Objective
-noun
5. not influenced by personal feelings, interpretations, or prejudice; based on facts; unbiased: an objective [in this sense an adjective] opinion."

An object can be subjective, but a subject cannot be objective

somewhere in here is a usurption of a proof for true

A poet could " . . . spend an entire career ..." mapping the meanings between "the" and "A"

"Pure mathematics is not objective"

Applied mathematics explains relationships of real or physical objects.

Pure mathematics, however, is not/can often be non-axiomatic

It may not be a physical object, but an abstract concept, which sometimes becomes an object, whether common or rare that is more real then a physical object

Frank Sauce's comment was off-the-cuff and this is consequent

Machine seen screen fingers meme eyes name mind

The eye is objective, the I is subjective

An electron doesn't exist until it is measured, but pure math states its mass must exist in other possible moments

Frank says, "I don't like proofs without a 'Z' and 'T'," because he says, "I need space and time for it to be real"

Time is not real, but it's a fact of life

Using vistas and valleys of symbols to reprint without permission where permissions need not be permitted

What to do when the 'new' is already known?

redo

"you are frustrated with the attention given to Ron Silliman’s idea of torque in poetry"

Frank Sauce's says RS's torque is good and valuable, his problem is a value sometimes implied in the usage of torque

Unread too for beginners' archive to explore an unabhorred moment

FAQ doesn't exist here

Do we need to name to know and what is the value of a name when the object or idea or emotion it names is already known though unnamed?

Doesn't poetry give possible names to the unknown or unknowable?

The moment of the mass is pure math

But what of the perfect circle?

The Navajo make an intentional mistake in every blanket, but not every moment is a blanket made by human hands or conceived by a human mind

Stack overflow at line: 0

The Lottery, when I coulda been stoned

Here, every sound and their moments, is attended here

"Pi is an irrational real number"

The pie I ate last night now exists in your mind, too. What kind of pie it was I can't remember and neither can you

Nada Gordon wrote to me via myspace in a message (I tried to write her back, but I think she blocked me): "If we were to purify our usage of all derived terms, we would be rendered speechless."

As far as poetics is concerned, how many terms are actually used? I mean, it's not as if the jargon is infinite. Few of the terms within poetics find a range outside of poetry. With this small quantity, one should know the terms and their origin. This shouldn't render a poet speechless, it should render them non-derivative or original or new.

Pound didn't write "Make it new!" for no reason. He wrote it so other poets of following generations would read poetry and learn a poet's poetics. Once that knowledged is gained, that particular poet would know when they are referencing another poet who came before them and would be able to expand on the poet they are referencing's poetics.

Now I've written more then a few times: Form is the extension of content. Some might attribute this idea to Charles Olson's Projective Verse essay. Others will attribute it to Robert Creeley. However, when speaking of 'form' or 'content' by themselves, we can freely reference a multitude of scholars, artists and philosophers. If form and extension and content are contextually linked in a phrase or sentence or paragraph, the list of references to these ideas from which these ideas could be derived becomes a very short list.

So when I write "torque is overused and meaningless," I'm really stating that the person employing the term hasn't read Silliman's "The New Sentence" and/or is not expanding on his idea of torque. In this, I don't think Silliman would disagree.

Of course, one can find many poets and writers who gave up on writing and maybe even life when they learned or thought that they could not add anything/anything more to what had already been written.

I hope none of you who read this do that, but you do this: read more then you write.

Dearest Nada,
Please don't read this unless you feel compelled. Press “Delete” now.
You're a mover and a shaker in a poetry world and you obviously believe I'm an idiot and a schmuck and a nothing.
If you feel this way, that's sad. If you feel this way, that's funny.
But . . . Puh-lees, Nada.
First, I'd like to qualify that I've been drinkin' bourbon for most of the night (e.g. the Sauce in Frank).
Funny, though, my wife said, "why are you such an asshole" when I was sharing your missives with her.
Even funnier . . . she's a cop.
Also, I was going to write a bit on Beckett's birthday, but I'm doing this instead. That saddens me, yet it also inspires me.
As an additional qualifier: I'm just a passionate poet and as a passionate poet, I'm mad about words.
And somehow, you think, I'm an authority, for I cannot police without authority. As you already know, I am not an authority.
However, I didn't know who you were part of the Flarf brigade until I googled you. Hell, I didn't even know what flarf was. I mean, I've seen the term around, but it really didn't interest me much.
However, you got a mention in Berstein's blog with your book, “Floppy” or “Fluffy” or “Folly”. Yeah, “Folly,” that's it. Congrats! Promotion on that level is important in the career of a poet.
As you may not know or could surmise, I could give a flyin' fuck.
You state that you were in the Bay Area in the 80's and the term “torque” was used a ton by the people you were hangin' out with. Guess you were a real poetry hipster, eh? So had you heard of or read “The New Sentence” during that period? Granted, I didn't read it until the mid-90's. I was over in Europe getting drunk most nights in the mid-to-late 80's and doing the Army thing. Also, “The New Sentence” was printed in the 70's and few places other then the Bay Area had even heard of those language poet folks until the late mid-to-late 80's.
You see? Etymology, I believe, is important, even in non-sense and frivolity. As a poet, shouldn't you believe this? Also, aren't you ashamed to be using a word that you used in the 80's? I mean, you're old enough to know better, aren't you? What the fuck does 'torque' mean to you, anyway?
Back to Frank Sauce “policing” your word usage:
Just so you know (granted you can look it up your self, but I thought I'd make it easy for you):
po·lice /pəˈlis/ Pronunciation Key - Show Spelled
Pronunciation[puh-lees] Pronunciation Key - Show IPA Pronunciation noun, verb, -liced, -lic·ing.
–noun 1. Also called police force. an organized civil force for maintaining order, preventing and detecting crime, and enforcing the laws.
2. (used with a plural verb) members of such a force: Several police are patrolling the neighborhood.
3. the regulation and control of a community, esp. for the maintenance of public order, safety, health, morals, etc.
4. the department of the government concerned with this, esp. with the maintenance of order.
5. any body of people officially maintained or employed to keep order, enforce regulations, etc.
6. people who seek to regulate a specified activity, practice, etc.: the language police.
7. Military. (in the U.S. Army) a. the cleaning and keeping clean of a camp, post, station, etc.
b. the condition of a camp, post, station, etc., with reference to cleanliness.
–verb (used with object)
8. to regulate, control, or keep in order by or as if by means of police.
9. Military. to clean and keep clean (a camp, post, etc.)
Interesting: "the language police." In order for me to be a part of the “language police,” someone would have to give me authority and/or I would have to have the desire to control language, which is a ridiculous notion. This hasn't happened nor will it happen, so there's no way that I could possibly be “policing” your word usage.
However, your blog is a public place and you've chosen to police your comments section (hopefully that's against spam and not people who "dump" on your blog or would like to interact with you and your world/words/ideas/achievements/et al).
Also, "Frank Sauce-A Courtship of Memories, Like Dreams" is a bloem, not a blog
Thirdly to lastly, I'm tired and need to get some sleep.
Hope you're well. Enjoyed the reading I found of you reading with someone else (something to do with Flarf).
Lastly, I hope that you believe each word is utterly important and needs to be perfect in its placement. I'll read “Folly” when I get a chance and let it be a testament to how important you believe each word and sound within the word to be.
Take care and hope you and yours are well,
Frank Sauce
Nada
http://www.myspace.com/137644243
Date:
Apr 13, 2007 7:28 PM
Flag as Spam or Report Abuse [ ? ]
Subject:
RE: RE: You are rude
Body:
I was in the Bay Area in the 80s. I didn't just pull the word out of Ron's book -- it was a word very much in use at the time I was first learning about poetry over twenty years ago, and a word that made sense to me in terms of how I wanted to think about poetry. It still makes sense to me. If we were to purify our usage of all derived terms, we would be rendered speechless. Anyway, I don't appreciate your policing my language. You have the right to grumpily sound off on anything you like on your blog, but don't be dumping on me. Nada ----------------- Original Message ----------------- From: Frank Sauce Date: Apr 13, 2007 9:02 AM Oh, come now, Nada Of course, you can use whatever term/word you want. However, if in poetry you use the term "torque," it refers to Silliman's idea of torque presented in his book "The New Sentence." However, the word is becoming cliche/used up/losing meaning because of it's over use. Kind of like the phrase "For whom the bell tolls,' and most people don't even know that it's from a John Donne sermon. Anyway, thanks for writing me. It was very nice of you. Take care, FS ----------------- Original Message ----------------- From: Nada Date: Apr 13, 2007 4:51 AM I can use whatever term I want -- no word is owned by Silliman. And I don't need to answer to your brusque directives.

I've been running into Ron Silliman's theory of 'torque' all over the fuckin' place lately. Now, I read The New Sentence years ago and while it was a fun read and full of interesting ideas, Sill's idea of 'torque' has become pervasive. I really don't have a problem with this. Coinage is important in language and the theory of language and poetics. Yes, fifteen bucks and you'll have yourself a good time.

However, its [torque] use has been driving us nuts at Frank Sauce, lately.

Yes, it's our fault. We know. But it still fuckin' bothers the hell out of us Saucers, ya know?

Torque vs. SoQ (School of Quietude)?

bullshit

There's so much fuckin' poetry out there, you couldn't read it all even if you tried. Hell, most poets don't try or even know what to try.

(we're feeling a bit overwhelmed at the quantity of poetry to be read here at Frank Sauce, that we've given up on all but the classics and fiction [prose-sans poetry] just for a break from all the fuckin' poets out there with a fuckin' trade paperback of poetry in their arsenal with hopefully a couple of fellowships and an award or three to justify our buying their book and reading it.)

This is our problem here. It's as if awards and accolades and blurbs have replaced our ability to read the work and see if it pertains to us or enriches our lives in some way. It's [the publishing and reading of poetry] become such an extreme that we can't read critically without someone else giving us at least a brief bit of their critic before we actually read the poet's work.

There's no recognition in poetry with a readership of 1-500 (most books of poetry are in this realm of readership). Therefore those that love poetry and write it seek even the slimmest of praise. Each little, tiny, minuscule glimmer of recognition becomes a justification for our $20,000-$40,000 debt for our MFA. And what about the 'street poet' who may not even have a BFA, BofA or a BS?

Fuck you!

Most of us are crappy poets anyway.

Addendum:

The turd of torque is a turdation.

Here’s what Wikipedia starts with on Torque: “In physics, torque (or often called a moment) can informally be thought of as ‘rotational force’ or ‘angular force,’ which causes a change in rotational motion.”

If one writes that a poem doesn’t have enough torque, then one is saying that the moment(s) aren’t there enough. Just from the idea of using the scientific expression of torque.

If a poem doesn’t have enough torque, then that’s a subjective value placed upon the work. Science, while often subjective, tries to be objective. We assume that through the scientific theory, the scientist(s) are being objective as possible even though we’re human.

Poets? Subjective.

A torquey poem has motion, movement and/or gets the reader to move rotationally. A poem may move us or not move us, but it doesn’t mean the poem has or does not have a quantitative quality or value.

To use a word to express the defining judgment of one’s experience of a poem is sad and this is why the overuse and cliché of torque torques us here at Frank Sauce.

What thoughts of you I have tonight, Allen Ginsberg, in a holy shroud of poetics and lysergic language, more dead then alive past this evening's light

Where the streets writhe in ancient agony, morning comes as to little surprise, an aftermath in a dawn of cyber bookstores and virtual cafes

Where we sit and drink an artificial energy drink, talking frenetically of 'a map of a mind' and the essence of spent spoons and too much sugar

Who gave us impetus to shred our skulls to wander from staggered drained lost epiphanies, to lose ourselves in patterns of hallucinogenic entropic visions from memory in a school yard in awe of asphalt waiting for my mom to be done with her Jazzercise class when I was 15

Where the walls and ceiling of Dairy Queen breathed in fluorescent light, wondering about when your America was gone in the golden age of whispers and half-truths in the Eisenhower Era with the blatant gore of racism and Mile's so high, a blue man's listless surge through blue bars

Where I wandered into The Blue Dragon bookstore, mapping my thoughts with weed and caffeine, digging for poetry

Where I found Howl, Zora Neal Hurston and Cortazar's Hopscotch, unaware that you had shirked your vehicle this morning and I then eating a sacred cow read your words of jazz and history in Daddy-O's

When my father would dream in the memory of his generation living in a post-war Utopia of Suburbs along rivers and a booming timber industry

Who dreamt of Red Rider, lizards and God on Latin tongues untold would not speak your words, not even in heaven, while Kaufman dredged non-sense for sense and Burroughs got down in Junk, and Karoac and Cassidy belched fire and disbelief in freak filled binges of tea and tapes and speed, all visions in history

Where herstory never told nor sung, lost among some thistle-weeds and brambles on sea-shores, while you from land to land across oceans beat truths unheard of in our white houses at home

Where I remember the stench of my electric sweat in a park filled with ominous outhouses, all metal mouthed and Moloch groaned in the trees across a creek nonsense and I terrorized and alone drove home to find the Circle Jerks on TV, my parents porpoises and all this without going down

When naked, this actually happened, too, street lights beckoned me in brown, dirt fields stripping my lethargic soul away from my wild mind and my young flesh, staring at hallucinating truths at 8 O'Clock at night and my first horrific breath

So where are you now, Allen Ginsberg, how are you known? Are there lots of young men? And who will speak now that you are gone?

"You have come to a place mute of all light, where the wind bellows as the sea does in a tempest. This is the realm where the lustful spend eternity. Here, sinners are blown around endlessly by the unforgiving winds of unquenchable desire as punishment for their transgressions. The infernal hurricane that never rests hurtles the spirits onward in its rapine, whirling them round, and smiting, it molests them. You have betrayed reason at the behest of your appetite for pleasure, and so here you are doomed to remain. Cleopatra and Helen of Troy are two that share in your fate." -A stupid-ass survey site

How could I have "betrayed reason at the behest of your [my] appetite for pleasure . . .?"

that's a crock-o-crap, though I do enjoy sharing the same level of Dis as Cleopatra and Helen of Troy[Egypt]. I've only betrayed reason for the unreasonable and the unknown, that certainly doesn't seem worthy of hell.

However, we're all worthy of hell now, aren't we? Not even Dante was so pious, though I'm sure Beatrice loved him in a benevolent, angelic way. Hell, I loved Dante's Beatrice when I was younger. But now I'm older and I would rather have a more unpure and passionate love. The best love is the dirtiest of the purest loves.

The thing that strikes me is how hell will not be that much different then life, " . . . blown around endlessly by the unforgiving winds of unquenchable desire as punishment for . . ." being born.

Of course, we here at Frank Sauce don't believe writing the long ass freakin' poems that are beautiful will get us into heaven either. But that doesn't stop any one here from givin' it a go, ya know?

A word or two can't hurt anyone that much, especially you.