HenRy MilLer is Dying

it was the death of deleuze 1995

the death of guattari, 1992

Henry Miller is dying, come to Paris, tomorrow.




Dying, dying, dying, dying in your crying, child. Dying in your Deleuze, dying in your guitar of a thousand plateaus, and Sartre was dying, Foucault was dead, Genet died in Paris, 86


dying a refuse to mourn to grieve your death


O Father O Stepfather O Mother




Jillwas dying for Deleuze was dying out the window with Spinoza the Baruch there to catch him in his nape of caught neck in the broken down step of their death,


Nietsche`s daughter was dying but the gods reinvented by the nymphs had their pleasure and the goddess gray-eyed cried out, yelped the.


Mist came over her .




And the pancreas failed , broken, squeak machin-e-
its


broken in its token andthe fire tore down the tall of Paris, out the right size highrise window




Dying in your crying


the digital voice rethundering the echo thudding across the playing field.s. And the was no poetry in that, that lyric strained rebacked inthe American voice, that is the simple seed of the complex phrenia of her loving, her bodies many one.






Deleuze is dying come to Paris.
Now, not tomorrow in the clickety day
mapped hands freckled with time`s disease
Something like this
And someone else`s body speaking

Cheeky like a sunset and the death went clown around the down gone sun, into the drink of his body big ship in his deathwright sail. So many others. Not named across their speeds of history, their rseeds a hysteria of mulk and mighty.


Henry Miller is dying come to Paris tomorrow

  Deleuze is  Dead  

The Hamlet Letters


Genet was dead, and nobody knew
Sartre was dying


Everybody was dying ...





Not So, said the Red King in his Communist flag and desire was a page on the numbers of cans, and toes, painted white as eyespots , or sports of naked bodies, their asses held high in that gleaming theatrical sky, the hands of dolphines wipin' them clean




And the logics of hatracks, harlots and desire-members was a printed page inthe sky




in the clan of hope the calendar of rainbows and the forgotten thought and the new female grass that waited on the Longfellow wind weir in the posture of a boot polished glanced off its death and its raiding sunset ripping down the boulevard as Mozart cries hair whirled in the wind




bordello of walking streets
broken word before broke promise
and the comma sits and stares by Emily's Chair


                                                                       And my Doctor was Deleuze was telling us all that
Our Father in immanence and in no cence

that makes six

That makes yes six of them boxes with blues in their bowls

words in their crowds through Fanny -- from behind in other
words -- came American and English litter from words
of the sure thing that is literature and my delay replay
relay of the momen't maximum toxin
Incredibilize --- what was that other word I was saying
on the street bodies cold bodies flowing cold
cold flowing and bodies between cold flow
And fly of flow and go
like Huzzah Hossanna Or Huzza buzza
Permutated letters places and speeds of meaning
god blowing int he wind it blew my mind my mind blew
my blew my blew it blew yes a letter writing a reading

So my lovers Mona Eurydice Sappho where are you

in the you in between the gendered strata of

desire and night as I speak the legal trait of our discoursee

which makes women see her place in the stepping ladder

of time's mean clock like our calibrated jewels and neclaces

O sunder of womb where woman wears and I close there today
to you today you there close today

Originally she said bowels, the bowels of the earth ~~ earth eater, in her thunder bowels. SOme like an Old testament prophet in my veins of her love.

and so Jill

Gorgeous

and then others||\\\\|||| you know what I mean, nodding her head. bending her back

_________________________________________________Before Jill was written tribal she was trial.


Gorgias was gorgeous she thought when he whirled through the
agora thinking to his selves. Whereis that word? Whereis that Parmenides
Where is that empty space from which the science-fiction of concepts is
derived?

Gorgias was like Bella Lugosi he was hooked on heroin.
and thank you thenotes written nowhere into outer space
assholes answer know the meaning of it

and so it was with Agathon
the fake

who Murdered Gilles Deleuze
and murdered Felix Guattari
and Paul Celan
like the others
O mother fuckers
et tant d'autres et tant d'autres

deboRder conTInUed track

** SO there will no place to lift the victim "after" the revolution.
No, that was Tzara from before and the many unconsciounesses of the
literary mind. Or other things which rattled the antioedipal flavour of
the body electric and the lip letter error. What shall I err? he said.
Nay there is no err
There is no
as it stutter mutters and memory plays the prank
so close to the edge of the waters of the phoneme
and other close calls
like near reading which is the eye upon its thinking text. Called
deferral of the gift.
So then Franny said to Guy: I cannot my love, I cannot I am reading too
much of the body of others. IN the madness which suffers so much so
long.

******** Il faut ... retourne...

Mona 24 2xTimes

Mona was a bird of flight. And Franny was too, before the night was
young. So the molecular paths were past past tenderness. Was the anxiety
of deferral greater than the anxiety of influence? was the strata the
bending then bedding of noun and preposition, or the verb of
proposition. God what deaths one found in the de-politicized.






Franny wrote to several narrative selves about Jill. Jill was the
lesbian double author of her own texts called Schizophrenia and
emphysema. Then Paul said I shall be: Some young boy tried to steal her
ideas.



Now for Spain Some Repetition and Differences



_______________
Mona wore new clothings one day. She had a shamble shack with all the
deleuze-o-guattarian accoutrements possible. She had a noun vase verb
possible, and an adverbial qualifier. Other things like night and
slippin' past the pediment pavement stone. With all the wrecks in St.
Denis, and the old shag hotels her father Genet had lived in, camped in,
slept in, jerked off in and wrote masterful books in. While dying of
cancer and other diseases. Oh but Jill new none of this was true
especially while wandering in the special homes and aums, the autistic
places of the dead. Like Ulysses and the siren, the nightingale's place
where ripped words chewed the weeds off thought.
Franny called her "one day" "suddenly" and "by chance". She said listen
I got a molecular revolution going here with my fifth plateau, and my
endless strata that have no home.

Was a strata a place or an endless judgement of god?
Was an anxiety of influence the denial of god?

Mona was Deleuze's fantasy of himself when he was her. Then
some - If I am many I contra-dict the word verb of noun praise and it
raises the hell of night.




Repetitions


Mona wore new clothings one day. She had a shamble shack with all the
deleuze-o-guattarian accoutrements possible. She had a noun vase verb
possible, and an adverbial qualifier. Other things like night and
slippin' past the pediment pavement stone. With all the wrecks in St.
Denis, and the old shag hotels her father Genet had lived in, camped in,
slept in, jerked off in and wrote masterful books in. While dying of
cancer and other diseases. Oh but Jill new none of this was true
especially while wandering in the special homes and aums, the autistic
places of the dead. Like Ulysses and the siren, the nightingale's place
where ripped words chewed the weeds off thought.
Franny called her "one day" "suddenly" and "by chance". She said listen
I got a molecular revolution going here with my fifth plateau, and my
endless strata that have no home.

Was a strata a place or an endless judgement of god?
Was an anxiety of influence the denial of god?

Mais ou sont

Mais ou sont les neiges d'antan?


But where are the friends of yesterday with their hatred, long jackets and songs. Across the plateau we shivered in our dogs and nights, our brogue trapped in our mouths, s's slivering along the contamin of our Irish tongue.


Sometime night was War and its yelling head, not the communication of vessels, not allegory or Jill but just a personae hidden tucked in the folds and jars of things.

Filled with the noise of this verse, and candelabra.


---


Verlainelefou calls this desiring-production paranoia. It is a method akin to the paranoid critical method, mistakes included


so then the dull sorts of names repeat themselves to Her. Her body, or her Face are gruelling. Her ass is a miracle of discontent that she wills and wiggles in room after room of dancers. She is a dancing bee, her mother is a willful be.

He is,no , He Orpheus is the dog of night. sleeping pills can do him no good. Proper oral speech reproduced in dialect on the page don't do him no good EEither. He is AlReaDy a Master.


--- Now Verlaine Le Fou or SomeOne lIke Him Was stealIng His Mail. Post Post Post Restante!
cause she JIlly had written a line sending it to the knave of the post. Shelley was his name, no really it was Tristram Shandy. Tristram Tristram where art thou? In my belly singing a song, I am the new Shakespeare. I have created a thousand characters lines of flight.
Jack KeroUAc's delire and line of fight and flight


I think of this -- Kerouac's delire in terms of the unconscious. Kerouac , the deeper he goes into his alcoholism and the paranoid reactionary investments of his unconscious , becomes less and less, and is rigid with flickers and flashes of the old self. He is less a becoming whatever, animal, insect, rock tree, stage, stone his becomings are stammered into wooden woeful self. Or self number one. The beat and his line. The further Keroauc goes into becoming a non-becoming, the more he is personally dogmatic, frightened, depressed, withdrawn, aloof. He becomes the hated other self of his fears. However his writing does not become less, but more or takes on the characteristic of the supple and fourth line of the four lines of flight GuattariDeleuze discuss in One THosuand Plateaus.
Interestingly Ginsberg becomes less racist more open less pro any nation - and against any war at all not just the Vietnam war -- any nation at all U.S. A., CHina, Britain, Israel - and he is certainly aware of the Palestinians - less religious Jewish and just as aware of the probelm of Christ Koran and Talmudic traditions. Witness his poem about Jawheh and Allah - he is a becomer he becomes more and more more pro world. At least in his work, but and this is not a new point, many find this honesty disarming, this strippingbare of the self, embarrassing, and even maudlin. And there is much of that in his work and there always was.

But as a writer it is Kerouac who really opens the lines of change and movement and flight. GInsberg becomes less a poetry machine -- now wait Said Mona, are you working this out as you go along, or do you mean this literally? _ she Said to Franny -- Franny replies wait let me finish I amnot Clifford Duffy and I got my work to do and got to write it down as it comes So then Back to Kerouac and company -- And so he is, GInsberg, a figure filled with his own ego-deflation-reflation, living the schizo contradiction. bEComing antisemitic is a form of paranoia for Kerouac who on other hand, does not become less of a writer, and even a great writer. Ginsberg's flight which began way back in Xalba days of his poesy, turns outto be the old man in grey the Wordsworth (to say hewas like Whitman would be obvious bt I dont think he was like the old gray poet but assumes this sort of Wordsworth persona, or at least the one of my imaginings) or less of his own milieu and time: I dont say this to slight either poet Mona Exclaims! of course not Franny U Love all Poets --, but actuallly find the whole thing hilarious. And were one to be honest, Id say the music of Wordsworth has sown more seeds, than Howl- Jill InteRRupts! how dAre U I Howl rach Nightly! I am the Howl of the Banshees and WoLoves ! Many Seeds oF DiSSemInaated Joy aND First Breath First THoughT Best ThoUght -- and Kaddish. (but what seeds of quatum does it matter -- both are proper names of intense energy and intensity of flight and fire) .
Orpheus says "But no one quotes Ginsberg better that Guattari and Deleuze in AntiOedipus." Franny goes on giving Orpheus the brush off: They isolate those astounding lines (From KaddiSh O Mother etc...), yet to be surpassed, and High Light the Beauty of theiR ParaNoia - the Line's paranoia. Because all great Poetry is Paranoid And Non Paranoid. But metanoiD and MetaNOia is perhapS a better SolUtion to what is and Must be a way of Life. The metanOiA being the big turn around the Repentence of the Poem . Big shot poets know this as they make a living spouting forth their Dreams. Because after all what are poets selling but an ideology called the Imaginary. I love all this and Kerouac was a great singer of his generation and O mon beau, what a Voice! A great singer of that generation - not greater than Allen or lesser , but different dharmas both lovers of a different path, difference routes, Allen his pal and wanna be lover 'for' gave gave him before what ever he needed in forgiving of his socalled sins, and slanders , racisms. AN the CathOlic Mystical BudDHiSm of Jack will always stand hiM in good SteaD
Jack KeroUAc's delire and line of fight and flight is the tangled skein (Pound Pound!) of his generation. No wonder they slewed the centuries with their love.

There's
also the problematic of Kerouac and Franny knew there was no problem where there was none, and knew when she was done, she was done.


------- Mona was cuttin' her paper looking for Orpheus who'd run off with the epistolary shoot of Eurydice





_________________

PsssssssssssssssssP

All Literature is Quantum and anyone who thinks otherwise is a fool.


It's a quantum in praise of the glory of God -- however you care to understand the idea

Jill meets GherASim LucAs the RumaInIAn Poet

So the palinode the demi-monde the St. Remi Road goes round and round your Ezra Pound, your CircLing Nietzsche and gyrating Nirbana not bananna Anna Banna Anna Freud merci beauco(u)p. And Felix said, Patients ought to be paid to do anaylsis and not



the other way around


Now she to me in her old fashioned portico, that is her pronoun that was bended knee



against her fort and love which moves the stars and other planets

'The first thing to be distributed on the body without organs ar races, cultures

So Jill saw with her EyES one AfterNoon iN her InteNSe Body withOut organs that 'love was the answer' and charity was the key . to the Teepee. Was not. When Guattari came along she was shooting along the coupure of virus and distributing alongthe Side of her body-without-organs.




So it went and she was near the end of her librarian a liberal generosity in her tether, a night of gold and leaf. Like her daughteR she was explaining the campaign of culture glided over the Oedipal formations and her machinic mutant self. Come along leman and dance with I. Nimrod and her castle, pestle of the mortar to the diamond size and her fissures were careful bends in the road

One day she met Gregorian Gregory Forget her name bind of paradox. She wanted a cholera to shield and shelf her child.

  One day and more she's climbing the ambrosial hill to heaven. A marriage menat for fortune and good graces.

 Along the time of things     ~.

 -----------------------------------------------Berth   ~ large and swaying in the hold . between

each breathing word, the stone creaks . Along the ridge of the combers black and blue. 

 And her hand held tightly the ridge.   Ranging its death gold.

   God  ~ .

Will No OTheR

Will no other Know yer name, Jilly, Mona and the seven dwarves, the seven dawns, the seventh seal her mysteries and pituatary glands all along the Harves the wharves of schizophrenia and your friend, her bodies , bodes a glance and down the servers of time and 'legory


Between the second synthesis and its connective rights, what shall it worry but blushing skins and skids to the end of rainbows, and fair weather wheels

by the ladder O compadre and Vallejo's hurt by the grand waters of canal she sat her playthings in the pen

but not close to the escape and its dirty drainpipers and worrysome fathers, their mothers without a son

ChoIR StaLL EnD PaNel

ChoiR StalL End PAnEl where OedIpus sat fat as the daylight on Saturn`s beard all her life plunged into a death gardeN of ISolalaltes EpiStemes to the death. cut yer Heart out the IsOlates of Language have DamA ged yer Craw BeYond ExPlanAtions of DeSire and Deity O little kafka that ya are.


OeDipus smoked himself to death oneday with daddy deleuze`s diary knowin` hagbags got caught away with murther. and mudlinks into theshame of bodies.



a repeaTing seasOn fo death and SmoKe. Jill clambered along the molecular pole and fell an ugliness tuMbling her down /// a fascist Naze was in her Face the feaces of desperate desiRe was not the sImilar to desperate to dance.


she read another SorTilage had a puff of winking astrological humdingers, held her tongue to the sky, twisted her little man, deeper to her succubus selves, the selvinga mist of degrees and not types.


OEDIpuS was Not close to OrphEus but she was Close EnuFf to Know He was More reliable than that bitch Eurydice and her run down fort, her crackled hammer



an intricate and elaboratelt carved repression Was her Made Up the divination of dictation and invaginatio. : So then OeDipUs in a body a patrilocal regIme was not the best solution for sliding breasts, treacherous students. and others.


OeDiPus continued. She sought her breath. Followed Mona around, skirts atilting.



He was

DeBoRd and VINcennes

Debord & Vincennes.

Franny always knew her shoes were tied too late. Too late for monads
and pleats, folds and drapes around her Baroque self. And that was Hume
was help, because before Bergson ran to the rescue there could be no
plate from which to launch the selves that she was. To launch unfurl and
discompose the selves in "one fell swoop" was the proverb of negativity
she chose. She was Hegel on days like that, bad days one might say when
the dialectic of snythetic reason became the polarity on which her self
worked, lived and died. Days like hegelianism's temptation to totalize
even leading to a rationalization of facisms and smug self-assuredness,
professorial positions, spurs to a contemporary orthodoxy
notwithstanding one found reason "falling" a part as in the centre which
could not hold and the blood filled tide of innocence subjected to all
nostalgia and malaise held blazes and moments of intenity on any
boyd-without-organs on a given day. Franny got the first call from
Debord when she was still quite healthy and ready to revolt creating
molecular fall-outs of all sorts. Molecular as the train which shouted
in her sleep the sleep of reaon and Kant's aesthetic sublime and the
processual fervor of movement, old recordings, theory and its balanced
counter-take pratice as the reflection and experiment of its
contemplation. SO it was she took a big breath and waited for her
friend. She was getting ready to go to work, where the psychotics were
all the rage, and the transversality of mini movements could be felt
vibrating throughout the building, the "batiment." SO when Debord first
called saying Listen you specualator of the new simulacrum and listen to
the sound of your sisters, your brothers, your genders, your sexes as
they speak the double -tonue schizo tongue of desire.
Then Franny knew she was a homo-sexual. SHe knew she was a disjuncted
synthezier and silence was her other[s] name. Like the many sex beings
she was. Against nothingness and tear, and being before property and
knowing full well that even stones were politics. That! was the
repetition of a difference! ANd what logic there was to that sense of
feeling in the paint dripping across the body of the woman he loved. And
she knew her name, her name was Felix.
Then Guy said: MAke the beachs rattle under the pavement of St. Denis.
What time is she wondered, as he caressed her female leg. So call the
time agains the city of telephones and sexes and shames you have no
desire to go to war against. While the pope prays for communisms and
unconsciousnesses to return. It was like jazz; sometimes she was Miles
Davis, the singer, the taxi-dancer at the dancings at the Folie Berger;
but she was not certain of the spelling. Oh those French words could be
so deceptive and receptive of oppression depression and the voices in
the recordings.
So then his-story was the story of the One lingual pun, and no matter
how much one writ one was trapped in the one. The one and the two and
the many additions it came to.
"So when" Guy called and said be my lover as we prowl the street.
Detourne as any gift.