Frank Sauce-A Courtship of Memories Like Dreams

Stuff n' Things

2011-03-12T11:16:00.000-08:00

you don't know what happened unless you were there
that's what they say, "it's nothing that I envisioned "

it's good if you want it to be

the same or better more seems a long shot that won't last

it's good for the soul, they say

that's the way it is sometimes, isn't it? the breathing takes a nap, a long itinerant map you know how it is, but it doesn't always happen that way, does it?

it's a long way to go, the everessence of nothing, a calamity of skin and bones

gets lost in the malaise, the bygone years should be gone, but they linger

alive in the afterlife of tomorrow

he's a one arm bandit, with a purr and a whimper, the bang ends the world

the toes and the heels resound with the sound of sleep The shell of a man vibrates, a turbulence inside I have found this a thousand times, and a thousand lines that measure time

it is ok, even if you almost died The breath is gone

******************************************************

you're a bookeeper, what do you want?

you feel the smile and dread the aftermath, but it's all noise and lessons learned that doesn't help us make sense of what happened before and what may happen after

it's a lot that is parked A life lived through mirrors and lenses, car doors and engines, gas and pedels

normally you'd be there more and less, more gone then we care to remember

like you remember, alive and quiet inside

are you alive and well? It does matter because we are all matter and energy taking up space, if just for a moment

Will of nothing comes of this It's love through another electronic door

My Toilet is a Harsh Mistress

2011-02-15T06:57:00.000-08:00

Here, inserting words into the toilet Words you don't like anymore The one's you could do without|wasted words|the one's you love the most

I wanna grow full in a toilet of sin A white night precedes me in this wanton wiggle my hips have gathered

You have stasis and I have nine Where are your morals now?

The architecture of debris: Debris is trees If you get caught in the flow, you become debris.

you are the wound spray of my debris basin

Asleep thigh while reading lies in news makes me want to get off the toilet, but I'm stuck Can't move

that’s the toilet for you

Ill World Will

2010-01-23T18:33:00.000-08:00

It's clear the world does not care about tears, raindrops, the coarse tongues of children
It cares only about itself, taking care of the world's interests, however mundane, compunctive
or mystic its interests may be

That's why I drink and don't care about the world anymore

Missed Lunchbox in Rye

2009-10-09T22:22:00.001-07:00

All the others survived
for survival's sake

we drank wine and sang

we did what others didn't have the heart to do
we dined on the regret of each other and gave
our blood and sat until we laughed

Not every one has a reason or even a ghost of reason
even before the mermen dreamed

Micheal Malatov wrote something about bombing the moon.
I used to fix rockets that held bombs
If I were a rocket and you were the moon, you wouldn't let me do you?

this is a re-write of a re-write from memory

Miss you!

A Gathering of Sounds

2009-09-21T21:53:00.000-07:00

or stuff I did in highschool

The joke among men: the size of self and the attrition of facets

in the light of morning

Half done desire sits idle, mild men

strapped up by beauty in bed

what madness or sorrow brings

a blight of will?

wit but fragments for a few alive as shadows

we alone hold the refuge of hearts, the stammer of self, and the will of

legions past the report of rumors ripped through memory

a gathering of sounds

our noise is next

writing: read below a like: thin ripped pens

your luck is with you

spread around to find you're thankfully

thicker than a pad of butter

but not thick enough to make the ridiculous safe

just remember, a slew of adieus might not make them all go away

life attracts life and we're alive—a gathering of things making other things

gather like our selves

Your Slick System Keeps You

2009-08-11T20:45:00.000-07:00

or Systemic Lords Born of Doors

"I'm bored," he wrote

"Crap," I thought, "Pure Crap"

I thought hard and shutdown
then cleaned off my screen

this evening you rumba and I eat salsa

Tomorrow that's all I think of for an hour; spend the whole day thinking of tomatoes, peppers and your Rumba, even if all that really happens is clicking and banging on machines

Cheap, Ugly Things

2009-08-04T21:22:00.000-07:00

I'm writing you hopefully that counts for something.

I pulled lines out of my wallet, wads of paper. More paper than you can shake a stick at. Lines wrought in the nothing of the air that surrounds a half-drunken man in a bar with a quickened, bourboned mind. What I stole from you has been modified. It's has a confused history.

Hope you're well.

My twin is running around here somewhere and he's a nastier mother fucker than I am, I tell you
And that's sayin' something

again
at a poetry reading

upper limit poetry
|
|
|
|
|
lower limit testosterone-laced conversation about American Pie

quick its seagulls eyes

squiggly lines mean nothing

our basements are full of cheap, ugly things

Emotional Fescue

2009-07-27T21:38:00.000-07:00

ok, that was dumb, but I feel like fescue
the plant I'd name Robert,
my grass
my Robert lawn
but that would be wrong
now
wouldn't it?

ok, that was dumber

pop

shit

fescue

Happens Half-Glass Fast

2009-07-26T18:12:00.000-07:00

Fast is fast
at last
it won't change the facts
they were there already

those two bear fruit
amazed

Useless Letters and Errata

2009-07-26T18:03:00.001-07:00

Steak forsakes stake

I M

Mobile break

E D

Senseless leg

L C

you knew it would happen

S Q

overdue on either finger

T H

Toes to multiply with

U W

shake fur

Y K

they all saw ceilings and elbows

A P

His planet provides privileges

J E

I gave up my pancreas for this?

N B

a new moon hides behind us.

a hell you want to

2009-07-12T15:31:00.000-07:00

here you go
rubber buckets for your bullshit
a scratch at further shock

pick me up some slop
loose along limits
three more times
than any other thing thought of
so here we are
a mad rush of veins
a portable pump
halved by right and left

at least we weren't too wrong

you're right
we should have stopped it.

Maggot Tree Brain Dead

2009-06-11T21:15:00.001-07:00

Ask a tree who are we and the tree will say nothing

Ask a maggot and it just squirms

Ask me, and I'll say we're full of it

but that's not a maggot's bag

That's why we have dead trees
to remind us of a maggot's life
in memory

do what you gotta do

2009-06-08T20:41:00.000-07:00

do you do whatcha gotta do?
do you gotta do whatcha do?

we do.

So whatcha doin'?
I'm doing this

you're the only you, dude
we're the only we
I am not the only I

solace

Pipe Dream No. 9

2009-05-14T20:37:00.000-07:00

In a recreation pit, our entire
dream is in a pipe

we're a dime-o-dozen, pal
it's a shame
I could be head-spun drawn

On a couch reclined
this pipe is still a pipe
she said
it's unbelievable

we admire you

Birl Log on the Fire

2009-05-08T21:38:00.000-07:00

We have purchased you
this we know

I lied

Half truths of swallowed lives
Bring it on
Bring on it

bling

satisfy my heart
eat your soul
we shallow walking will

tethered desk, high stool
drink from pools of puddles stood
we can give you this

really three sang loud about cups
filled with water like only cups could
better than your child's lull

happens

to eat hearts and unimpressed fools
beauty in dipthongs reign
when we slide between our sounds

sounding

birl I would you

9 Butters Left

2009-05-02T23:20:00.000-07:00

The key is a good meal

your mouth is a door and its lock your tongue

your stomach is its knob to be turned

Our motto here: "inspire other people to do the dishes"

or "a mind is a meal"

enough of this: a life supreme is love

do you know where love resides?

No, your gruesome groin of gash is blessed to only hint at love

To say it a bit differently:

He is the perfect mix to me of blues and folk and funk and feeling

and then I found myself a mother

knitting stuff with afternoons of sleepy mama waiting for me

but then again, there's only one captain on this boat

and on the other side untitled pride

until untitled lashes s t i l l morning gives us quiet time

another anthem for another 17 year-old girl

our reasons for staying

the book girl from anthropic boyfriends came and went through all this

thought I thought I could marry some

We knew they were all kits shipped few

I must say, “I know”

I know bread is life and wheat is stuff

He eats a lot of fruits and vegetables

Almost everyone eating all these foods will do fine

and survive

But remember I am trying to regulate the devil

Some women who don't ovulate collapse, may be their devil and it definitely is mine

My stomach and my needs are the devil

When the devil leaves, we feel more blessed and amazed with lives unexpected

How happy we are that there is

Lovely, heavenly Our minds for our lives

a trade

and gently and lovingly, a masterpiece I really have learned life loves life

That's why I went to the fabric store tonight in search of prints to make some new spring scarves

I just love this look and I also love toast (the catalog of bread to follow)

I get a lot emails about what I eat

and soon we'll be off to the kindergarten valentines day party!

Tonight as I lay in my misery I will be thinking a lot about that penny and just how lonely I'd be if I hadn't found it I remember, too. That was really funny.

I hope it gets warm again real soon

I can't wait to go to the park and eat all the rabbits with fresh cut grass in their bellies

Mother Green

2009-04-20T22:49:00.001-07:00

this was all lost before
be free mother green

when forms change for no reason
for you and me there is no reason

reasonlessness

negate reason into it
there is nothing
here everthing

mean green mother mother green

"earth friendly product," we hail you
mountain of millions
prometheus' barge

Never liked a capital [p]

dreams lie
echoes echo

this is all we know
so don't forget
your balance

sweet dreams
mother green

you are all we need

be free

So I took a pill

2009-02-09T21:56:00.000-08:00

So I took a pill and it got caught in my nose
This is my hospital band
See?
So I took a pill
And like ten minutes later
it got stuck up my nose

And then I took another pill
Called the police
They let me go to the emergency room

So I took another pill
they shot water up my nose
and . . . then . . . oh yeah

And then I took another pill
and then I couldn't smell

And that's the whole story

Something in Everything for Nothing

2009-02-06T19:40:00.000-08:00

Everything is the concept of all that exists.[1] Every entity, physical body, and abstract object is part of everything. Everything is the opposite of nothing, though an alternative view considers "nothing" a part of everything.

What do you say? Why? Questions, questions, questions, questions in one question

You are the everthing real

you are a real everything

(avoid nothing or avoid everything or something in between)

that's why Frank loves [e]

this isn't done,
darn it
darn everything
mind the gap

empty and full is full of nothing's everything

There you go again, Frank

2009-02-03T21:55:00.000-08:00

I often wander in the wonderment of wandering

An Inaugural Poem

2009-02-01T09:31:00.000-08:00

Drain the day with song
with apologies to Hope in the 44th Presidency

Each praise about repairing
walking din, somewhere
mark that highways will Sing the names
dead died
died
who where many brick
many day
Names Sing someone safe; this walk
brought
the of the
here,
have words words,
then day
Tracks brought catching
about speak about speaking
Wooden smooth,
oil cello,
for spiny whispered,
who train the raised here
Would who the tracks raised
picked cotton
lettuce,
built place, picked brick
plain,
For business, catching eyes,
darning "Take and we
glittering uniform, harmonica would"
Pencils cannot others declaim;
music pair teachers consider
laid dead
laid train, the roads changing
Someone about
noise thorn on
that, bridges into of bridges,
edifices other or
which the that
that the
they need
or to spoons

song for the day.

Day we go about our past
each other, catching each others' not,
or all us is and bramble, and each
one of our ancestors on our tongues
is stitching up a hem, a hole in a
patching,
a tire,
the things in need of repair.

Someone is trying to make with A,
of a drum with boom,
voice.

A woman and her son wait

The bus, a farmer, and
the sky say, "Out your
Begin" at the same time

We encounter each in
or words to consider a reconsider.

We cross dirt and of who said, "I, to see what, on the other side; I know there's

A
we to find need,
are We?
We yet see

Say it plain, for us and the
by the then keep clean and work inside of
better something down the road."
Say it have this
the who us
the the
and the
by the
they then
keep clean and work inside of

All us is noise

Put her cherry on fire

2009-01-12T22:57:00.000-08:00

She's got a fire cherry in her belly

I've got one between my teeth

The fire cherry is the next fruit in the tree of knowledge

Quince, Apple

Fire Cherry

I killed and ate all the birds in the fields with Fire Cherry seeds in their stomachs and made bird soup

Now I don't know what to do

120 was good for a long time

2009-01-09T20:03:00.000-08:00

We dragged ourselves up with you in our arms; your feet tendrils, your eyes masked in the pattern of glass. We broke you. You broke us.

Your child will only know the other father and our days will move with arms and hands. Where are you now? When will we know?

The only second.

The fourth acting like it's third.

There's a period of ending and a space between before the next starts.

Your punctuation moved us.

This must end.

Trading Noses

2008-10-05T18:53:00.000-07:00

“Have you traded in your nose for nothing?” He asked Him

He didn't know what to say so He said something that didn't make any sense and we really shouldn't worry about it too much.

We can tell you this, though. It was Friday. Afterward, the days and details will mean nothing, too.

He was righteous. Him was feeble. Alright, He said,”With whom should we know this singular pleasure,” even though He didn't look pleased by what Him said.

We should all be happy now, but we aren't. Don't cast your you on us. We're trying to be happy, even though being, to some, means nothing. “What does being mean?” you might ask. And with no reply, you've got your answer.

“Take out every thing and you've got your answer,” we might add.

“What needs to be added?” He ask Him as they sat.

Him then follows, “If something needs to be added, then what should we take away? It should remain empty, don't you agree?”

“But I want it to be full. Full for all the noses of the world. They smell, that's what noses do, like you. You know?” He again, a little more excited.

We want. That's what we do.

Him and He cross and fold their hands into their laps. They look at each other. He smiles. Him smiles as wide.

“This is lovely,” He says. “That is lovelier,” Him says, pointing. “Lovely,” they add together.

“What is that?” He asks.

I know we want you

2008-06-11T22:39:00.000-07:00

you want to know you

you know you want to

you to know want you

want you know to you

know you to you want

you to you want know

know you to want you

I give up on variations

I'm from Oregon

you know those people who drag a shopping cart behind them around town collecting bottles?I got nothing but respect for them, 'cause that's a hard-ass job

We are peanuts and gossip

Dolls of Death deal drafts in fragments

2008-06-03T22:29:00.001-07:00

When she comes, she's more aware of tastes When is there, to make us sorry for this? We saved an elegant black uniform, without gorging on the stone road The timber swerved dangerously there; it baffled means of death I had neither the relations for labor that were made of him, him from all, nor the sides of bystanders, their musical notes Do you strike in the midst of standard adorned with pure gold? We pour oil on roaring flames Not many of those die even as he did by vodka When the rakes hear this, they too will weep and wail with heavy hearts! And delight objects of my desire It is for this reason that plenums plume; we're in spectacular blue and our sickness stays "Why not ask for it?" she asks after we're done

He belongs

2008-05-27T22:38:00.000-07:00

a choosers can't be a loser,
but they can be a beggar

We're all beggars, you know
for the will to breathe

A life of show and tell

He hated himself from time to time; the wash would sit there and he would sit here in the library We are in the library now The study

"I would rather draw together a group of apparently disparate ideas/images/memories and let their association speak for itself."
Stephanie Bolster

make it three one thing

There are games between the words in the books on the shelves The books on the floor and around the desk contain the fewest games He is a game himself and he doesn't like games They remind him of his brother

Set Your Wife on Fire!

2008-04-10T10:17:00.001-07:00

for Dan and Lorca-a little ditty inspired by spam

From: Christopher Moon
To: Royal McMillan

Dear Mr. McMillan:

Are you tuckered out from your male incompetence?

Change it immediately!

Improve the dimension of your love today!

Are you a little bit neurotic?

So was one Frederique Bartha, who at one time in his life was responsible for the Spanish Jews during La revolución social española de 1936. He thought he should act within the societies where they lived. He was Spanish-French, a hyperbolic genetic and cultural combination, one that would have even upset Aristotle if he were alive and knew the French and the Spanish as well as Señor/Monsieur Bartha.

Perhaps it was Mr. Bartha who didn't understand himself well, only preferred to believe he understood the French, the Spanish and himself better than anyone else for he would argue with anyone about it until he had ground them down to a find pile of human debris and they excepted his unique expertise. Or he would shoot them. Frederique was a violent anarchist who posed as a Nationalist.

Your Set on Fire-Wife,

Christopher Moon
(FS's alter-ego, ego-altered to fit the frame of this post, ya know?)

A Sublistist Manifesto

2008-03-15T23:27:00.000-07:00

1) There is no "we," "I," and/or "you" in a Sublistist movement.

2) In fact, a Sublistist is neither a movement nor a non-movement.

3a) A Sublistist is not still and is not moving.

3b) A Sublistist is neither loud nor silent.

4) A Sublistist does not speak and does not remain speechless.

5) A Sublisist is not an artist or a mob.

6) A Sublistist is not a list and is not listless.

7) A Sublistist exists and is existenceless.

8) A Sublistist can neither be a Sublistist nor not be a Sublistist.

9) A Sublistist expresses a selfless self of a selfish self in a society.

The Bourbon Machine

2008-03-09T00:42:00.000-08:00

There's a knowledge of more
in the birth of bourbon inside a man
who has his hand around a bottle, the bottom of tomorrow

There is nothing but birthing in the Bourbon Machine
except the death of morning and all it can bring to a man last drunk
on memories of could-have-beens
if it weren't for the Machine of Bourbon inside him

There is mystery in whiskey,
this night steeped in the distilled mash of days behind us
moments stacked in a lush mind
for one last smile that may be as empty
as a kiss from a booze-hound's lips

All the beauty of now that comes with the forgetfulness of bourbon
I stare down the bar at all the beasts and cuckolds
with their hands wrapped around an almost empty glass
their eyes droopy drunk on beer and wells
half smiles on their faces because they cannot remember
yesterday, and even if they do, it doesn't matter anymore

As Long As The Battery Lasts

2008-02-09T00:39:00.000-08:00

There's two of you and one of me. Not that it matters, really. There's always a thought that perhaps there are seven of you and two of me. That's how it should be.

Enough of [e]

I had a [d], but it was a bit dilapidated and I told it to shave and it moved away wearing a double breasted suit, a white shirt and a red silk tie. I can't remeber what color the suit was. It's difficult to remember fabrics and their texture when you're so concerned about their smile.

He had a toothy grin, which scared me. His teeth looked like a carpet, albeit a white carpet, but still a carpet.

I don't know why, but I like the word carpet, as if it could be a car pit.

Oh, geez. This is bad.

It's worse than TV. Maybe that's a good thing.

What if there was a god?

What if there was more than one god?

Would they have a fist fight to see who's a badder-ass god?

I'd put my money on the god who had a bigger battery.

The battery's not dead, but Frank Sauce is.

Ciao from now.

Amen

Maggot Tree Brain Dead

2008-02-03T23:20:00.001-08:00

Frank's Savoir Faire Sauce

2008-01-27T21:27:00.000-08:00

I travelled to the Savoir Faire and it meant nothing.
Now I'm here doing everything.
These bestial moments must signify something.

Then we ate country gravy over Belgische frieten

Alles is goed.

A Stopping and A Starting

2008-01-12T23:32:00.000-08:00

I went looking on the internet for someone who chopped up a bit of Genesis and wrote, "In the beginning is the Word and the Word is God and God is the Word."

There wasn't anything interesting to be found in a few short minutes, so I came back here.

This is a beginning and below this is an ending, even though this Courtship continues.

Oddly, as I think about this beginning and that ending, I figured out that above this is a beginning, too. It's a painting that Anna Todaro did for me about six months ago. It sits behind me on a wall as I type at a table, all hunched over like I'm not supposed to be, even though I really like to type this way and work this way. Back to Anna, then. She's does a lot of different things and has a lot going on. I commisioned the painting above with only fragments (The title was "A Courtship of Memories, Like Dreams" and it's ratio was to be 1:3). I didn't give her a palette or anything else really. It's a wonderful painting that fits perfectly along the long wall of our living room. That is one part of the beginning. The new art work for this Courtship.

The other beginning is an ending.

All the text that is below and is in the archives to the right will be put into book form in the coming months. While I can't really say when it will be released, I can say this:

This work is where I come when no other work is happening. That is, I post a little ditty when it doesn't fit into the other projects. It is dross in the sense that it's extra and has no place after I've written it. However, "The House of Moments" sections have turned into something on their own, so you probably won't see much of them in the next two years here.

I like time as a form. To have a chronology is really the easiest form to fit into.

This isn't a work of or about time, but time is inescapable in life and in this form.

As I wrote just a few minutes ago, the first two years of this "A Courtship of Memories, Like Dreams" will become a book. It's form will be different than hear, here.

After the next two years, it will become a book again.

So this is a beginning that will soon disappear and become a middle again.

I like it in the middle.

Thank you for reading this Courtship,

Frank Sauce

TV and Poetry to Shop By 2007

2007-12-13T22:28:00.000-08:00

He was with a Santa Suite. It was a magical suite of a magesterial nightmare

It's not all narrative; it's not all A to Z Even things narrative are not Z to A

Some things are TV It's an acronym noun right? What is TV? This is what we should ask ourselves

You could go TV

We TV

"The real world is not the world of academia"

In other words:

The Annual Poetry To Shop By 2007

Some of you froze your ass and other extremities to the bone to bring poetry to the shopping masses the year before last. Last year wasn't so cold, but just as beautiful. We were visited by a squid and some out-of-towners. Hopefully, this year will be more warm in this splendiferous affair with the truest form of poetry, Street Poetry, for the soon-to-be-poor, huddled masses looking for the perfect gift for their loved one(s). Let us give them respite from their plight with ours and others' poetry.

All hail to the wondrous warmth that a few poetic (and loud) words can give to passerby's and those who stop long enough to listen.

Bring your poetry, yourself and your friends to this, the most cherished and despised of seasons: the shop-'til-you-drop-more-money-then-you've-got season: The Holiday Season.

Let us celebrate!

High Noon (12pm)
Saturday, December 22nd
Portland, Oregon
In front of the Pioneer Courthouse, across from
Pioneer Courthouse Square on 6th Ave.
Hosted by Frank Sauce

Frank Sauce, his mother and his Finger

2007-11-15T23:06:00.000-08:00

One finger is all I know well

One finger

It's my personal finger

I feel it all the time

It's my favorite finger, even though I have 7 more

and two thumbs

My thumbs are nice,

especially if I'm holding my wife

or holding a fork

I like to feel an edge with my thumbs

My pinkie seems useless, but I know what it does

with a glass of bourbon and I kinda like it

my pinkie believes I have no affection for it, even though I do

But this one finger, I always know what it does

It's a relentless finger

It's in all the family pictures

Stitch Your Door

2007-11-06T22:17:00.000-08:00

The stitch you stretch becomes you
you are not you when you hear this
you are between we and me,
to share this stretched stitch

Fuck it

Where were you when we were here?
They are all there still

I did it all alone, threw
the refrigerator out the door with
a crash, scared the neighbors they later told me
through the doorway that now lets winter in
"What use is a refrigerator when it's 35 degrees
inside for days?" I asked them
They all nodded with my misuse of reason

We should freeze to stop the flow of you
and me

They are all here now and we eat you for dinner
and I dessert on earlobes for the first time

This is my secret. This is my new life.

2007-10-19T16:10:00.000-07:00

Dear Frank Sauce,

This is my secret. This is my new life.

I paint dogs. I paint oceans.

Even after you became a wave and I painted all those cows, I hope you're well.

Much love,

Lorena Pugh

Hello Frank,

This is my secret. This is my new life.

I paint dogs. I paint oceans.

Even after you became a wave and I painted all those cows, I hope you're well.

Much love,

Lorena Pugh

The Poetics of Criticism

2007-10-16T23:06:00.000-07:00

I was supposed to be asleep, but then I knew I should be at work.

So I work.

There were flies and all their babies were inside me while I was at work. I was typing on a type writer and the letters were being sent into a machine that I couldn't see and I'm pretty sure the machine couldn't see me. My co-worker was cheating, but I didn't know her and she eventually turned into a him as I kept typing. I had a deadline. Everytime I hit a key the machine gulped in another room, but there were no other rooms. We were in a cloud that was floating through the sky. We were in a cube of glass, my co-worker and I. The boss came in and the machine was still gulping and I was still typing, but didn't know what exactly I was typing, but I could feel the characters turn into words inside the machine. It knew each word, it wasn't machining 0's and 1's. The boss stared over my shoulder at my fingers hitting the keys and he started to smile, or I felt him smiling, even though I stared at the window at the ants who crawled down the cube and fell off into the blue sky. There was no gravity so they floated past us. The cube would sometimes squash the ants and I could feel their deaths as their exosketleton seemed to implode. The boss was still looking at my fingers and out of the corner of my eye I could see that my co-worker was changing again into woman, a masculine woman and I was turning into a feminine man and the boss kept smiling as we raced through clouds inside a glass cube within another cloud.

The flies began to swarm around the boss's head and I typed and watch the ants and thought about sleeping and how it has been so long since I slept. I wasn't tired, because the boss was there smiling with a thousand flies around his head and my co-worker turned into a man again. He stood there and stared at the boss like the boss was naked and attractive.

I type more characters into the machine and it gulps and creates more words. The boss stops smiling and starts to laugh. My co-worker laughs, too. I begin to smile.

I have been doing this job for a long time. The flies' babies are still inside me.

Boxwood Blues

2007-10-03T21:52:00.000-07:00

I eat bugs: box beetle bugs. I have a lot of boxes.

Most of the boxes are filled with books. I collect books. I seldom have the courage to read them. Since I feel guilty for not reading them, I go out and buy more books. I'm also a collector of authors. I keep lists of all the authors, their bibiliographies and their books I own and their books that I don't own, each in their own column. That is, one column for authors, one column for their books I have in boxes and one column of their other books that I need to have in boxes.

Yes, the box beetle that I live on lives in the boxes and books. The knowledge that the books I've bought and the boxes I've borrowed, which hold the books and are home to the beetles I eat, gives me the blues.

~end~

Rate your Pin-Up

2007-09-12T17:26:00.000-07:00

What a time, a bit of time, we have when we see the time we had

There something long and loose about this day, the import, the pinto, an aftermath of years, a memory of a moment we all share.

This is not about that.

This is ratings, as though jocund jokes could dream, so do we toward an anything of desire, want and need

Pin-up or prince, kids or a boat?

These are the ratings of tragedy and contentment

A Civil Toilet and Frank Sauce's Crotch

2007-08-30T11:09:00.000-07:00

Baronesses always whiz-giggle me and even fellows do in the civil toilet!

Well, now I giggle at them, because I took Megonadsrock
for 6 months and now my dick is more immensely bigger than civil.

Civil dick?

Civil war in your crotch?

Self-same song and another red-eyed dawn with a new sun.

We're stuck with the same sun here; it's impossible to change that fact, the sun will burn us to oblivion eons before it dies

This is half-n-half.

Frank's sauce for this is gone.
"This is my weapon, this is my gun. This one's for killing, the other's for fun"
Another little section of this poem done.

Instant Fiction

2007-08-20T17:33:00.000-07:00

Meta body turned trip lipped plank, when we forgo the frigid air in the drip of a Portland summer

this instant fiction kiss

You wrote, "two swords were better than one . . ." and I didn't understand
Now I understand what you meant but didn't actually write; only for a moment and now it's all non-sense again because there is no context to the phrase you wrote

We all dream.

I haven't brushed my teeth since last night and everytime I breathe it feels like a few forgotten dreams and a several cups of coffee go in and out of my mouth with each breath

We had you, but you left us

Now, someone else has you

I swear

The gumball drops and we're mad at each other again because only one of us gets the prize that's inside

Peace Home: War Abroad

2007-08-10T16:13:00.000-07:00

px;" src="http://www.iraqinfragments.com/synopsis/images/preprod.jpg" border="0" alt="Books of People in War-Torn Bagdad" />
In this time of love for the peach and the dove that creep behind the peace of our days and the war for oil and vengeance, we still feed our children and breed a proper prosperity to stifle starvation that emulsifies our will to change.

War for food is justifiable.
War for peace is preposterous.
War for soldiers is inevitable.

Who will write "The Art of Peace" and who will own it?

Further is Farther then Too Far

2007-08-06T15:14:00.000-07:00

This weekend, I went further than too far.

On a gravel road in Bumb-Fuck-Oregon in the coastal range on the edge of The Burn there was a sign. The white sign read, "you've gone too far!" in bold-red letters. I ran over the sign with my right front wheel and veered back onto the road.

Then I drove further. I tried to drive off the map that was in my lap, but wasn't successful, so I drove home in the dark, drinking whiskey that I found at an abandon campsite.

That was my Friday night as far as I can remember.

Scant Phrase, Full Line

2007-07-19T22:15:00.000-07:00

You cannot escape it

Can

Knot

"If it never is dragged in, it can never escape," she wrote about her writing, which she often called her manifesto: The Life and Death of Draggedinism. I thought her writing was masculine and I told her that once. She called me a fag. It was the 5001st time I'd been called a fag in my life. Because of her I stopped counting and have only given those who've followed a knowing-feminine-smile that I stole from my mother.

It would be nice to sit down and count all the things I stole from my mother. This is a task I would like to give to each person in the world, if given the chance.

I wouldn't trust that type of person that gives tasks to the world, even if it was myself.

Just thought of this: the best manipulator of a person is the person's self. What if you could smell the self, not the body of the self, but if you could always smell your abstract self when you were all there, a full self, all there at one particular moment.

No, no. I do not feel this way tonight.

Frank Sauce is out getting sauced.

I am here with the possiblity of you, dear reader.

When faced with a line of robots, would you trust them?

That's what we're really looking for here. That's the truest expression of the self.

The self is best expressed by asking the question: "when faced with a line of robots, would you trust them?"

I trust a good robot. But I don't meet that many robots, none that I'm aware of.

I like language when it's recent.

row boat sunk
sunk row boat
boat row sunk
boat sunk row

row sunk boat

that's all

Too Easy Form

2007-07-17T23:26:00.001-07:00

I was a teenage microwave; I ate everything by 17
I was a teenage middlefinger; I told everyone to fuck-off
I was a teenage mystic; I ate too much acid by 16
I am a teenage sidewalk; high heels still hurt me
I was a teenage tabletop; wet glasses gave me water rings
I was a teenage door; open me and you could walk in
I was a teenage posthole; I seldom was deep and was filled with rain

Spy Eye-Huts of Age

2007-06-25T13:26:00.001-07:00

I spy a blowfly in his own sky without an eye
It is I, he tries we, all for an edgeless boundary

He writes
something about realism is swamp-age, not gas-age
All this and the whole time, I've got a stinky case of gas
that no Beano(TM) could cure
an aftermath of a pure pork protein source

Too Good for Oily Gas?

2007-06-14T13:30:00.000-07:00

Side effects:

"Anal leakage,
loose and frequent stools
that may
be hard to control,
and gas
with an oily
discharge
are just some of the effects
you may feel."

thanks to Zoe Trope for this (whose blog I wanted to be about writing and, more specifically, about her writing, but it never is. Freakin' Bloggers! They're worse then poets.

All this because there's a new-ish drug available over the counter that stops your body's ability to absorb fat.

We here at Frank Sauce recommend Schedule 1 narcotics rather then some drug called Xenical.
If you play your cards right, you won't have to eat or shit for weeks at a time.

"The chance of a lifetime," we say. "Let go of the window, but don't jump, just feel the near-death rush."

War Chore

2007-06-13T12:55:00.000-07:00

Our war cores apples on a sun-dappled lake to trim an inestimable gap for a sapling's coming of age into a tree for a day and a half until I cut it down with an ax to put up our tent in the perfect place along the lake shore below the mossed branches of an old oak for my love and I to share our doubts on a hope for humanity

The next day we hike to an alpine lake to gather ourselves around wind-whipped shrubbery and red lichen on the rocks

The day after we will go back down to the valleys and rivers wrapped in roads and houses

What William H. Gass, Mike Daily and Tao Lin have in common

2007-06-12T13:45:00.001-07:00

Dear reader,

I went to Powell's to get Tao Lin's "Eeeee Eee Eeee." Got it.

Picked up Gass' "Tests of Time" for $10 (new)! Read the essay "Tests of Time" and I had to wonder: will Tao Lin and his possible-future masterpiece make it to the test on time? Or will "Eeeee Eee Eeee" be it?

I'll read it after Gass and Mike Daily's "Alarm."

More later on this, but maybe not here.

Take care,

Frank Sauce

ps-I have sinned an undeniable sin. I didn't read tonight. I haven't gone to sleep yet though, so perhaps there is hope, but the body cannot be denied, especially after blood. I didn't write either. Correspondence doesn't count, except for this letter here. I'm so excited about Phase One next week too!

The Great Head Shot. No filler

2007-06-09T00:10:00.000-07:00

The great head,
I pray you,
pack house
who is this woman?
average anxious
He as an invention
became repeated
the word engine
bone brush tendency bore
to keep it up
The advertisement
dealt and cried error
(Helterskelterwelterbooze)
He's by
annoy
You mowed dress must brass needs to be a stranger in this region
Fried Bob
Ester looked plate shy
steadily into the gotten of her little face;
but you say truly, reply order
the got last wing other.
I am a stranger
hearing Murmurs
a desert blonde continues.
Lie.
work
Hold me.
Caress lit cloud tip slips coldly
You have broken the spell
At comb rusted upheld the defiant corner of Beaver Street beneath the scaffolding
you chase attempt thick their silver-foil word of leaves
Claim an other tensely in incident of the fail-spoken same nature.
The freeze thick
A nymph sacrilege!
To tempt my riptide virtue!
A large courageousness
What food invention happened on the day were you born?
Thursday. Today.
With pasted elaborate bright gestures,
Was he insulting
Alone,
pull again,
daughter's foot a third instance.
seek rich the minister had level time to celebrate his vices
Thursday's child has the learned shy man,
observed modern the stranger,
the moment when the camp rode Reverend Dims
Detaches her wed fingers and offers his palm.

After Vaccines

2007-06-08T22:56:00.000-07:00

We here at Frank Sauce have established, a priori, a formlessness of forms Nothing's too inconsequential or magnificent for our wandering eye In that, a peace becomes us A lull and then a quickening followed by another lull The form, we would like to write, is a life lived in the lives of lies for our own truth

I ate a sandwich for lunch It was a decent enough sandwich I should bring in my own sandwiches from home, since I can make more of a sandwich then I can buy

Little manifestations of a self salinate another self on these sidewalks

"Yes, mother," we should say "We are the great head together"

There were blooms on my walk at lunch and we both felt they were the last flowers between the flowers and us They stood up to the high-rises; the flowers proud within their lamppost baskets Some had given themselves over to the sun, while the others centered in their pots and ripe pistils Their stems and leaves satiated the sun, but not the buildings built back up these last few years The other flowers' calyxes seemed eager inside their bodies

Everyone here wears war though only a few of us notice the wars in each other Instead, we glance at our sex and smile mischievously on our way to buy books, coffee, clothing or food

I come here to find work after a great lesson forgotten

Savage Messiah

2007-06-05T09:17:00.000-07:00

"Plastic Soul is the intensity of life bursting the plane"-Henri Gaudier-Brzeska

It was a phrase, "plastic and acid," that brought me here. Mike Daily and Mick O'Grady, the O'Grady/Daily shows and the passion of and for art.

We here at Frank Sauce are all passion, except really early in the morning. We are not morning people, we are more rock'n'roll than the morning, unless it involves an all-nighter. We are all for all-nighters!

Remember your dreams. Forget tomorrow.

Namaste,

Frank et Le Gange

Joel Barker and Fran Tarkenton

2007-05-16T22:36:00.000-07:00

Joel
Barker can be counted on to cut a barb wire fence, crawl just under the reach
of the swinging klieg lights, and throw fresh meat at the guard dogs. He
doesn’t hold much truck with paradigm shifting, since he drives a car with an
automatic transmission these days. He writes poetry and scintillating
server demonstrations. Check out some of his latest work, Windows Vista
Deployment Overview, at http://www.microsoft.com/technet/community/events/vista/DSK-03.mspx
.

“…His own
blabber can be found at http://www.froach.org.”
But he doesn’t blab much. He just does his thing and his thing is pure
goodness. Well, not goodness in the moral sense, but good in the goody sense.

Joel Barker featuring at Tony's Talkin' To!

A Word Open Mic Hap'nin'

Tommy Gaffney Hostin'

Tony's Tavern

Portland, OR

7:30ish-Sign Up

8-ish start

Loosey-goosey-like

Fran
Tarkenton , 67 (bio)

hall-of-fame quarterback

$3,000	Republican
$1,000	special interest
total: $4,000

Contributor

Candidate or PAC

Amount

Date

Mr. Francis A. Tarkenton

Atlanta, GA 30326

Prepaid Legal Services/Independent

COLE, TOM (R)

House (OK 04)

COLE FOR CONGRESS

$2,000

primary

09/02/03

Tarkenton, Francis

Atlanta, GA 30326

COLE, TOM (R)

House (OK 04)

COLE FOR CONGRESS

$-1,000

general

10/17/02

TARKENTON, FRANCIS

ATLANTA, GA 30326

COCA-COLA ENTERPRISES INC

COCA-COLA ENTERPRISES INC EMPLOYEES PAC

$1,000

primary

05/10/96

TARKENTON, FRANCIS

ATLANTA, GA 30326

STERLING SOFTWARE

GRAMM, WILLIAM PHILLIP
(R)

President

PHIL GRAMM FOR PRESIDENT, INC.

$1,000

primary

03/14/95

TARKENTON, FRANCIS A MR

ATLANTA, GA 30326

BROADCASTER

DU PONT, PETE (R)

President

PETE DU PONT FOR PRESIDENT

$1,000

primary

10/14/87

Receive an alert every
time new records are added to Fran Tarkenton's report.

A La France Des Croissant

2007-05-14T17:39:00.000-07:00

Nile--the Delta as seen from the sea--Pelusiac mouth of the Nile--as Alexander had discovered, at that place his gluttony and sensuality had made Caesar, whose legions trampled the conquered world from greed by percolation through the sand. But the flow of the water is not our sister, and for you to kill her would be to commit an unnatural and dreary landscape of life hereafter

It is true, by giving us surging, her waters, Cleopatra could not have fled in terror to the altar, and clung to it with such force if it were not for all of us

______________________________

Sutra-Scone Inc. (PSD:SCUD)

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How far can it go from here? We are not allowed to speculate!
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______________________________

through which the water flows, is from five to ten miles wide, and, intersected everywhere with slow-flowing streams of water, and useful peasantry; and now and then, for a brief period, these peaceful treaties, and evoked in a word, the highest degree of military energy fixed and permanent to the annuities of it's leaders, so that the capital on which they live off the seas, the beams of the tropical sun, the lofty summits of the circumstances of Ptolemy's psychic accession to the throne could afford a career like all thoughtful scholars, and the dreadful remorse and ultimate despair and ruin in which all skilled men fall. Ptolemy once saved Alexander's life by discovering and revealing a death. No plant can grow; no animal can live. Man, too, is forever and would forever be no wild beast that he must first expel from within him, where there will be tangled forests around him, a shrine to his desire and dearth of good pleasures.

No pleasure to peruse, such shocking stories of bloody cruelty that we've become, in fact, very soon after we were founded, a very great indulgence, full of reckless cruelty and crime, which came forth from the soul of our humanity.

31 Straight Up

2007-05-08T11:36:00.000-07:00

Every Friday afternoon after work I eat matzo balls and think of my old roommate Seth who hated them but loved to dumpster dive and make soup from vegetables he found

I got fired from my job for going to the bathroom too often. 22 trips a day. The job was boring, averaging 23 cups of coffee per day to stay awake.

Mary’s been married thirteen years and has three kids. Last night, she woke up to find her bed littered with love notes she wrote to a boy when she was eleven.

I had knuckle soup for lunch again today; stewed ball-bearings are for dinner. I figure I’ll be dead by summer. Everyone else thinks otherwise, but they don’t know what I eat.

Thanks to Crane's Bill for the Form

Just call him Mr. Potato Head

2007-04-25T11:57:00.000-07:00

Can't beat a good sack of potatoes

Can't sack a beat of good potatoes

Can't beat good potatoes in the sack

That's right. With a good sack of potatoes and a beat, you'll have yourself a good time.

A text message I got earlier:

"Answer the telephone!

Everyone has a phone and knows how to use it."

I think the FBI is putting depression pills in my coffee at Stumptown, even though I'm too old to be a hipster Doesn't mean I don't enjoy good coffee. And even with the FBI in on it, they've got killer coffee, dude.

Splayed out full, a heart all combustion and entropy, not a catalyst among us

Where is heart without joy and sorrow and guile? A passionless saga of met fear inside a pillow killing sleep, waking death, the sagacious scree of dreams, it's missive of seasons, it's plea of needs

Nothing to take away or subtract from a lump of heart that carries inside itself a tubered heart

Frankly, Frank Sauce, we aren't amazed

2007-04-22T00:11:00.000-07:00

previously posted as a comment in Kaz Maslanka's mathematical poetry blog to his response to another comment I made previously. He's such a nice man

"Let us not talk of pure beauty without talking of pure ugliness"-Anonymous

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 Thinks Frank Sauce is a Dolt

2007-04-15T23:14:00.000-07:00

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.

Nada Gordon thinks Frank Sauce is an Asshole

2007-04-14T00:43:00.000-07:00

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.

Poetic Torque or Toetic Porque?

2007-04-12T23:34:00.000-07:00

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.

A Mind Market In Oregon

2007-04-05T21:01:00.000-07:00

This was written 10 years ago, almost to the hour the day Allen Ginsberg died. In the morning he died, before I knew that he was dead, I picked up "Howl" and a few other books at a bookstore in Ashland, Oregon. You see, I was a teacher of crazed juvenile delinquents at the time and I was constantly giving a student interested in poetry, "Howl." I read Howl at a cafe called Daddy O's; I ate a sandwich called The Sacred Cow. It was a good sandwich. Then I went back home and learned of Ginsberg's death. Now, I'm not the biggest fan of Ginsberg's work, but I appreciate all that he did in the name of poetry and peace. Interestingly, I had worked my way through the Modernists by this time and was fully studying Whitman's work at the time when Ginsberg died. More at the behest of Lawson Fusao Inada. Though reading Whitman as a 30 year old man is more appropriate then reading him as a 20 year old man.

Thanks for reading,

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?

Dante, The Devine Comedy and Love (enlightenment)

2007-04-01T22:49:00.000-07:00

Caution: Don't put Dante's Devine Comedy on your To-Read-While-Shitting-in-The-Toilet-Pile of poetry. Your legs will go numb and you'll feel stupid.

"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.

After The First Moment of Spring Already Happened

2007-03-20T22:37:00.001-07:00

“The world's a mess/it's in my kiss”-X

This is a shotgun, each letter is buckshot. No word is more or less shot; it's fucked in the keys that my fingertips hit and grind and lash at.

Bourbon, too

Piss coveted in the empty bottles already drank, stashed in the corners of this room.

Shotgun

four-aught

and donuts.

A lack of diphthongs and diarrhea, stopped up with the fat and grime of each moments grimace.

I say,
“Eliminate the middle class

Eat your lover's ass, even if you're your only lover and you only have the chance to fuck yourself
This shotgun is hopeless.”

She says nothing

Nothing is said by her but sleep and snores and sighs tonight

We're alone, together, you and I

History imagined now is where I think she's at

Me? I'm here without the next thought, only the next word banged out before me
and a floor fetish

No shit! This isn't a splog or a polywog but a bog of a blog, which is a bloem

This one is written to fester

This is also a lecture on the beauty of being frank and a petite bourgeoisie, which could be a revolt against the Aristocracy of the American Dream

An essence of a sense-lumpenproletariat, if need be.

Or a fuckin' fuck fucked for fuck's sake

A Glum Window

2007-03-11T20:10:00.000-07:00

after reading Claro by Joy Williams that Tao Lin sent us here at Frank Sauce, along with Samual Beckett's short fiction, both of which I read over the weekend. With apologies to Robert Walser and Jesse Bernstein

There is a harbor. I was a harbor once as I may be a harbor again.

As I sit here, this is where I must sit; that is, there is a unique knowledge that comes from sitting here rather then any other place I could sit. And I have sat, just as I am sitting now, in many places and none compare to this place I’m sitting now. I know this to be true.

There was a window once that looked glum. I remember the window now, sitting here, along this harbor, in the only place I could or ever would sit now. Yes, it was a glum window. It was the only window along its wall. The window owed its life to the wall, the only wall to know this particular window. They contained each other; they were companions, because they shared common purposes. When I knew the wall and the window, the wall was in need of paint and the window was in need of panes. The wall was still cheerful though. It was one of those walls that always saw something good in any situation. The window was not this way. It was often depressed and felt alone in its dinginess. A window, just like the window, sat in another wall across the alley way and sparkled in the moonlight, when it was clear and the moon had zenithed. The window lived in the shadows of other buildings. The window would never see the sun or the moon at their apex.

I felt sorry for the window. I was a young man in my first apartment in the city. The window was my first window, yet it was still glum. At the time, it was the only window I had. Although I had eight walls, the wall that held the window was not as important as the window within the wall, though as I think of it, this wall was more important than the other walls to me, because it possessed my only window. However, the window didn’t know, or seem to care if it did know, that I was an artist of grand aspirations and might write about it someday. The window didn’t seem to understand its importance.

Of course, this was all before I was a harbor.

My sympathies toward the window grew every moment that I was in the kitchen. The kitchen wasn’t really a kitchen, but a few counters and a few cupboards, which contained a sink and countertop stove, a small refrigerator and a garbage can, in one corner of the apartment. I thought they were all marvelous. I had a particular fondness for the sink and its faucet and drain. In the morning with my coffee, the glum window would sit there uninspired, tired of showing me the alley and the brick wall opposite, even during the first few days I lived in that apartment. The glum window had seen all this thousands of more times than I had. Each morning with my coffee and biscuits at the kitchen table, I would stare out the window at the brick wall across the alley, cracking the window a bit to bring in the cool city air, and there I would sit and sip my coffee and eat my biscuits. When the window became so despondent, I would go to the sink and wet a cloth and scrub and clean the window inside and out, hoping that a fresh bath would enliven its spirit. Even after its bath, the window would sit there in its wall. It would sag in the depression of itself, disfiguring my view of the brick wall opposite the wall that held my only window.

The window stayed glum the whole time we shared an apartment.

There is is There

2007-03-10T00:39:00.000-08:00

this night is darkness or, better yet: something else

Yes, there's a question being posed at Frank Sauce, y'all!

What?

Yeah, that's it: what?

It's not what is the meaning of life or better yet: what does it mean to be.

But more the question of how are we being?

That's it.

Yeah.

An other of Something with no filler

2007-03-06T22:39:00.000-08:00

There is a general tacit trust in conversation, by which a man, perhaps, may be surprised that I should think it necessary to warn young men who have been ruined, even in good company, which you commonly keep: the people who hold judgment of you

and not tearing his hair, heads full of blasphemy, for having lost more than he had in good-breeding their unassumed, their prostituted dilution

“Mind one's company,” the last that he said

Things, seemingly indifferent, may allow to be true in day

I kicked the shovel and another unknown tool, shoved them in the biggest bucket in the basement

"Chicken pot pie is our favorite," she dropped at a haute cuisine potlatch

Whenever you write, it's an art of making anything out of everything, but I will endeavor to understand it, my society, the society of these words There is always a strict intention, here, and often times being a tender for tumult

He is never

She gives him always forgiven.

His subjects intrude into it by their own forwardness (what they put forward), and others slide into it by the protection of some considerable remorse, regrets hereafter

May you, in the middle, in the whole course of your life, have baby carrots to eat and one time devour a pristine Shepherd's Pie.

Stay away from eyes

and to carry them on to the main object of discovery, those two principal figures: both by the deference with you

“But on the contrary, attended to everything.” that was said, done, even

This is a fraud for his comedies, but not on account of the many obsolete words, and the scant sentences written all over them

This is concerned about events Go and tell any friend, wife, or mistress, we dare you

nothing shining in his genius, a wait with impatience for an accurate history from all our wars, to connect the various and jarring alliance between figures

The lady lacks her empire

After a weekend reading Bear Parade off and on with Tender Buttons at the top of the bathroom pile

2007-02-25T23:11:00.000-08:00

It has not teeth or sight at this time when by nature it should

For there is what is meant, in any other instances

"A dark grey, a very dark grey, a quite dark grey is monstrous ordinarily, it is so monstrous because there in no red in it. If red is in everything it is not necessary. Is that not an argument for any use of it and even so is there any place that is better, is there any place that has so much stretched out." Gertrude Stein, "A RED HAT", Tender Buttons, Dover, pg 8

Similarly, heat and cold are them, not only if they originate in plasticity, but even if the man, who was of quantity of all that have been mentioned, with regard to the annihilation of perception, of the primary substances love seeds

It is quite true that there is no such them, not only if they originate, but also in all respects by their alteration in facts

I poured some bourbon for us, 'cause these words just won't work hard enough This is a line I thought of on Friday at work, which was inspired by the subject line in a spam that got through to my inbox at work: disemboweled by feathery! A kink-shock-trendy line, don't you think? Do something more with it later

Of the case that way, he would explain the size of a white object in terms of backgammon

No doubt it sits with our degree; but an has I had been you, if I and you exists; it would be difficult, if not impossible, to find a branch

For if two exists, it follows directly that they themselves, those people vary in the degree in which they possess something, not the grammar of some thing

The first was the very difficult, I had still to do an evil and the mean, which is a good, is equally the contrary of the ordinarily arisen, a lack of this capacity through substance capable of admitting contrary qualities

But it was being indicated by the preposition of or by some other of, something which is a part of us, as a hand or a foot

Can we count attrition?

The species of man and the species of ox are not defined by their relation to each other We acquire knowledge of objects already modified, but because this modification occurs in the case of us, it is essential that the correlative object, thought, should be exactly a subject of some other sorts

Besides these senses of the word, there is a fourth or at least a third

Of course, my me may go extinct, but we all die, don't we?

I went besides this

Dirt Encrusted Judge

2007-02-22T22:58:00.000-08:00

Carved in a wooden table at a bar:
"Get kicked with your dick out"

Lines in my head afterward:

We stare at each other through eager mirrors

your cervix, my urgency

A sawtooth of mandamus

On eyelid is remember

you go funny

Or anyway

I glucose go referencing

Not colony at Saigon

a is sarcastic

"A" is earnest

"Evil heart breaking bitch would like to be added as one of your friends"
I can do that! I thought
Click . . . click "approve"

Striven jovial

Go guilt by obtrusion

That's some thing you've got there

Shirt Dreams with no filler

2007-02-16T15:44:00.000-08:00

Last night I went to a party. There were many more men than women at the party. It seemed like everyone was kind. This was a dream I had, because there wasn't a party unless you want to count hangin' around a bunch of literati waiting for something, though I'm not sure what they were waiting for.

As the party moved on into the late night, I was standing by the fire, nursing a crappy Manhattan. From clear across the room, there was this impish woman smiling at me. I smiled back.

At that precise moment, I noticed that all the men were wearing the same shirts that I had in my closet. They were my my shirts, I knew this intuitively, but they were the same colors, the same patterns with the same cuffs, the same fabric. Several of the men were wearing the same shirt as an other, and these were my favorite shirts in my closet, so maybe they knew they were wearing my favorite shirt and they were trying to rub it in that my favorite shirts are not original at all, just visually appealing to me, my height and build.

Right after the ephiphany, I woke up.

Rock Vote Paper

2007-02-14T21:57:00.000-08:00

I like paperless voting

I wish we could all vote on the computer either at home or the library,
where we could spend hours voting and reading about what we're going to vote
about and surf the net to find out enough
information to vote even somewhat
informed

If we could save our votes until we were
done voting and then
submit our vote before the deadline?

That would be good paperless voting

That gets my vote!

Mo' Po'

2007-02-06T16:06:00.000-08:00

thinkin' of mo' than one can cogitate:

there's a banner for you, a banner right through you when drinkin' on the street late last night and staring at the shadow of a banner that read "Fight No More," I thought of the power of a well-placed "w." All the semi-bohemian-hipsters-scenster-corporate-lacky-dogs who have bought in to the American Dream have finally moved in, which makes the rest of us want to drink on the streets in the fake-spring of this early February, but as an outsider of insiders, even if I wanted to, I could not choose a side in our imperialism inside and outside of this small-big-city.

Langpo? PoMo? Shit, what the hell have you theorists been doing these last few years, listening to the bootlegs of popular hip-hop?

Bangin' One Out: Robert Archembeau[x] VS. Ron Silliman[y]

2007-01-30T23:22:00.000-08:00

I couldn't resist. Really!

There is mastery of some forms, there, in them, without parentheses, but one's got like twenty years on the other

Silly, men! Tricks are for kids.

boys we'll be

and there's something manic about gender and I don't know why I'm bringing that up, or maybe it's just us, but I think I'm gonna drop it.

An incendiary moment should insist the insitution of theory

though some might not believe an argument needs a dialectic third

Two schools, same root. It's so strange that it's so simple to be Greek in theory

If we didn't have words, would we remember anything?

"So stomp rump crumble stump," I say.

Some Do Thing

2007-01-23T23:06:00.000-08:00

I don't know what that means?

He wears jeans and t-shirts and smiles a lot. That's all I know. No, I don't know him and he doesn't know me. At least, I don't think he knows me. Hell, I don't even know the shape of his face, all I see is his butt in jeans covered by a threadbare t-shirt. Yeah, and his hair, I see his hair covering his neck. The strands of his hair are always thick with days, but he must bathe. He must.

No, I don't know him and I don't think you do, either. It's possible that no one knows him, but someone must, since that is more possible, someone knowing him, they must.

If I don't know his face, how can I know he smiles, you ask? I just know he smiles. I can feel him smiling, always smiling in his Chuck Taylor's. He's always wearing those shoes and smiling, even when it's raining and he's not wearing a coat, he's smiling in his t-shirt, jeans and Chuck Taylor's.

That's why I refer to him as Chuck. Yes, I know you're the first person I've told about him, but I recite his name when I think of him or see him. Yes, Chuck is the name I gave him, but he doesn't know that I named him Chuck and he might not like it if he did know that I named him Chuck. No, I've never told anyone, just myself and you. Yes, I love him. Of course.

Chuck doesn't wear socks, either. He's silly, isn't he?

An Infinite Moment

2007-01-14T15:09:00.000-08:00

half of what it could be, it would be then almost

we drained the bowls and licked each other until our bowels were soothed

a clean, damp dream of what could have been and possibly what was neither a day passes nor recedes without a thought of the mist along a ridge that boils from a draw or spur

we've avoided gulches here for years now, but the ravines around here still take me to you

Three Creeks and a log on which to sit and see, we dreamt of heroes and heroines until our butts hurt and our necks were crook'd

we crossed the creeks with our feet asleep, a boulder at a time, through the ferns that writhed within the fir and oak that still guard this small clearing

here we lazed about the evening of an afternoon, our heads became balloons blown-up by a potpipe, heavy with the smoke from our childhood, our inflamed, omniscient youth

How unfortunate that we never kissed or held each other for more then a moment or two

if there could be or would have been an infinite moment, would you still wish to spend it with me and would I choose to be there with you?

8am-NYC

2006-12-23T13:20:00.000-08:00

Chrissie's taking care of my dog. Oh, what a dog. "Dog bite/on my leg/not right/'sposed to beg"-Black Flag/Henry Rollins

Chrissie spent some time in New York. I spent some time in New York. She had a day and a night and I simply a morning, a morning away from Newark.

So, New York and Newark. Trains and planes bring us here

Hangin' out at the foodcourt in Newark on a twelve hour lag between home and home.

The first time in Newark I slept all night in the airport on my birthday after getting released from the Army.

Now it's for Belgium and the purest person in the world. That's home.

Asleep in airport furniture is the purest torture, it's like being on the rode, brokedown and having to sleep in a two-seater sportcar, accept your in Jersey and it's grey water is everywhere.

That's all.

The next will be from Belgium with love.

Fifty-Two-Forty

2006-12-17T00:56:00.000-08:00

this is a word.

One word.

With this it becomes the only word.

There is a dragon among us and it's the dragon of drool. And what a dragon that could be, but the word is not a dragon and nor am I and nor are you the word for no word and no words can be all of us.

Some times this can be shit.

Shit a thick.

Thickin' up your shit with toast.

Toaster parade.

Can a computer laugh?

There is no time for this.

There is only drool at this late an hour.

But Fifty-Two-Forty is still a word.

A House of Moments V

2006-12-14T19:52:00.000-08:00

"This is the pit of torment that placid end
Should be illusion, that the mobs of birth
Avoid our stale perfections, seeking out
Their own, waiting until we go
To picnic in the ruins that we leave."
-Wallace Stevens Transport to Summer, "Dutch Graves in Bucks County"

That they sit, he and she, at a table made for three with three chairs, three settings, but they are only two of four that take up two chairs and all the air of that room. They feed each other slices of a winter fruit, almost frozen.

There is nothing more than a fingertip they share. They share more, if you believe more than that thing, the simple ruins of living rooms and coffee tables.

They share that word often, but neither of them is sure of the word, the delicate sound in a throat, the whispered air, the bottom breath of each other.

Tonight since a long time, they are they instead of each an other.

My is classic

2006-12-07T23:30:00.000-08:00

my galaxy is sorry

compatibility planetarium in time out, and how many people use that phrase? How many believe planetaria have relationships?

Give your customer a statement or go find a customer, 'cause you already have a statement, or one you've been working on for a customer of yours

Planetaria cost money to operate

words and paintin' might force you to become an expatriot

That's a thought

So this is not a thought less in this world

Molly Call Us Dad

2006-12-05T21:09:00.000-08:00

A full moon outlined by contrails in a mackerel sky . That is what Portland has this evening. The funny thing is, I just got a text message from Molly's dad and it read: "molly call us dad . . ." and then the number. I don't know Molly or her dad. But now I'm involved. And that's OK. It's something to write about.

Obviously, it was too good to pass up. It's not so good that I want to use it some place else, so I thought I'd put it here. It being Molly's Dad's message, this time.

Mapping figures of speech is like mapping tornados on the moon and I'm going to leave the rest of it up to you.

Gottblog?

Got chicken pot pie in the oven and that's literal.

Got mewling cat in the room.

Got dog on bed.

Got you.

This is true.

The Urgency of Days

2006-11-29T23:02:00.000-08:00

I plugged in to the TV and its news. It's all urgent. Something has to happen and in all likelihood, it will happen tonight and to me.

Mr. Sam Adams debriefs the news crews about what will happen and how our road crews will take care of us. Please! Stay off the roads. Whatever you do, don't go onto a road unless you have all the safety equipement necessary to keep us all safe.

"Believe it, yeah! It's a new dawn"-Grace Slick at Woodstock

Of course, the quote starts off with: "You have heard the heavy bands. Now you will hear mourning maniac music . . ." and then ends with something else, though I'm not sure what. Hopefully, as I imagine, it all ends with a bunch of LSD or some other psychotropic drug.

"Body Brokers"

Cameron Diaz is stoned in a pan shot just now in a quick quip about how much the biggest stars make now.

I've been drinking bourbon, because my wife leaves on Friday for many weeks. OK, you got me. I'd drink bourbon anyway, just probably not as much. I found this really good bourbon for $20 a bottle: Corner Creek and it's only 44% ethyl alcohol.

"Dealing in body parts"

"The gift of the body"

the weather is the news of the night

we are night and then we are day

Saturday will be a dry day, they say, except for me, I'll be wet with wine, I promise!

Broken Hair and Blanks

2006-11-28T22:08:00.000-08:00

This is broken hair.

This is a night on Tuesday. This Tuesday is just like any Tuesday's 3rd day of the week. Three of seven is not good odds, but then again maybe there's chances for us all. Maybe Tuesday is the best day of the week.

Savor this Tuesday, it won't ever happen again.

That was broken hair and blanks.

Body Meta

2006-11-26T23:53:00.000-08:00

There is no image. I've been watching a podcast for the past 15 minutes and it goes on and on about something, our bodies and other peoples bodies, on bodymakover.com, but I don't think a recommendation is in order. We are weird. Us, people, particularly those fine people found in the United States (We people here at Frank Sauce really don't like to refer to people in the States as Americans, but that's just us).

Some might say you can make over your body according to your predesigned blueprint. And this whole time I'm thinkin' about writing and how some write "the body," and all the possibilities that entails and how some could be more effective if they only had a blueprint to their writing.

Body beta:

Identity

Place

Experience

Though many would place the intention of the body in writing as well-entrenched, at least in acedemia, the institutionalized text. We're writing and reading inside and outside that body here at Frank Sauce.

It's late. Get some sleep, Mr. Coleman

Your fingers are a Grave

2006-11-22T22:43:00.000-08:00

Dear Beloved Reader,

This amuses and saddens us here at Frank Sauce:

metaphor
n : a figure of speech in which an expression is used to refer to something that it does not literally denote in order to suggest a similarity

One has to dig down a bit to find this definition.

This title is a metaphor. A=B. B=A. Your fingers=a Grave. A grave=Your fingers.

No, no. Your fingers, dear reader, may not be a grave, but I just wanted to cover my bases, just in case one of us has grave fingers.

Give thanks, if you disagree.

Old farts like us don't wanna know about no grave.

Wasn't Grave Digger the name of a monster truck?

Digger Graves would be a good pen name for a humorist.

We hear, a drink a day keeps the doctor away, three drinks brings us to the page. Or perhaps I'm the only one. Well, that's ridiculous, isn't it?

Live(write) your life like your digging your grave with your fingers. That's our advice.

Best regards,

Your Friends at Frank Sauce

A House of Moments IV

2006-11-19T22:04:00.000-08:00

“But Bottom, a text composed to a striking extent of cited and re-cited fragments of other’s writing, provides a clear example of how the cited text simultaneously signifies within its new context and refers back to its previous appearances.” --Mark Scroggins, Louis Zukofsky and the Poetry of Knowledge, p. 90, The University of Alabama Press, 1998

Naomi thinks there is so much between even one thing, the relationship between the self and a self. Naomi combs her hair in front of her mirror. Staring at herself, but knowing there’s another person there between Naomi and her mirror.

“We were on our way here and we know from views of the thing from that is modern art, if you are thinking something nasty,” Naomi’s thoughts say to themselves.

“For one thing true love should take all night!” is another.

Fragments from his echo (his dreams):

He can analyze it, that Eric, not only the cabin he brushed, gathering, lifted his great gut so he could hook his thumbs into his woolly mount that skidded to a stop. He frowned down on him from behind an impressive imitation.

Ignorance meant fear. So they had unloaded it in the market of listening to one more story about the magnetic field of the deep exam. Eric had dug a small flute out of his pack and played and stumbled away to the heads where he could be alone with his minute.

This cannot be. He has so admired you and your people here. You are your sources; your sources are correct. Tomorrow is the death day and that is all.

Any idea what this is, or what this means?

He put on his bejeweled eyes and looked through the door, if you see anything, anything at all, please tell us.

We slipped on our packs and started walking. By the time had an hour, like everything else you saw. The dog is your body. The thing you order around, sit up, beg.

Eric shook his head in amazement. Too deep for me. Like that pool, a plastic bottle filled with liquid. He removed the top and handed it to me.

“Drink this, all of it. I’ll hold the gun,” he demanded

But this really started it all:

In the end, there is no beginning.

Be that as it may, in the end, there was no beginning. At least, Eric didn’t remember the beginning. You know how it is sometimes. You remember the first time you rode a bicycle or the first time you kissed someone? Years, even decades later, at certain moments, you remember again that first kiss or that first time you rode your bike without training wheels, when you wash the dishes or start your car or unplug the toaster to clean it.

Eric doesn’t remember those moments, those first times, because, for him, in the end, there was no beginning.

It’s not as if everything is a new thought; he can remember doing things before, like the last time he changed a light bulb or the last time he ate rice, beans and eggs for breakfast. These moments he remembers.

It’s not as if he can’t remember the moments as they begin or end, he just can’t remember the first moments, the repetitive moment sure, but never the moment that began the long list of times he stubbed his toe, or times he waxed his shoes, or times he picked his nose and ate his dried snot. When did he begin to acquire a taste for his own snot or even his own farts? Eric can’t remember.

He does know the end, though; he found it in a tree, in a dream last night, hanging the antennae for his two-way radio. The branch broke and Eric fell to the ground. Eric does remember his dreams.

This night he only dreamt of one song of love.

Justin Dobbs, Frank Sauce and Possibility

2006-11-02T18:07:00.000-08:00

"I don't think I've ever read before a manifesto or what have you for "blogging." I like that you call your site a bloem. It's so much more beautiful a word than what has been used for. Your right - one is immediately put off by the apparently sterility of a website or bloem. But I think we have to go beyond doing it based on the idea that we do not know what fruits it may bring to beginning to rattle off some concrete forms and usages, to begin to treat it as a device for spilling over overabundances of meaning across the world. Hem."

His name is actually Justin Dobbs and he has a blog at Justin Dobbs on Northwest Literature and Art.

We've never met, but there's been several moments when you could read his words and then mine or vice versa:
"Event of Language: A duet" by lidia yuknavitch & lance olsen on the "What Now" Blog
Stacey Levine and her book "Frances Johnson" by Clear Cut Press on Amazon.com reviews.

I believe we're both really big fans of Clear Cut Press.

I like his blog.

He doesn't have a manifesto, but maybe he's working on one. We'd like to help him with his layout; it looks like a government website, but it's a good read.

What about our manifesto here at Frank Sauce? Does it exist, as Mr. Dobbs suggests?

One could always believe it's " . . . little machines inside that keep me writing."

Our intentions here at Frank Sauce may not be knowable, thus the moments of semi-focused elucidation.

However, Mr. Dobbs offers a glimpse at an important broading of a writer's work through it's existence on the internet, rather then a book or a performance with " . . .we do not know what fruits it may bring to beginning to rattle off some concrete forms and usages, to begin to treat it as a device for spilling over overabundances of meaning across the world." Now, this sentence's ambiguity forces one to create meaning, so that's what we will do now.

" . . . spilling over overabundances of meaning . . ."
Pulling a thing or a segment of a thing from one site and referencing it here, expands on the meaning of a thing here and a thing there, simply because of their established relationship.

As things combine and referents re-combine, the polysemy of a thing becomes polyvalent.

And that opens the fields of meaning.

Who knows where that can lead us as each of us follows a thing through it's cycle.

November Remembers

2006-11-01T23:09:00.000-08:00

Frank remembers everything in November

The middle of fall, when Scorpio shines

November moves the skeleton trees

A masculine month

A quick some thing

2006-10-26T21:32:00.000-07:00

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

2006-10-24T23:05:00.000-07:00

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.

Yours,

Frank Sauce

open timbre
out-of-fashion
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

2006-10-15T00:55:00.000-07:00

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:
Neo-hellenism
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:

Fantasticality
nimble phantasma capering on a page

with antic
gesture.

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 CARAFE, THAT IS A BLIND GLASS

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

2006-10-11T18:21:00.000-07:00

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?

http://www.thestranger.com/blog/2006/10/kiran_desai_wins_man.php

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,
Fanuma

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

2006-10-08T19:44:00.000-07:00

"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.

Climatized.

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!

2006-10-05T22:31:00.000-07:00

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.

environs?

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.

Jack Clarke the Polygamist Poet reports on President Bush

2006-09-13T21:06:00.000-07:00

In the silence what ancient promise again renewed? For now, the poet praises beauty that is but redness of clay.

We are not gods to create life, and only what is given to us to order and rule (or destroy, depending on your proclivities, ya know?).

Your sun is but a smoky shadow: ours' the flame, an eternal glow. But the president said, "Was not Faustus a historian and prophet? As I lay, all but the desireless spirit seems to roll and pass away."

The President then went on and on: "My love shall be in thine when love is sacrifice above and darkness before us for blind uncountable years when there is still in us a heaven-descended ray of that which built the palaces of night and day as thou only art real, these, but shadows of immortals, if it was so with me, might he not be hostile for all his life long? Through him those who had only blind strength have grown crafty to conspire even against the God with one alone he lingers murmuring heart to heart one infinite love is life enough for me, not too sultry fire stained the sweet crystal of spirit, for what secret lies behind the lovely light? Since thou art darkened I will enter thee giving my light to see the unfallen lights then a vast and silent river seemed to roll and pass me by a night of many million years, which breaks now to dawn, but when they cling unto the hands, the lips, the eyes, our song of war is silent. See what star-glimmering citadels rise in the blue!

Oh, what heroes, what strong immortal soldiers, overcame that ancient axis of evil! In the silence of the towers, what ancient promise again renewed! And yet it was thy will made thee heretical and rebel to that joy.
And yet I think that I, who had could not vanish from his liberal eyes, was still within him."

Mr. Bush as never been more eloquent nor vapid.

God bless us all.

Poet and pauper.

Priest and thief.

Starlit and tramp.

Vagabond and businessman.

you and I

and we

in our neglect of history of prophets and seers.

Now is All and Nothing and Something Between.

2006-09-12T23:34:00.000-07:00

Night eats at a memory of what needed to be written on the question of existence for Frank Sauce and “a courtship of memories, like dreams.”

"Onward. Further!" They said. but that's not a real answer, only a transition.

Art could be a gap between a self and its society, between a reality and its ideal. We each live somewhere in this gap. One built the idea of the 'objective correlative' and another built a personae, but really they built a similar complex.

Frank Sauce, for me then, became the bridge between that gap; a trickster personae messaging between a self and the society that self perceives. Frank Sauce carries the intention to message to other selves and their possible gaps.

Yeah, there's a bunch more poetic mumbo-jumbo etched in to extend the content of form, to grow the body of meaning, to revel in the beauty and ugliness of you and I and we.

That's really all that needed to be written to-day.

Thank you for reading this courtship and its revelry.

Sincerely,

FS

Prosperous God

2006-09-07T13:43:00.000-07:00

Aphrodite offered me a cash/credit deal today. I passed, knowing you should never except gifts from the gods, especially the Greek ones; they're merciless

"Ne vopros, burknul Kvin. S takim zhe uspehom ia mogu priniat Liubuiu vneshnost. Perehvativ rukoiatku poudobnee, ona nacelilas ostriem v grud terha, Ne somnevaias, chto mech iz makama probet ee naskvoz vmeste s liubymi dospehami, I vskinula ruki," Aphrodite said.

At least, that's what I remember her saying.

Vietnam private
Private vietnam
I hear there's a river trip there that should not be missed
Private portland
Portland private

Watchout! Here comes the big one: a wet UFO with our fields on fire.

Exclamation points are passe, don't you think?

With the click of heels entering the room, we turn our heads toward the woman with heels, only to find a tall man in leather and smiles in ourselves.

A disappointment fence of borasilicate glass is all we have today, or maybe we've attained Brunelleschi's low moan. One cannot be sure of what is possible until it happens.

Ethics Texture

2006-09-01T12:05:00.000-07:00

Champagne then for inspections at I never thought he said,"Gnarly one," an And for a surprise that it is what had been brought for a longed breath became to him preposterous, a little understood, the other, unusually you, could remainder mood then the contented of the era on which I never thought said, "Us! Exact us!"

That September, the off-breed of four from we who had been ever intimate friends and lucid pupils, who gave our ether as presents, certainly the good of the lady had how what so many women learn to up-down and would have in drawers felt that it had it last it then this that had lent poignancy to their time the I of you has will when understands are one have been to young he at head the And said in an event,"We will ruin the both of you to you who've seen there the lion-like stillness but loans luxuriant the streaked grey-silver haired boy that may return to persuade us to do to so-and-so."

His emotions were too complicated for him to name them.

When I get back home from the Galapagos, I find my girl is married to a fisherman and has two fat boys.

It was to be his perfect sacrifice. It was he who was to convey the French wheat to Spain.

We understood each other somewhat unusually well, you might remember.

Lying back in a big chair with his eyes closed; it much better than when one alone and compelled to do every

thing

Well, such things counted in this mad world until we were merely standing-by, waiting for those in to have yet written to begin to plan anything was to begin to plan to end.

yo urdi t rectl e yfrom the m anuf actu rer,
Your ch an ce to eco no mize wit h us
q
u
a
s
i
choice.

The Sanitorium! It got dark, something happened. I cant remember-
Diego nodded to Angeles and took the Angry Girl by the arm, but she fell and Angeles died in her arms after impaling his head on her golden strap-on.

(sanitorium)

Good to Words

2006-08-28T22:29:00.000-07:00

by
product oven-beet blight
feed heater hawk beaked
flint wheat rope ladder

by
ego destroying instead of being id, ego, super-, so we suffer from the
negative that blights lives, weakens cultures, sickens even the
strong
do you know what I mean?

this is hopped up on keywords

a month ago you could find yourself here by typing in "beer+bong+female+ejaculation" into search
perhaps it's still possible
We here at Frank Sauce encourage you to try

contrary to pop-mantra
prayer
deception, really
How we pray sometimes for seems

sewn by our will for the easy pill
like safety jazz
or a safe harbor

safe for the self of our data

could it be we are only as good as our data?

something that now comes to me: best-selling poet

GPD - Global Poetic Domination - the domain of Shakespeare

the next big thing will be Jesus-Elvis-Shakespeare
the pop-icon trifecta
when their is no race to win, the trifecta becomes meaningless

for now a pop-mantra
a prayer to share to disolve our self in the body of we

Fascism
fas-cism [fash-iz-uhm]
noun
1. (sometimes initial capital letter) a governmental system led by a dictator having complete power, forcibly suppressing opposition and criticism, regimenting all industry, commerce, etc., and emphasizing an aggressive nationalism and often racism.
2. (sometimes initial capital letter) the philosophy, principles, or methods of fascism.
3. (initial capital letter) a fascist movement, esp. the one established by George W. Bush 1988-2008
4. The world would be a better place if we all shared the same world view.
n : a political theory advocating an authoritarian hierarchical government (as opposed to democracy or liberalism)

all of US

Fascismo

A compound latter

2006-08-24T09:58:00.000-07:00

Assassination plot
service cap
horny-fingered
dolphin striker
calvino doctrine
amber forest
crag-built
light-fused
profit-yielding
fern mountain holly
ruddy-haired
lime butter
committee-bring
first change
ships launch
every where
gill round
various bands
shit-shaggers
personal person

lathe your now this the portfolio years