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Ivan Arguelles - WHAT ARE PROBABLY MY MEMOIRS

Ivan Arguelles - WHAT ARE PROBABLY MY MEMOIRS

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Published by chalkeditions
Poetry by Ivan Arguelles
Poetry by Ivan Arguelles

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Published by: chalkeditions on Mar 26, 2010
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial

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05/23/2012

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 WHAT ARE PROBABLY MY MEMOIRSIvan Argüelleschalk editions2010
 
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 What Are Probably My MemoirsIvan Argüellestext: © copyright 2010 Ivan Argüelles
cover art: © copyright 2010 Jukka-Pekka Kervinencover design © copyright 2010 Peter Ganickhttp://chalkeditions.co.cccontact: Peter Ganick pganickz@gmail.com contact: Jukka-Pekka Kervinen jkervinen@gmx.com 
 
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 What Are Probably My Memoirs
(i) begin at end of old supposed to be , waters runningthrough thought and thread, a section , hyphenated,gives us the collusion between flesh and blankso much trying to sleep, so little left to wake,so I , nevertheless in old bookstore rummaging,is that mine? chunks of rhyme and throw them into the bay , listen carefully to kerouac readingor ginsberg’s “America” , what is it I am doingreading writing taking walks and thinking , no,“reflecting”, when I am not getting dizzy , or whenlove’s illusions everywhere, to get in touch with the various, women, let’s call them, teleportation ofthe tender and vivid , viscous ? portions of a mind doing itself in again, and again, if you will,the wedding last week, remembering my first time,such a mistake!Listen, dog-ear! that was thunder down and no inklingof the, a future in re- , annihilate the (your) selfall those attempts, nostalgia of a kind, the errantlatter day, a light, some light, married like “that”all crumpled in mid afternoon heat wave, drenched thesaga about, and the talmudic references to a book ofgenesis, instead of today counting from backwards theyears remaining those probably 20 or 30 left, and tothe right below the smudged print, a hoof ? a fictionrather than the definitive study of, ash pleat dividendsfrom a reading of pliny, lucretius to follow, then some,even as claire reforms her judaic community and the dean martin song wings into “volare”, eastern skies tremblingwith holocaust angst, down the stairs a baleful , a lessthan hopeful, we are in the ruins, a basement of classicalantiquity, anguish, dash entries and liquidated “frissonsd’amour” in an unlighted sky, dawn cracks the envelope ofliquor and barbiturates hoodoo downers and peyotl jargon,just as if the world from a rooftop were “real”! jazzomicron tilted in a felt cusp dancing cheek to cheek withdeath’s swarming girlfriend(s), darling “you send me”,darkened theater thoughts before psychiatric swirl fuzz membrane issues solo for recording device and greek verbforms, later on the gastroenterologist will have his say,as will the black (“negro”) photographer on his way todenmark,

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