D (eskryptions) (of an) I (maginary) U (nivercity)


                       II, I
                    vol 2, no 1
                     edition b


                during winter      detail
                regents of the fate of the imaginary

        ...These extrapolated futures are in the great western
        tradition of migration and despoilation that begun some
        time before 1000 BC. All of the fresh starts on earth,
        all of the fresh starts for humans, have been squandered.
        This is our advantage. We have lost our innocence. We are
        not Adam and Eve. THE IMAGINARY UNIVERCITY exists because
        those who matriculate produce it. The students write all
        of the books in its library, plan the syllabi of the
        courses. We examine ourselves, we confer our own certificates
        and degrees.

        Now those who educate themselves as posthumans begin to
        produce a nation. The course of study is difficult, the
        chances for graduation are nil. If you want to study and act,
        you will be welcome. OTHERWISE, PLEASE, STAY HOME AND
        WATCH MTV. You should know, however, that our Nation of
        Noise and Knowledge is at war with the United Nations and
        all of its members. You will be required to undertake
        dangerous missions. The stakes could not be higher.

                        --A student, IU, 1995
                        [from "Posthuman Nation / Knowledge and Noise"
                        _We Magazine 19 (diu 1-20)_, 1995.]

             "It is all very well to enjoy the infinite
        bliss of life after death, but it is preferable
                        not to have died at all."

Poetry comes into existence in the absence of poetry, where words
and language become the objects of a near infinite number
of experiments designed to animate a long since passed away corpse.
The experiments are interesting, but the corpse, however exquisite,
is not. Even the stink, which for some time intoxicated the half-dead
disciples of its cause, has become merely another of a countless number
of environemntal signs of our collective desperation. The most serious
of all work is the most comic, and the most comic the most tragic. The
laughter is no longer joyful, but sardonic. Indeed, the most outwardly
revolutionary of acts have become the most boring.

We learn to live on breath alone. We learn not only to lie
profoundly (as the disaffected poet said, and to ask ourselves,
knowing this, whether mendacity is the best policy), but to understand
that the key to the dissapperance of the world itself has itself,
with the world, dissappeared. The aura surrounding the false
joy of our recognition that we are all ghosts, has become
as repetitive (and thus boring) as the pseudu-political act of revealing
"the corpse" for what it really is. We learn not only to live,
but to live lacking death, so that the over aestheticized funeral
of poetry lacking poetry -- the stillborn child of politicized art --
can finally come to an end.

Life has never been more than life experimenting with life. Poetry, at best,
has ecstatically been both a lamentation and celebration of that fact.

                --the As-Of-Yet-Undescribed Student Body


        poems on the death of a goldfish;

        baseball metaphors;

        happy liberalism (remember Hubert Humphrey);

        epics of artificial intelligence;

        poems concerning chewing gum--the Juicy Fruit theme;

        iambic tetrameter quatrains;

        consumer advice;

        recipes for smothered pork chops;

        famous living poets such as John Ashbery;

        instructions on refurbishing antique chifforobes;

        Vachel Lindsayism-- boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, BOOM, and forth;

        good poems on electronic circuitry;

        references to Chester A. Arthur;

        rich people who'd pay to be mentioned in poems (i.e. serious patronage);

        ennobling language;

        poems about aliens who eats peoples' small intestines;

        lyrics that turn on delicate points of etiquette;

        heroic couplets;

        exposes (as one says in ascii) of the meat-packing industry;

        poems about how to use an arc welder;

        the pancreas theme;

        poems suitable to set for gospel quartets;

        poems about happy middle age;


        the theme of the foot, especially corns and ingrown toenails;

        fried food metaphors;

        images of water skiing;

        the family farm, milch kine, the Grange, and so forth;

        poems to be spoken by loose, flabby lips;

        scandalous revelations about famous academic poets of the 50's;

        poems about ice fishing;

        fancy words, like "peignoir" or "puissant," used for their meanings;


        poems about the new intelligent house appliances;

        any thing as funny as the Coasters' "Poison Ivy";

        poems on themes in higher mathematics;

        adequate poetic diction: "yonder," "finny tribe," "cyberhacksaw";

        rhythms suitable for square dancing;

        poems about aliens who write Tide commercials;

        mnemonic devices for the names of civil war generals;

        skillfully managed Skeltonics;

        poems that are really diesel engines;

        secret messages ("the walrus was Paul," etc.);

        pool halls;

        hollow men and hollow women;

        poets who take up the persona of the sage investment banker;

        an understanding of quantitative verse;

        poems about building or living in yurts;

        carnivorous poems;

        poems about aliens whose genetic code is encrypted on Pearl Jam records;

        poetry do-it-yourself kits;

        the Latin names of medicinal herbs;

        poems on the Vanity of Human Wishes.

                 WHO SAYS POETRY IS USED UP?

     I went to a poetry conference sometime in the 70's at which there was
one of those poetry readings that go on all night.  There were seven poems
on the death of gold fish-- two in tetrameter couplets, one in Skeltonics, one
which included three Latin names of medicinal herbs. I have really seen
nothing like it since.  In fact shortly thereafter it became unfashionable to
mention any thing at all.

     We once had a gold fish named bubbles, who lived much of the time on
our kitchen table, and she was mentioned in poems by at least three visiting
poets with whom I sat after dinner discussing Skeltonics and arc welding
and drinking coffee. In those days poets spoke of serious matters.

     Bubbles lived a long life for a gold fish, and when she was grievously
flushed, it was no longer considered fashionable to write on that theme, so I
wrote about my 1957 Studebaker Golden Hawk, thus, substituting the death
of my car, named after a mighty raptor, for Bubbles. It was a cunning

     Your assingment for next week is to write on the vanity of human wishes.
This is a theme even older and nobler than dying gold fish, which itself goes
back to the Sung dynasty.  If you think you are not ready to handle such
lofty material, you may attempt to remedy any of the lacks in recent poetry.

                --The Poetry Work Chop Advisor

The while seven other knots hold you.  The while you
nailed to your bed.
                  The while Trees in wet cement were branded.

The while, the while that you want to escape would die to escape.

Skrecic, it sounds the same in all the languages.

Skrecic, it sounds the same in the seven languages.

Skrecic, it sounds the same in the wet cement, the same
      burning in the fires.

                                *** Sk. (Polish) : contort,


                in my garden bleed to death
                snowball trees of madness
                from geometrical fountains
                thrushes of madness
                in my garden bleed to death
                from geometrical fountains
                from geometrical fountains
                bleed to death in my garden
                thrushes of madness
                in my garden bleed to death
                fountains of madness
                from geometrical snowball trees
                geometrical snowball trees
                in my garden bleed to death
                from fountains of madness
                from geometrical madness
                bleed to death in my garden
                thy snowball trees at fountains

                               --HCA trans. by M. Hegemony

        To The Bloodless Refugees Of Emptiness

                        "Through the suburbs sleepless people stagger,
                        as though just delivered from a shipwreck
                        of blood."
                                        -Garcia Lorca, The Dawn

   What now exists as palpable global destiny? What are its markers,
its sculpted crimson signs?

   The psychic atmosphere implies a return to troubled fiefdoms,
to monarchies trebeled by ferocious glints of bloody erosion. The
sun continues to burn, the tides swarm across their shores with their
sulphurs, while human continuity appears and disappears, like a
netling grimness of ghosts. What arises from this startling anti-
mass is the progressive neutering of the species. During this con-
tinuing dearth of higher foci even lightning is misconstrued as
mere electrical theatrics. World citizenry now progresses as an
artificial epitath, as a spotted hyena starving on kelp, in an
atmosphere of plight, hovering in balanced enigma. A spoiled voltage,
a principle lacking in cohesion, where horizons disintegrate,
where ideographs explode into darkness.

   Humanity, like generic refugees, profanely strewn across a
dome of exploded heliographs. The politicians crave for momentary
incisions, for influential poison, much like staggered antelopes
searching for sublime direction. For instance, a once dependant
compass, now a locust eaten crystal. The collective path, a roving
generation of hatchlings, devolving in sullen mental savannahs.
We've witnessed many centuries of emigres, of disruptive holocaust
phantoms. Now, all the fiestas and dieties somatically crippled,
maundering like leaves across sudden hurricane waters, with their
destinies entangled in a liminal brushfire pyroclastic.

   At present, the shadow of our phylum wafting through an un-
remitting mime osmotics. The linear goal, the abstracted referent,
now remains increasingly hidden in tumultuous occlusion. And what
is engendered by the latter, is the bloodless wake for uni-direc-
tional propoganda...

                        --WA [to be continued in DIU 22]

                Nubian Roots Playlist
                Sunday, January 29, 1995, 12-3pm
                90.1 KZSU Stanford
                DJ Cat

Abbey Lincoln           Afro-Blue               Abbey is Blue
Sun Ra                  Plutonium Nights        Angels & Demons at Play/
                                                Nubians of Plutonia
Ethnic Heritage         Ornette Coleman         Dance with the Ancestors
Fred Houn               A Blk Woman Speaks      Tomorrow is Now!
Johnny Dyani Quartet    Blues for Meyake        Angolian Cry
Bobby Hutcherson        Catta                   Dialogue
Michael Benita Quartet  Babel                   Soul
Eric Dolphy             Feathers                Out There
8 Bold Souls            A Little Encouragement  Ant Farm
8 Bold Souls            Half Life               Ant Farm
Reggie Workman          Close Encounter         Summit Conference
John Coltrane           Satellite               Coltrane's Sound
Di Meola/McLaughlin/    Frevo Rasgado           Friday Night in San Francisco
Kahil El' Zabar Ritual  Ornette                 Renaissance of the Resistance
Arthur Blythe           Faceless Woman          Blythe Spirit
Ran Blake               The Short Life of       The Short Life of Barbara Monk
                        Barbara Monk
Marilyn Crispell/       Old Thumper             Band on the Wall
Eddie Prevost           Dogbolter               Band on the Wall
                        Apart                   Band on the Wall
Don Pullen              Ode to Life             Random Thoughts
John Jang               Monk's Strut            Self Defense
Giuseppi Logan Quartet  Dance of Satan          Giuseppi Logan Quartet
Andrew Hill             Flight 19               Point of Departure
Steve Coleman           Shift on the Fly        Drop Kick

                available soon as a CD boxed set

                                                compiled by John Denver

                        & featuring

        Bernadette Mayer & Lee Ann Brown <-> The Judds
        Jed Rasula <-> Jimmy Buffet
        Steve Benson <-> Jim Nabors
        Ron Silliman & David Melnick <-> Roy Clark & Buck Owens
        Thad Ziolkowski <-> Lyle Lovett
        Charles Bernstein <-> Roger Miller
        Hannah Weiner <-> Minnie Pearl
        Johanna Drucker <-> Reba McEntire
        Marjorie Perloff <-> Alabama
        Diane Ward <-> Roseanne Cash
        Jean Day <-> Carlene Carter
        Don Byrd <-> Porter Waggoner
        Lyn Hejinian <-> Loretta Lynn
        Nick Piombino <-> Garth Brooks
        Carla Harryman & Barry Watten <-> Tammy Wynette & George Jones
        Clark Coolidge & Michael Palmer <-> Waylon & Willie
        Stephen Rodefer <-> Johnny Cash
        Alan Davies <-> k.d. laing
        Abby Child <-> Kinky Friedman
        Bruce Andrews <-> Charlie Pride
        David Bromige <-> Merle Haggard
        Robert Grenier <-> Boxcar Willie
        Kit Robinson <-> Hank Snow
        Tom Mandel <-> Conway Twitty
        P. Inman <-> Ernest Tubb
        Tina Darragh <-> Kitty Wells
        Bob Perelman <-> Johnny Paycheck
        Susan Howe <-> Hank Williams Sr.
        Rae Armantrout <-> Mac Davis
        Michael Davidson <-> Glen Campbell
        James Sherry <-> Barbara Mandrell
        Ray DiPalma <-> Jimmy Webb
        Joan Retallack <-> Red Sovine
        Jackson Mac Low <-> The Pioneers
        Tom Raworth <-> John Anderson
        Mark Wallace <-> Graham Parsons
        Andy Levy <-> George Strait
        Jessica Grim & Melanie Neilsen <-> Flatt & Scruggs
        Jeff Derksen <-> Jimmy Rodgers
        Jerry Rothenberg <-> Kenny Rogers
        Fanny Howe <-> Dolly Parton
        Alice Notley <-> Lefty Frizzell
        Keith & Rosmarie Waldrop <-> Jennifer Warnes & Leonard Cohen
        Benjamin Hollander <-> Freddie Fender
        Leslie Scalapino <-> David Lindley
        Peter Gizzi <-> Tennessee Ernie Ford
        Ben Friedlander <-> Slim Whitman
        Rod Smith <-> John Prine
        Douglas Messerli <-> Ray Stevens

     Rumour has it that in what may be an attempt to
flee the ruins, many members of the royalty (including
Prince Gizzi) are currently flocking to California in
what has (with some tongue in some cheek) been recently
dubbed "Project Restore Coast." While some of the
native inhabitants fear that such an infusion of "avant-garde"
sensibilities might not sit well in what has been called
"one of the most alarming mixes of flabby pseudo-sixties
idealism and crass mercantilism" ever witnessed, others
have stated quite bluntly their favorable position:

"Why not hire all of them and have the best poetics
program in the nation?"

     According to inside sources who spoke on condition
of anonymity, Top Cop Bob Perelman -- perhaps because of
his en-vogue role in the recent film "Postmodernism: The
Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism"-- is the front-runner for the
recently opened position at Lost Coast University. Some still
contend, however, that despite Perelman's acting experience,
the fresh young face of Supporting Actor Aaron Shurin
 because of his wide-market appeal and, as
one audience member put it, "ability to relate," is still in
strong contention.

     We've received no reports yet on the tryout performance
of Cecil Giscombe, though rumour says that his reading
went on, as scheduled, without incident, and that a good deal
of fine wine was consumed by all parties involved.

     We now await the arrival of Prince Gizzi.

     Let us not fall into the sea
     Til its best time...

                                --as of yet dis-integrated student body

 The Last Days of the White Race, Readlist
   10 Feb. 1995, Radio Free Northamerica

_The Collected Poems of Langston Hughes_ edited by
   Arnold Rampersad (Knopf 1994):

      "Songs to the Dark Virgin"


      "Goodby Christ"

      "Sunday Morning Prophecy"

      "Madame and the Minister"

      "Who But the Lord?"

      "Bible Belt"

      "Little Cats"

         That I were a flame,
         But one sharp, leaping flame
         To annihilate a body,
         Thou dark one"

         Life is love!
         Love is life only!
         Better to be human
         Than God -- and lonely"

         Christ Jesus Lord God Jehova
         Beat it on away from here now
         Make way for a new guy with no religion at all --
         A real guy named
         Marx Communist Lenin Peasant Stalin Worker ME --

         I said ME!"

        "Come into the church this morning
         Brothers and Sisters,
         And be saved --
         And give freely
         In the collection basket
         That I who am thy shepherd
         Might live"

        "He said, Sister
         Have you back-slid?
         I said, It felt good --
         If I did!"

        "No I do not understand
         Why God don't protect a man
         From police brutalities"

        "It would be too bad if Jesus
         Were to come back black.
         There are so many churches
         Where he could not pray
         In the U.S.A."

        "What happens to little cats?
         Some get drowned in a well,
         Some run over by a car --
         But none goes to hell"

         DIU circulates by the logic of snowflakes
                thru cf2785@albnyvms.bitnet