Library built she’s already in it, milk spilt she’s already cried and it, and in it. The dawn as come, but she’s already cracked it, the morning aborning in the budding and the scudding, a flock of running nylon passing around like a flock of multi-colored birds. 80 yay the way the sway a on the Quay would play a booth at the Sands over the Sands the shadow branch fielders jellyfish in the puddle sunlight gleamed grain of sand be CNB Sandee Gray Gray Couric grit!

A cosmic imperfection of intention seeking your attention through intervention and in conversation with invention we find perfection. The possibility of the instance of the instant, a monument of the moment, this specific of the infinite is all expressed in the point of the total toe of her boot. Or perhaps the espadrilles held together at the back by a single copper safety pin. But now so inevitably passed, so irrevocably gassed, gone from first to last, faded like the sun through your hair.

Order to find it at night, a light column, leading me from the trees to the hole by the pole, leading me to the beings that infest the upper air, the patterns of light that speak so ponderously and lead us either to infinity or to utter nonsense. If they exist within our imagination, isn’t that the same as saying they exist in some place of luminous rest beyond the skies? If a voice speaks to us can’t we say that it is us speaking as much as some disembodied entity which being disembodied is as easily a trickster as a god. It’s strange though, isn’t it, how the nonsensical words of the trickster almost inevitably after certain period of time begin to reflect our concerns, how the human mind seems to bend chaotic mutterings into meaning and debase meaning into meaningless rote.

But, fortunately we now have modern technology to add static to the already blunt instrument of language. As much as it helps us to communicate faster, broader, and less personally it also adds a level of chaotic, jumbled static to the crowded verbiage which infests all levels of personal expression. Already, more people write poetry than read it, and soon it seems to me that a precondition for anyone reading what you have written will be for you to read what they have written. Similarly, for them to pretend that they like what you’ve written, or that it has any worth, depends on you pretending to like and approve up what they have written.

It’s the same way that you’re not supposed to understand the contemporary work of art without a plaque on the wall. It’s not even a medium or a message, it’s just a commodity and not even a commodity to be sold as a commodity to advance the career of a so-called artist. It’s sad that in such an era of blossoming technological possibilities that the idea of content seems to have disappeared. No one seems to care that the words of the latest Justin Timberlake CD are banal and hackneyed, as long as the beats he’s purchased are acceptable. In a way the "Artist" himself serves merely as an attractive brand-name for the packaging and as a spokesman for the product. In the 21^st century the ideas that have infused romanticism like originality, profound meaning, authenticity and the genius of the individual creator had become obsolete.

The reasons for this are no doubt manifold, and at the present time not entirely clear to us, but what is clear is that serious art is as academic today as it was at any time in the 19^th century. The smothering baby boom generation has appropriated comfortable spaces for themselves in the universities and made a textbook of creativity and spontaneity. As the Situationists and the punk rockers proclaimed corporate culture has overwhelmed all resistance, save for the atavistic religious believers of the Middle East, and one lesson the thinking opposition has learned is not to throw one’s lot in with anti-humanists, even if they are the enemy of your enemy. The Internet and the third mind as presently constituted by the merger of human consciousness and that of the computer has, at the moment produced little but hucksterism and pornography.

This human consciousness is not so easily reduced, there are deep currents to it, and we have to believe that we will not return so easily to the millions of years that human beings lived without symbolic consciousness. You can rest assured that grave scientists such as Ubu will continue to work without renumeration, without recognition, and under the most difficult of circumstances in order to continue the project begun by the first artist caveman in the depths of the first dark cave canvas.

The preceding was written with the assistance of Dragon NaturallySpeaking voice-recognition software.

Your pal,

boo-boo boo-boo boo-boo UPU you be you UPU UPU boo-boo

Ubu