me, though I'm attracted to your gun-shot text and your devil-may-care tone.

Help yourself to refreshments because that is the last kind word
of quick whispers you will get from Mr. Sauce.

Hopefully, we will not reluctantly return to each other, all scowls again.

And to Fanuma:

You're correct! The Booker prize is the most important prize each year given (the mistype before editing was "price") for a book written in the English language by a writer from the Commonwealth or the Republic of Ireland. However, I disagree that English is the most important language in the world. Because of it possesses so much popularity with some secondary speakers? I think French has the most secondary speakers still. However, I'm pretty sure Mandarin Chinese is spoken by twice as many people as English (native and secondary included), which gives a convincing argument that Mandarin Chinese is the most important language in the world and in my humble opinion it's one of the more beautiful languages to listen to and not understand. Listen to Bei Dao if you don’t believe me or watch a Wong Kar Wai flick.

Be that as it may, my response to Paul Constant's comment was a bit "dickish" in tone, as Paul wrote. This is not an apology, though; I assure you. My comment's form didn't fit the format of the mainstream, certainly, but there are more then a few ambiguous images and referents that free-up the meaning of my possible intentions. Fortunately, Paul Constant doesn't give a rat's ass about Frank Sauce and his ilk, but I'm very pleased that you do, Fanuma.

Let's hear it for Frank Sauce's only fan: Fanuma!

Let's have a hip-hop parade for Fanuma
Frank Sauce's only fan!

Thank you dearly for reading this courtship of memories, Fanuma. Really! Thank you so much!

Frank Sauce

Some Time Outside


Before all the Bay City Bombers got married

"My concern isn't history or place, it's sense and non-sense, place and placelessness, the known and the unknowable," Frank said.

The third of the first of the second within a minute, when time makes a graveyard for thought and its thinking.

Memory sits gilded, up from the funnel-shaped vent beside us. But instead of and's and or's, they reside inside it, where there were four little blobs of light. Greens and reds
were very much in order, which gives us the sweet pleasure of waking.

Deeply appreciated, after a last whistle of wind and crash of thunder were manufactured quite widely for the industry of time.

It is an anthropology of knowledge, which is what attracted me to the service; its downfall had been an accident.

We blocked and grabbed and it was still a couple of our days away and not worth waiting for. At least, enthusiastically, what with our medication that begins to override our pain and deterioration with age.

"Horse, but no rider," I said.
"Families?" she asked.
"Reasonable," he said doubtfully. "But what are we doing?"

At a shoe exhibition, we were being grated together, like the leather and metal of the shoes. Her best shoes contained projectors of molecules without a visible source.


Him bit-wise, unaware of the sarcasm in the Koran, those before the pool in the middle of a desert.

She had the switchboard butt to broadcast the deception of the possibility, an ass and more in pure beauty.

Its sees to retain and clothe, but some not to drain, its crossbow, its dessert, its task, all a lanced infection to placate his mother, see?

Rampant truancy at the stationery store; they were all centrist on behalf of some goose-lord, who made his money on berry-wine and imports from Chine, his wife, Candace from Czechoslovakia, always said he invented the halide and pulse-current electricity. It betrays, sees livestock in some delicate sage, sees pockets in alleyways, a pint swapped between lovers.

Maggie Battle, skate decidedly!


Before all the Bay City Bombers got married

She got new skates yesterday. He was furious at the wrong about to be suffered. The skates are white, the wheels are rubber and they roll well on wood and concrete both. The co-producers were Calvin Kuhl and David Elton. Maggie Battle laces them for the first time, one eyelet then two until the laces are pulled tight, tied and even.

The Visible, The Untrue

Hart Cranes’ books may be reprinted only when these eBooks are free of all fees. With the white leather of the skates bound to her ankles, as she twists and turns her heavier feet, Maggie’s day-dreams careen for the scrapes and scuffs the skates will have after her first derby.

Yes, I being

She practices starts in front of her mirror, the pose before the startgun goes off makes her smile. The co-producers are Calvin Kuhl and David Elton. She has been practicing her race-face for months, while lifting weights, a mirror above her and beside her.

the terrible puppet of my dreams, shall

Well, I guess I was the first guy ashore so the old man said I could broadcast. “Yep, all by its little self, once you turn those wheels,” Maggie says to herself, digging the rubber-nose of her skates into the floor.

lavish this on you-

He regarded basket-ball and gymnasium antics as light-minded for a football gladiator. “Yep, all by its little self, once you turn those wheels,” Maggie said, looking down, the shine of the wheels still gleamed after being racked up against the moldings.

the dense mine of the orchid, split in two.

The Quartermaster said, “I’m a quartermaster sergeant.” After each practice start, Ms. Battle wondered how the living room wall felt having her skate into it after each practice start.

And the fingernails that cinch such

He never said anything important, and he always said it sonorously. She tried to stop short each time, but to turn would have been even more brutal for her and the wall.


The faster you can get the wounded out, the better chance they’ve got. Otherwise, I’m just the guy who occupies ground. And Maggie asked herself after she stopped her starts, “Will she bring peace, will she bring sisterhood?”

And what about the staunch neighbor tabulations,

He never said anything important, and he always said it sonorously. She wondered why she, herself, would ask such a question, her breath caught up struggles into and out of her, as she skates into her kitchen for a glass of water.

with all their zest for doom?

We wouldn’t hire a lawyer who’d never been to law school, because if you don’t derive profits, no royalty is due. Maggie gulps the water down, her body ready for a soak in her bath and her memories ready for a vodka before dinner.

I'm wearing badges

The faster you can get the wounded out, the better chance they’ve got. But we're clothing and feeding one million seven hundred thousand men. “I take cover and I creep from cover and I hold the line,” Maggie thought aloud, the derby always there, a relentless vision.

that cancel all your kindness. Forthright

They’ll be made and they’ll fly the planes and keep ‘em flying, because the planes have no political aims, no political ambitions. “Skate! Skate! Skate!” Maggie Battle cries out on her way to the bathroom with her shot of vodka in one hand and eucalyptus oil in the other.

I watch the silver Zeppelin

So why do we have to fight all over the map? There’s no spur-jingling or table-pounding. Maggie’s bath steams, the alabaster white bathtub gleans the light from the candles after her war with the wall in her livingroom.

destroy the sky. To

The music was composed by Laurentius Lemlin, with the orchestra conducted by Mr. Robert Armstrong and Mr. Kurt Weil at an afterhours soirée. For an hour, Ms. Battle soaks in the bath, her feet inside the skates that hang outside the tub.

stir your confidence?

SERGEANT: Hell, they don’t want to be swore in! And in that faith let us march toward the clean world our hands can make. Every time Maggie pulls the drain to empty the tub a bit and pour in more hot water, her skates clang against the side of the bathtub. Much to her delight.

To rouse what sanctions-?

I shivered and prayed at Valley Forge, and my prayer was answered.

The silver strophe... the canto

We had a rock to defend, and we defended it. The spirit of man has awakened and the soul of man has gone forth.

bright with myth ... Such

All the same, Susy, I’d kind of like to hear from you.

distances leap landward without

I’m going to see my friends die and hear the wounded cry out like a whispering field.

evil smile. And, as for me....

He was eloquently drunk, lovingly and pugnaciously drunk.

The window weight throbs in its blind

We wouldn’t hire a lawyer who’d never been to law school.

partition. To extinguish what I have of faith.

The sergeant said to be sure to ask you how you were fixed for lemon extract.

Yes, light. And it is always
always, always the eternal rainbow

And it is always the day, the farewell day unkind.

“Yep, all by its little self, once you turn those wheels,” Maggie smiles. She blows out the last candle, after her shadow breaks across her bathroom mirror, after the last flicker of light across her body and face bends her over.

Frank Sauce

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