Gene Frumkin to kin

gene frumkin to kin ~
wing at restore engo

En is Japanese for Fate... go is welll... gone wing on

From: halvard@EARTHLINK.NET
Subject: RIP Gene Frumkin (1928-2007)
Date: February 26, 2007 10:14:44 AM PST
To: WRYTING-L@LISTSERV.WVU.EDU

Escalator

The escalator
is a dangerous enemy
who could trip you
one step at a time.
This is how the mind works,
synthesizing dream with substance.
Or as Jung
alternates
with Freud.
The substitution
of ground for holiness
claims voice as a reason
for old tribes locating
the sun
as figures
in the act, at the window.

The future derives
from sleep, evolves into gods
and animals.
This is a process
that F. chilled into
vintage prose.
Jung warmed
to the blooded world,
not alone. The human collective
describes the enormity
of a single voice. How the
minotaur
poses like God
in his mystical cellar.

Yet F. too brings the good news
that deciphers time
in focus, traveled by a map,
as if one could say
there it is! now is as good
as anywhere.
Everything is abstract
in its origin almost
as if Plato
believed in the verity
of his good republic.

The escalator goes flat by
steps. It continues
as breath does:
two men in blue suits with vests.
The moving sidewalk is
no less.
It slows into watchword, and if F.
abhorred the occult,
Jung compared sexuality
in the psychic order
to a hidden grammar,
dogma on the harpsichord.

Organized
mystery, lens-defined
hyperbole.
A science rises from obsession,
shaped like the Golem of Prague,
but who remembers
his song?
Jung catches flies
instead of fish.
F. hangs his briefs
on the line.
The world is all
alone,
all there is
to imitate.
Time limps behind
the escalator, F. stands
with a stopwatch,
Jung with a camera.
Mind in slow motion, caught in breath.

--Gene Frumkin

fr. Freud by Other Means
[Albuquerque: La Alameda Press, 2002]




Hal

Halvard Johnson

Torn to bits and bytes, twice over. Damiens

It's clear here the script is different, and so the generated texts. What's different is the location and context of processing. The first while reading Michel Foucault's horrific account in Discipline and Punish riding the Joban Line in Tokyo, and the second sitting in the Cafe Deux Maggots in Paris. The message is essentially the sayme. No Pan intended. Just a little Pain... nee mots rumoured of neural synaptic frizzzle