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poems with accidence 

just another phase of material studies (august - October 2011) 

by les wade (1952 - ?) 

except where noted, all illustrations are by the author 

the author retains all moral rights over this work. 

press then release press 

this book is dedicated to camille janssen and Caroline goldstein 

i think my favorite word these days is "spooky" but only if you pronounce 
it "spuky." 

casual off-hand remark once made to rod smith 

inhabit us 

the remote writing 

who what 



that sidewalk stare, i glue 







tous ensemble! 

where i was reading a baltimore sun 

to burn with the rust 

to come back slow in the morning 

focus on the tensile strength 
of fire 

as all things are composed 
the oxygen buried in the page 
dreaming day in hard tech 

lunar in 

teaching us 
to talk 
ear onyx 
rogue molecules 
a flock of inches 
in front of the face 
or be guttural! 
a tangent 
a jump 
a fade 

stepping off 

from the fabric of the room 

a "live" ghost 

and dreaming day in hard tech— where the sound ends so suddenly in that 
ellipse that i stop speaking and jangling the lacuna and jumping to see the 
time out. the ghosts of the day is like saying "mere" or "reflection" 
dreaming being there, a symmetry on one side to deny atmosphere, and 
all the lists look black. 

when you turn and 
turn again. 

• • • 

black bile, white bile 

green bile, yellow bile 

oh i lose my humor in you. a blue house 

a big picture, the word "dimension" 

always sounds so possible 

and the sound i'm staging 

is always 

in another room 

brightness of plaster 
right next to the blank 
[ ] 

air. a place 

for a house, situated, a 
morning hiding out 

in the house, angling 
into it. and the dimension 
of dust so sparse, 
like a big picture, 

in unison with the wood. 

as the edge of the house 
is pushing through a window 

become visible 
become necessary 

imprisoned modern 
i would draw some lines here 
turning against themselves 
a perspective on sleep 
and the tendency 
to turn it all 
into a terrain 

the face become a landscape 

storms on monday 
jam on tuesday 
all seven of them 
but only one 

and the clanking sound 
it makes 

re-seguencing sleep 
all the way to ice 
horizon head 
uttering ants 
shouting evening 
amazement of glass 
and then suddenly, 
the one who is singing 

thin and eliding 

and the city we are building 

like a flock of inches 

in front of the face 

a film of departure 

the brightness of plaster 

the havoc that lands 

on the face 

controlled by light 

right next to the blank "there" 

opposite the light is 

like a picture is 

something that gets lost 

in the face of the living 

• • • 

oh to translate glass 

uttering ants 
shouting evening 
amazement of collapse 
f. m. r. 1. 


and how all the transparent directions 
start herding us toward the sea 
a bright appearance is 
glaring in the cracks 
a slice a 


gone slick and disrupting 

a day is when you wake up 
and go to sleep 

bursting a thunder 
like ironing a wrinkle 





shape of the light 

the tactics of travel 

it's so hot today 

i'm writing in large black 


shining like gold! 

with all the gloom to cross out 
and over 

the unavoidable edge 
sounding of a sea 
a bright appearance is 
in the day a maze 
made of glass 

summed up by the sea 

aqua as insert 

and the beach is too hot 

then it's not 

hot enough 

the magic of leaving 
and what we must do 
when we learn to speak 

• • • 

cactus, cow, cat, and coyote, (xxx) see? they are all in glock 'n' spieling, 
brightly pronouncing for 9 millimeters, which was before, and "four 

feathers fall," which could be a squawk! of enunciation, or a fraction away 
from saying "full fathom five, "so i guess it's more like a unit of 
measurement, like saying, "that's only a B4", but with the right emphasis, 
phatic functions, fat stability, de-riding the lips, this has already lost the 
flavor of an etude, scoop stamp plunge occupies my zero, you can see it 
flutter, that tall man standing in the gizmoid gitmo zone, so oblique the 
list when you're on the on side, (xxx and x, or say?) these airless rooms 
that were meant to make up for day. these late impressions just in, and 
why space will always disappear the moment your back is turned, like 
medicating modernity, but with a hole in the middle, four feathers fall, the 
fate of all tools, all play on the page, to live younger and look longer, this 
rhapsody on the least visible of forms. 

• • • 


bring back 

wreak havoc 

one who puts in motion 

the walls of dimension 

more than a hundred years 

the raw the unreconciled 

too melt to cover time 

an it faith 

the is 

the beginner 

• • • 

i think when i wrote this i was thinking about h.d., but only in an oblique 
way. actually, i was thinking about her picture on the cover of her selected 
poems, the way she's not really looking at you, but over your right 
shoulder, like there's something much more interesting going on 
somewhere behind you. denis roche always wanted his poetry to be the 
quickness of a photograph, i want my work to be a glance, to bounce off 
the surface, and change the trajectory. 

• • • 

o sham B OL L OCKS ! 

bring me that telephone 4m 

a flock of grids flying past the window 

the vacant hour when the clocks all crum hte 

wearing giant robot murderer suits so i just got singed 
the havoc that shoots the face 
7 photos of ouch cube 
black jolly revisi on 

tochniquos of cargo clutching: to turn it all into another barely 
supprossod moment of pterodactyl toon ending with a "ta-dafaft 

"tho sort of thing that a thing has besides being a thing" 

"aw, you fuckin' fuck, go fuck!" 

everyone in baltimore is a little bobble-headed baudelaire! 

• • • 

i'm avoiding X 

(which is always so scientific 
like "xenon" or "xerography") 


0 > 

or cactus and cantaloupes 
and a catalog for each dis- 
junction ending with -ible 
just defeating memory 

just by shining 
just because i said so 
so deep into the mesh 

of what i want 

you and the sea 

behind the plan 
i'm avoiding X 
(which is always 

oh, a space and a couple of hard returns 
the poem's resistance 
a little room 

where i will leave no trace 
and other ongoing projects 

• • • 

updating the homeric hymns, i am writing about dreaming about waking 
up, and then you actually wake up and you're still ringing, where there's 
always a wheel inside a wheel, the momentum of travel, the dark glass i 
loved as a child, the city of dark glass that has the word eclipse in it. what 
you were not meant to stare at. but, did you ? 

undine is drinking coffee, the system is so diffuse, "oh, my janitors!" shook 
waves, and how to get from here to pale cotton lines, and a dweller in 
lynn, claiming the threshold, and a push for luck, a tendency to misjudge 
distances, peeling off the sections like a shirt, "i'm out of here like a dirty 
shirt!" she said, but she really meant "off." well, that's me, the leninist of 

oh those yellow glitter person pills! i guess it's all a matter of orthography, 
when you're doing it old style, the signature of all things, but, kinda 
sloppy, so here i am, standing with a stupid book, entitled "how they live: 
filtered or squashed flat." am i stupid or what! please consider the 
symbolism of something violent, stupid, unpredictable, but above all, 
stupid, oh dim the noise hots! the already fantasized city of the future. 

returning from smoke, opening up until its unframed, the mode becomes 
the means, the steel in the enunciation, what you call an attribute, like 
you knowing me is just another road, the intricate aftermath, almost a 

where today 
"i say: flower!" 
in time or 

as day's 

as a color 

push against 
that color 
in the day 
i mean 
your "i" 
in color 
is what they 

become flat 
as shadow 
to trade your 
time for day 
and i can see 
so much 
that begins 

• • • 

there were parts of backstory where i imagined that i was phil whalen 
responding to some passages of waiter benjamin, but that's very classical, 
isn't it— to adopt a persona, think of greek tragedy where they spoke 
through a mask; to which, of course, you'll respond "Kitty, dear, let's 
pretend — "And here I wish I could tell you half the things Alice used to 
say, beginning with her favourite phrase "Let's pretend." She had had 
quite a long argument with her sister only the day before — all because 
Alice had begun with "Let's pretend we're kings and queens"; and her 
sister, who liked being very exact, had argued that they couldn't because 
there were only two of them. 

• • • 

geometry of nerves 
web of the sea 
assume a -scape here 
our ancestors died 
trying to reach the horizon 

the long march 
through the interstices 

these statements that include 
no one 

assume my voice here 

• • • 

remembered bling. the hard harmonics, the hard harmonics on the skin, 
we are at the point of anymore, the useless day-after, the programmatic 
clash, the hard skin to interrupt the room and stimulate absorption, the 
complete blip, wouldn't one more zero-sum game be a contradiction in 




in one big act 
to keep it 
from evacuating 

— my sunken living room 

or swan sschwiinnng! 
all splayed out 
to cover 3 or 4 aches 

they bend the bow 
and all liars 
go off 

on a tangent 

boiled movement in reduction (kicking repeatedly) 

• • • 

orbit or obit! 
plead empty 
plead primary 

MONTAGE 1952-? 

tabula rasas all over the kitchen table 

from the year i was born 

persons keep piling up 

like a list of counter-factuals 

tuna breath bare-bulbed awful 

off-yellow sheen 

i think i've been screwed, counterclockwise 

a big wheel keeps on turning — a history I don't want to hear 

how you can't play the record in reverse anymore 

or another word is revolve 



a can of sound 

the curve of the kitchen opening 
to scary red 

behind the landlord brown a-go-go and agog 

it's your poetry scratch 'n' sniff 

be inhaling now 

all agog and alimentary 

nasal infix of 

where to absorb 

hunting and gathering 

all through the house 

the subject is lost in the present moment 

oh orb it all 

and bare-bulbed 

(and i bit cherry) 

return and retreat 

reciting a list of expiration dates 

like a list of counter-factuals 

the sound that produces the thought 

flows through a soundtrack of twisting 

in back of whenever your back is turned 

blues under yellow 




wooden sounding 

iron brew 
to choke 

neon air speed flow 

in front of 

what we reach 




falling in 




knocked sideways 

by the simultaneous, joined by 

and then 
as if 
or etc. 

obvious music 

block-like / a polished 

gesture in what distance you will 

a boat traveling upstream, do you remember the hieroglyph for "appear"? 
no one is strong at night. 

"i don't know if there are specific places in the american landscape that 
make me want to write, at least, not one more than any other, maybe its 
movement through or even with the land/cityscape, though, when i was in 
my early twenties and living in California, i felt drawn toward the desert, 
now that was really an encounter with space, these days, for some reason, 
i seem to be fascinated with abandoned movie theaters, an end to the 
spectacle?" —the author in an email to debrah morkun. 

"Each epoch not only dreams the next, but also, in dreaming, strives 
toward the moment of waking. It bears its end in itself and unfolds it— as 
Hegel already saw— with ruse." reciting waiter benjamin while strolling 
through the newly constructed ruins downtown fails as a performance, 
over and over, archeology is pure accumulation. 

shredding noir, soundtracks make it inky, sunset wool, we whistle under 
clouds, and curtains, a busy sigh, a place to put machines, the need to 
disappear inside a building, a bounded interval, you have found the very 
word fogging up a window. 

deceptively thick, the surface, a very busy map. a film cover, and its 
conseguences. when the eyes are shut and in the air. stippled moment 

and angling into it, so sparse, the day was running its fingers down my 
face, an encyclopedia of dimension, the lunar rust, remote as sleep and 
expanding me to go. a pale renewal, whistling, we curve the linear marks. 

slippery sight, a sun story, strictly agile: a hand is turning a wheel, claire 
is stuck indoors, twisting and shouting, and cold calling, favor the 
thinking body, you have found the very word, we flicker in and out. all 
these petals, everyday is an adventure in physiognomy— the flattened see. 

errors in the light, oboe puffs and pulls, to uncover, like placing a name 
beside a lamp, a bee sting on my lips between the notes, the quality of 
flight on gold, and the waves are so generous! and the cold is still calling, 
black ice, white water, everything flows from this, rhythmically speaking. 

and suddenly salt, crowding chords, what they are shifting, an inflection, 
yobbing up and down, this london behavior, a rude wobble, waving my 
arms in the air, i will name them fisheye. lude rims! black bark! lawyers in 
love or squids on a plane, whatever we say reeks of the sea. your tough 
talc, or talk, your last moment of horizontal clarity among odd bits of 
glass, and you're leaving your house of thread! 

the face is the first outside, the artist himself is only poorly invisible. 

grilled to checkerboard, two steps forward, then... awesome to splattered, 
rubber rink around the inflexible politics of jaywalkers like me. "men and 
pigs will eat anything" your battle-cry 30 years ago when you were 
dividing up the decade into color-coded fun-zones and charging all the 
kids in the neighborhood for a peek at maggie thatcher's spatial 
deconcentrations, all that big hair! all those fern bars! omnia gallia est 
tres partes divisa, the landscape is always an obsession, the city is 
secretly a sea. and everyone's face just wants to speak volumes, i am 
waiting around the corner, thinking about rain. 

my soggy materials, stretching the street, or instructing a memory, a 
spectrum— slippery anecdote obbligato in start infarct to car sick route uh- 
oh! smoke of a syndrome, this side of the page is tired of lessons, and i'm 
all in red, and rudderless, spherical, the mirror of insomnia, a cartoon look 
with it's sha-boom! just sliding through a look, or using up an avenue, the 
last time we looked, hooked on sonic BOOMS and all that sophisticated 
boom-boom, oh, life could be a dream, walking on walls in the knife edge 
dawn, we know other places for the sounds of all these words. 

removing the index, cutting out the spaces between all the people passing 
me on the street to frame it on the 12th floor of the office building where 
my girlfriend used to work, our part in redefining an epoch, or, "yes, boss," 
"no boss." but of course, the whole time i'm thinking, "so this is the typical 
revalorization of dead labor dreamed up by the league of post-punk 
television executives instead of the dejeuner sur Vherbe i'm always hoping 
for. wait... what? 

large attention: abstract labor divides my idyll into funny looking squares, 
large attraction: the hours invade my swivel-head, time is the open secret 
here, the mere mention of grids, mylar and telstar give us the game of 
abstract smell, just walking down a one-way street— fear of bouncyness. 
spread it out prismatic, "there are so many failed ghosts in the american 

beyond reach, inter gap. enter the hours that swallow the day. a system 
for holding things in place or a measurement of interrupted flight, i still 
believe in the chance encounter. 

social architecture stares back from the machines of honey, their 
imploding depths, air for a window, it's the processes of air that spell 
horror vacui. it's the processes of air that always get me in trouble, inside 
it remains the same, a mustered dance of big fat pictures, this city is 
trying to be one big room. 

slipping on wet algonguin and calculating water, a list of possible moves, 
we need the clear "no" where all roads drag the sender all day. slow 
goings at the symphony corral, the thread is lost in the page of singing, all 
ropes drag the sender away. 

as soon as the idea of the panorama unfolds, the loom is spent, but the 
shapes of things just fall down with a bang, off round— the outsider, off 
center again, cursing what the gleaners command, the architects of the 
moment, as soon as the idea of the panorama unfolds in corresponding 
translated paper into felt marble wood frame slippery anecdote fade of 
voices in a decrescendo is a part of the story and the last look the last 
avenue and slow return like the end of a story about why we are so 
restless at evening. 

indicating a mood, shredding the scales: go where you're looking, the 
gesture leaves everything hollow, nerves of today spread the shaky lines, 
the gold mesh, the modern face, "shhhhhhhh!" what my girlfriend tells me 
when i look up from the poem, and the look enmeshed in one long 
explosion, wine and wind and the waves of wool, arriving darkly, the 
panoramic glimpse. 

the scenic stretch where my hand will not fit the room i am in in a city 
stretching past my head to the horizon, bright departure from film to air. 
and whatever shines in the space between them, always aiming for a 
parallel and thinking it over with 3 or 4 neighbors named everyone, and 
how this everyone is constantly milling around and talking in loud tones 
and being all metaphonic. well, love music, forget fasting! the door is 
open, the dreaming interior, the sudden corridors shift and turn, they 
push their glass, we are collecting their looks and trespassing a brittle 
house, putting them in a place of dust and drawing a conclusion, a 
restless order: the city is built of moveable parts. Venetian blinds, lined 
paper, illustrating the space between them, the modern user in his 
metropolis, his non-plan, what is thrown before us, 

what the face can rearrange, "my eyes just hurt my brain." nervous 
attributes, a picture and a text and a bushel and a peck and 3 or 4 
neighbors named everyone again, moving in parallel, how they are all 
around the corner, lurking and theatrical, or opening up into a mosaic, 
remembering detail, finding the main idea, like stumbling over a gap. they 
are pushing their house to dust, it's not the future of the streets, it's the 
spaces that spill from them, an arm of the sea. 

earth phrase lost stare talk of what writing so remote we remove the 
room so the ground truth can be delivered. 

• • • 

"a penny for the old guy." verbaled futures, commit a name, "verbal art," 
not reducible to a reason outside it's construction, but floating in the air, 
with the tone of flat and gray, an agitated name, what we used to see as 
the form of its final expression, or what turns day into DAY. you know, 
foam, and the rough imperfect, all on the same plane, floating, with the 
allusions to size and shape, what we can believe to be colliding, they 
differ only in the size and shape of the area they cover, the elusiveness in 
it. colliding, or not. or not even, in my humble opinion. 

my disbelief in movies, or rather, my disbelief can be seen in movies, night 
is seen holding a pendulum, but we can never see ourselves in a single 
shot, oh the bleak morning of a title, and something about flickr, 

then flap! the i is so peripheral, mobility is all. pastel vertigo, a delicate 
6/4 set-up. a perfect match when you enter the room, only when you 

forget to breathe, you move your right leg, and your left, and the sun is 
underwater, when you say "orange," it no longer signifies any one 
particular sensation, but it is (obviously) a limit, even in California, where 
they still remember to close the light and avoid the spaces in between, 
every moment has its own look, working out the day. the eye-strains of 
faint memory, a patch of smoke caught in a contraption, but it's probably 
just a luna moth, when you open the door, it's really a close-up of you 
saying the word "whoosh!" with no discernible irony, "whoosh!" 

the map of today is dripping down from the rims, the weight of all these 
grids imitating gravity, eagerly sending out feelers, what you call 
"envelope-licking." but i can only point out that the "opening into orange" 
should now be the revolt from it. autonomy will remove the quotation 
marks, but maybe we should have just let it just stay in the glass, right 
now, they still can't make up their mind between an ensemble of evening- 
in-atlantis or drowning-in-the-ocean-at-evening. 

the name as category, a narcotic that is used right at the edge of a lamp, a 
season of slow motion — what they want to fill up with their succulent 
green, walking in low, rising in thick, to blur the planet, our weak futures, 
the faces are extinguished in a broad class, the circular name covers 
them, or, the circularity of looking at a name, the whirring noise in the 
background of every moment, the mute stone sounds, a translation from 
silence, the nothingness that they say covers the sky like a poor metaphor, 
just as you were about to tell me that translation itself is the latin 
translation of the greek word metaphoros, to carry something across, to 
violate a boundary, but i'm looking at pockets and thinking, "there is no 
such thing as empty space." 

the act of naming like an active surface, things just get stuck, a short- 
circuit in the syntax that spills all over the surface, the moment of eclipse 
that swarms thru the epicycles, this big formica shout out. i know many 
brave books have been written about the violence done when you learned 
to color inside the lines, succulent green is feeble, but wax will cover the 
clockwork gallery. 

lecturing all over the planet, the future of what you are reading is found 
flickering in the window i just broke, or, why the biography of me as an 
evil genius suddenly ends when i became a poet, what does that tell you? 

technically ice. 

• • • 

planaria jello 

is for evolutionary ambiance 

just technicolor stupid 

and why motley should be a color at midnight and vibrafoam 
a sound 

a rusty predicate 

and why one of these things 

is always like 2 or 3 

other things 

and the is is 

just hanging in the air 

accidentally everywhere 
and after re-bop 
and after it rains 
after the image 

writing out the tower 

writing in the fire 

fluting extremities 

blowning a woofer 

ending canvas 

acclimatizing syntax 
i mean, ambiguity 5 
and seven 
your impress 
now surround 
in the brain bone 
lion pols 
sgueezing art 
snookie's raw 
and cooked 

room thing 
another everything 
the second book 

of simultaneity 

has yet to be written 

we are aiming for the broken middle 

nothing but torgue and 

electric start elation 

settings • edge • social • shape 
ascend to/what can/grow together 

mouse museum 

or mud montage 

diagonal to abstract 

there's no more of the reel 

to run through 

a glazed loop 

your hot ocean 

vs. my missed appointment 

at evening 

the pronouns are so heavy 
sound waves will push the frame 
a casual gesture— i'm hitting the light 
day is or you aren't 

just guess work 
under fun 
dead wreck 
in the real thing 
play my depth 
brown out 
and wake up 
uncertain is 
only a 

to push to 
an inclusion 

or another word is 

uh oh! think i'm using my outside voice again. 


i don't remember eating anything from 1972 to 1975, although one day, i 
astonished all the patrons at jay's mini-mart & liguor store in rubidoux, 
California when i bought a dusty three dollar bottle of french wine i found 
hidden behind boxes of rice-a-roni. this sentence is dedicated to alfred 

"Order and disorder... no longer oppose one another. Seen in the light of 
their real historical significance there is no contradiction between 
Constructivism and the "art of protest"; between the rationalization of 
building production and the subjectivism of abstract expressionism or the 
irony of pop art; between capitalist plan and urban chaos; between the 
ideology of planning and the "poetry of the object." 

"By this standard, the fate of capitalist society is not at all extraneous to 
architectural design. The ideology of design is just as essential to the 
integration of modern capitalism in all the structures and suprastructures 
of human existence, as is the illusion of being able to oppose that design 
with different instruments of a different type of designing, or of a radical 
type of "antidesign." 

Manfredo Tarfuri, Architecture and Utopia 
a mere antinomianism numbs the tongue. 

i spent all day yesterday reading the works of h.d. i really like the stuff 
she was writing in the 1930s, like "sigh" or the poem she wrote about 
calypso and odysseus, or that piece she wrote after seeing freud. i'm not 
certain how many of those were ever collected or published in book form 
during her lifetime, not certain why i'm telling you this either. 

"the selected poems of h.d.— this really indicates poverty, not 

Suzanne Roos 

"Quel menteur! Je sais gue vous pensiez a Quai des Brumes tout le 

Jean Gabin 

Speak in French when you can't think of the English for a thing 

the Red Queen 

fragment of an abandoned movie theater in houston, texas. see by patrick feller 

shapes of things before my eyes, /just teach me to despise/will time make 
men more wise?//here within my lonely frame/my eyes just hurt my 
brain/but will it seem the same? 

"shapes of things," the yardbirds 

following cedric price, we can think of the spaces of the city as a 
seguence of three eggs: hard-boiled, fried, and scrambled, in classical 
antiguity the city was a hard-boiled egg— the agora and city center was 
the yolk, surrounded by residential guarters as the albumen, and the 
whole thing encased by the city walls, once the industrial age arrived, and 
with it, an expanding population, the shell/wall was broken, and the city 
spilled outward in irregular patterns, like an egg frying in a pan. with the 
advent of modern systems of transportation and the circulation of people 
from city to suburb and back again, the whole thing has gotten scrambled, 
with the spaces of residence, work, and play simultaneously closer 
together, but each one further and further away, so what's next? the city 
as souffle, or a nice lokshen kugel maybe? see