The Sentence Level Below

The secondary syllogistic sentence is toward the paragraph; the reader’s attention is not primary syllogistic logic or measure. Sentence for argument, sentence of or increased torque, poly-syllogistic semi/ambiguity of syllogistic movement is limited; movement is following sentences when paragraph organizes movement of the paragraph as a whole, or the total work. The limiting of movement length is a unit which keeps at or very between the preceding and close to structure which altered the level of unity of quantity language, that is, control most often at the sentence level or below.

Elmo Acadork, Ph.D

Yuckie Yuppie

Hippie yuppie 
 yappie yippie 
flippy fluppy 
 flappy flippy 
tippy tuppy
 pappy pippy
fappy fuppie 
 dappy dippy 
puppy yuppie 
 nippy yippie 
pappy huppy 
 gabby gippie 
dippy yuppie 
 nappy yippie 
gappy guppy 
danky dickie 
crackie cruppy 
tacky tippy 
tappy tuppie 
hippy yippie 
gabby yuppie 
 nicky hippy 
yucky yuppie 
 yummy yippie
happy hippy 
 yuckie yuppie 
snappy hippy 
 grumpy yuppie 
flirty hippy
donkey dumpy 
 nappy yumpie 
crappy yuppie 
 iffy huffy 
  snappy yumpie 
jiffy gummy 
jammy gimmie 
flicky flaky 
flammy flunky 
money gummy 
 greedy  yuppie 
gimmie gamey 
 horny hippy 
jogging Ronnie 
 banky yumpy 
me-me more-more-
 money yuppie 
wasted wacko 
 earthy happy 
  hope-y hippy 
slicky tasty
 yucky Wang-y
  uppity yuppie 
wickedy robot 
 dullass monkey 
  jackass yuppie 
icky yuppie 
 happy hippy 
yippie yappy 
yuppie yippie 
yappy yuppie
yucky yuppie.

larry goodell / placitas, new mexico /from january 8th of 1985

thru the full-blown ego-farce of the 80's rolling like an ever dirtier snowball from Reagonoidia
i could only have some fun between spasms of growing hopelessness . . .

(note, as usual in my writing it's for reading aloud so any move from the margin
is a lift of voice . . . )

Bar None

Silva's Saloon in Bernalillo, New Mexico

(after this piece gets bubbling there's just about every bar I can remember

plus a bunch just out of the blue, back in my drinking days . . .

but Silva's Saloon in Bernalillo, New Mexico, has got to be

the greatest "museum bar" in the Southwest, bar none . . . )

Language poetry is the puttering pop-pot fiduciary fireless non-magnet.

Little Scotties fucking each other's gizzards North equals South equals a long way

Hump suck fuck. A dramatic mirror-image explosion of Jean Paul Sartre backwards,

an implosion of Jean Cocteau. We artists are common as puddle muddles

Mud puddles dried up is pottery á la langoiterage Silver Cue. Silver Dollar,

Fred's, Le Chenil Rouge, Casa Blanca, Silva's Saloon, and all the other

history of bars in Bernalillo. Actuality breeds contempt.

Absinthe fakes the hard on farther. Jack the Stripper. Casbah on

the Rio Grande. The Silver seduction in the Gold back room.

More than you bargained for, drunk, in the back of Frank & Phil's.

So many bars have come & gone so many bars have come & gone.

Dope shot up the curtains in the back room. Filling a block of four.

Filling the rental car up with unleaded before returning it at 7 AM.

American speech is an introduction to the trend of the world, which

reflects which reflects. I will create a bar. The Herbert Hoover Lounge, no

the Hoover Vacuum Cleaner Suck Off Spot, the Electrolux Excitement,

the Energetic Electric Indication, Silent Madness, The Magic Johnson Wax Museum,

the Hen's Come Back Bar, the Everything I Ever Wanted Bar, the Non-Bar Bar,

The Hedy Lamar Bar, the Office Bar, Smitty's, the Thunderbird, the

House of Ivy, the House of Malnutrition, the Answering Machine Bar,

The HIV Bar, Gino & Carlo's, El Rey, the Mineshaft, the Horseshoe,

the Green Lantern, Rulon's, the Trojan Horse, the Coyote Double-Yip,

Okies, El Monte's, the Mint, the Roundabout, the Skylark, Claude's,

the Raven, the Star-Buck Pleaser, the Blue Note, Birdland, the Haig,

the Violent Tributary, Peace Bar, Jack's, Rosa's Cantina, the Quarters,

Upside Downside, Max's Kansas City, Fat Chance, the Eclectic Vomitoria.

larry goodell / 7Nov91 / placitas, new mexico / from Fugitive ABC's, poems 1991

R O S W E L L

Roswell with the Plains rolling out into the Eyes

Eyes with the Plains rolling into the Bars

Bars where the Cattle cross into the Heart

Roswell where the Heart rolls out of the Bars

Bars with no Bars but Photographers arms

back from San Francisco talking of Pool

no Table no bars no way to find Home

Home from I am Roswell with the Veins in my Arms

Arms with the Plains rolling out of all Harm

Harm where you know it alive the Baby cries

Roswell with recorders & Plains with their Arms

to be one Born here St Mary's ordinary cross

Roswell with the Music He cleaned it up

Roswell with no name He never saw his town

Roswell never saw the town named from his name

Plains arms roll never knowing where they came from

Philanthropy an old thing naming from the Bars

no Bars only Home to some

trying to name an artist

who's really good at home in his voice

reading the names as they show up in the Plains

Home & Home again a name in the Bars

of Albuquerque Algodones Placitas home

Roswell with the name nobody calls it a home

Home it was & ever will be & be & be

Roswell with the name where

the flat ness rolls out

aflame in the ears to die

Roswell old home a poet born to hear what

he hears her sitting home away in the tears

he left here to come back a dozen years of solitude

a chronicle of Paradise in trees they left to die

Artesian Roswell making making

empty clothes lines

I give you Silk Stockings for Yr Empty Bars

I give you back Roswell with its empty Death Wish

I give you back what you brot me Lines with a Stick

a Bat out of Carlsbad a Bag of loose Cotton

a reaping raping raiding woman cursing with the Dry Plains

I give you a Letter the Letter Z

Z for Zones Z for Cattle Brands unknown

Z for my Home never found never wandering

A Ghost of the Lovely Host who ate his Solid Wafer

& blessed the Town to turn it back where its Hope was found once

when you let the newly found Artesian wells spill out their

Giant wealth to give it in again & take the People Hatred

Hiding in DeBremond Stadium where the Football games

pounded it in turn it in the Spring River come back

flowing flowing in all the ways of fuck again.

larry goodell

(written on envelope at Wendell Ott’s

Sunday, 7Apr74 in Roswell, New Mexico)

the invite for the opening of Greg Tucker's show

which included me reading this and other poems and Tom Guralnick, jazz artist, performing, August 1980, Albuquerque, New Mexico . . .

GREG TUCKER: "IT'S A RIOT"

this appeared in Artspace Magazine, late 1980, in conjunction with Greg Tucker's show of post-prison riot drawings . . . a remarkable show.

Greg Tucker's show at the Meridian dares to show what it's like to be a man, the myth that we all are afraid to face. All of us men. That opening out of hate and love, that is peculiarly masculine, because it is fierce, brutal, and escapes all risks.

It is a show of tattooed men, what you do with your body in prison when there's nothing else to do. Transferred, in simple, bold thrust of minimum color, on small squares of paper. You move from paper to paper, with these images on them. A Christ "Born to Lose," "Fix," "Arbol de Juzgar," etc. And then the images of the penitentiary riot, the messages of directed violence on the walls, kill this guy or that guy, cut off that guy's prick—a show of such manageable drawings, manageable because the drawings aren't that big and the terror diminishes as you walk away, and yet it's not terror. Some drawings are of masks, or bodies without heads, or just a scrawl like a cross-out, on the square of paper, or numbers through 9, backwards.

It is the rage of being independently male, in a body trapped in prison where the puberty rite of the tough edge you only show, comes bursting out. That puberty rite of the tough edge only showing, as you walk along or do anything, the boy-man learns in Junior High.

Greg Tucker shows these images of that pushed-out toughness, the lump-in-the-throat terror that we guys have to go through, either do or duck, shit or get off the pot, kill or die—or escape. The escape of the trapped, no matter what they were or who they were, they are, there, climbing the walls to get out.

For art to show this is remarkable—and remain art. It isn't art overridden by statement. I think it is Greg Tucker's sensibility of the pen riot, tattoos, graffiti caught in the process of his own drawing. And the energy continues from them as you look at them. It isn't the stupid knife-edge painless hurt of so many contemporary popular movies, that just make you hurt if you can do that anymore, but the small squares of drawings you enter like entering a cell, to see what goes on in that prisoner's mind or body. And more than that, it is an expression of what all men have to face, suffering all the while through it, a trap door on the way to manhood that can trap you and never let you out. If you get trapped, it's the rigamarole of proving your toughness round and round, egged on by "buddies" that it's okay, until you believe the game and play it till you kill or maim or get back at, as if that would end it, and it never does.

It's a rotten game that few women know, that is at the core of the independent male, who travels through it until some kinder register of what life can be, begins to settle in. These drawings are extremes of what is as common as the human male, a stage of his development, or trapped in itself, the horror of everything gone wrong and every act can only be the further extension of wrong, wrong into wrong, a mass wipe-out.

But it's only drawing, it's only writing. Drawing, writing on the wall.

—Larry Goodell
Greg Tucker, drawings. 1980
published in Artspace Magazine, Albuquerque, New Mexico

The Circumscribed Generation (or) Love Song for Gino, Ken, Kell, Ann, etc.

                                                            alive in the wail

                                                  tangents given

                                                                        FUCK YR CIRCLE

                  (circle back to me)

                   con FURSHUN fessin I buv oo

                                                                                    pookyppopookee

                                            STOPPER

                                                                        & HE CDNT

                                     STOPPER

                                 (plug out the wrench)

                                                WENCH

                        !

                                    oldfashioned syndrome of loneliness

                              a bugger up the ass

                                                            Old

                 fortune

                        card up the

                                                                                     HEARING AID  ?

                                                             LISTEN TO MY QUESTION

                                                BLATWORT

                                                                     No

                                     Re

                                                Sent

                        Ment

                                       Only

                                                             o lover o o o

                 MEASLES

                                             COO/COO

                                                               AHI-AHI

                                                (Clear Yr Throat

                                    Drambuie

                                                    Cough Up Yr Honey

                        & Git DRUNK

                                                                        hi?

                                                                        hi?

                                                                        hi?

   I'm a slow phase locked in eternal union

                                                diga me

                                                                           toot?

                        Tootsie Hardon.

                                                                        Direct me

                                                Old-Fashioned Master

                                                                      I

                                                                 shd

                                                                           upstage you all the time  ?

  I'm hummm

ble

                        HERBERT      STOP PICKING YR TEETH

                                                               Mother

                                                            I doit

                                                                                    have

                                                any teeth      youve

                                                               sucked

                                                            them

                                                                            all

                                                                                      off!

                                                                                              PEESQUEEZE! !!!!!

                                                  Yr

                                                            lost

                                                little girl.

                                                              I

                                                            period

                                                                         come

                                                                                    back

                                                   again

                                                   period

                                                                          WE

                                                        I say from the self-circumscribed circle

                                                         old bandit in Wolf drag

                                                                                   WE

                                 codger drunk-dodger lickety split tap dancer

                                                                     & herbert fondler

                                                                                                          SINS-INSURED

                                                                                                  WE

                                                                                                           dig me

                                                                                    hard

                                                                                                     WE

                                                                                                  COME

                                                                                                           BACK

                                                     (ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-)

                                                                                         WE

                                                                              (dusty fingertips)

                                                                                              WE

                                                                                       COME

                                                                                                   BACK

                                                                                  TO

                                                                                                          LIFE!!!!!!!!!!!!

larry goodell / placitas, new Mexico / 18 April 1968

Three, for Judy Grahn, Ann Quin, Drum Hadley

In the Chamber of the Goddess to Nowhere

In the chamber of the Goddess to Nowhere

I was taught 3 things:

Don’t underestimate your ability to breathe.

It is not necessary for men to stamp out the earth.

You don’t have to do everything you want to do.

But you already know these things, she said,

when you have nowhere else to go and nothing makes sense

you can always come to me, said the Goddess of Nowhere.

/larry goodell / placitas, nm


Queenland

Imagination is smarter than your god

goddesses of the goddess of god, my secret benefactress
heritage line of feminine soul, sole creator of the
energy of man
how embarrassing to admit it for the masculine race
the race to dominance won & then possibly lost.
A lost face in the process of rebuilding
until all are truly equal, man woman child
animal plant kingdom, queenland.

/larry goodell / placitas, nm

( Hope )

the above from NB 68

all from Foxhole Prayers, poems 2009 / larry goodell / placitas, new mexico
these are for Judy Grahn, Drum Hadley, Ann Quin, AND Gino Sky . . . . 

A Direct Hit Not Aiming

Today

crappola ticky pot.

Today

pray question where am I

shorted out electrode

trod on lightly

lightening cut in half

tone-deaf

no

toad happy

yea!

 throw it all in a pot

 & stir it up

 I am-m-m a meditate

 a medical no

 a Mediterranean 

 meditate tones

 over my head

 all of comedy falls to the floor

 today I mediate

 between the warring factions

 I am the warring factions

 but instead of warring

 I do my media trope 

 where am I when the sunlight comes

 where am I

 not in bed

 the answer to both questions

 is the same

  I am that self-same thing

  I am trying not to get into the lotus position

  forever

  prana

  I’m full of it

  it charges through me

  like thunder cut in two

  since my warring self

  jumped on my opposing self

  & devoured it

  half of me is all I have

  the half of a clap of thunder

  claps the half of a bolt of lightening

  and becomes it

  blends into half its former self.

   I’m drawn in.

   Sitting on a futon

   Western fashion.

   I am out.

   Never part of anything

   totally

   pravana

   is another way to say

   om

   oh my

   oh why

   oh me

   oh my

   pranava Donna

   don’t

   intone

   don’t

   do anything

   the donut with the hole

   taken out

   it was never the donut to start with

   it was the filled hole filled,

   the empty left over

    I was the center of nothing

    I’m a stupid American

    who never fit in

    I don’t even like donuts.

    I like holes better.

    Holes

    I don’t have to eat

    they eat me.

    What’s left of me.

    I can’t be Eastern

    because I’m Western

    and the two they say

    never meet,

    and besides

    I’m half.

    I want what’s over there

    on the other side of the not-fenced-in

    place.

     But I am always here

     adhering to it:

     this “here” place.

     A medical nation

     Mediterranean

     meditating

     on not being

     Mediterranean

     in a terrain

     unfamiliar

     as unfamiliar

     as here is

     I bring my

     kundalini out

     by pouncing on what I

     haven’t got

     I haven’t got a face

     prana

     pranava.

     The teeny half-ass force

     I administer.

      I’m bigger than shit

      the half of me left

      insists.

      I’m outside something that’s disgusting

      plus being what’s disgusting.

      I transcend it.

      So I’m centered on being diffused.

      And there’s only

      half of me all scattered out

      left.

      Which is enough

      since it’s all I need

      and all I ever was.

      I was never

      my whole imagined self

      anyway.

      I am the young thing

      ha ha ha ha.

       I am the force within

       unleashed

       ha ha ha ha.

       The world does not revolve around

       me

       ha ha ha ha,

       I am revolving around with the world.

       The world, earth

       revolves me

       the world, earth

       involves me

       takes me with it

       in a fit of continuance

       thrusts me, unknowing

       most of the time

       along.

       They say,

       those who read their books to me,

       those voices that read along in my head

       when I read

       all my life.

       Half of my life passes before me

       as if a dream.

        Steaming

        hot cakes.

        Ha ha ha ha.

        Tonight

        a media trade off

        silence enters in

        what supposedly doesn’t exist

        gives quiet space

        to the entire history

        of football.

        Football conquers:

        I lost.

        I should have gone with the main force

        but I was too thin.

        They hit me and I fell down

        the last to arrive

        running around the football field.

        Or was I.

        Come to think of it

        I was never the last.

          I was always at least

          half there.

          I’m half the world

          this undying egotist in me

          my imagination

          stares

          back at me.

          that’s

          my real half self.

            Here I am having gone west

            in my family

            until I’m here.

            Done.

            Half baked.

            Turning outward

            I was going to say

            inward.

            Tonight

            I don’t fight it

            I massage my cramped lower legs

            and go back to bed

            learning to lift up

            from where I am

            without levitating

            which is disgusting anyway.

              I left up in the half of me

              which is all of me

              in my imagination

              anyway

              and go to bed

              ha ha ha ha

              go back to bed

              ha.

                  Hi prana

                  force that’s

                  chock full of it.

              Pranava

              om

              oh my.

              Ha ha ha ha

              ha ha ha ha

              tonight

              becomes tomorrow

              ha ha ha ha.

              Centered

              at heart half of it

              thunder claps lightning

              bolts thunder

              comes each one

              towards each other

              thunder

              lightning

              we could use some rain –

              without touching.

               They just

               bypass one another.

               The two halves of my imagination say

               which is half of me

               which is all of me

               left.

               The quality of the feeling lasts

               or the better half wins.

               The lightning just passes over

               the thunder

               this is my rain dance I can’t

               not being Indian

               do.

               I can’t do anything

               I’m just a stupid half-assed

               anglo

               angled toward voice.

               That’s not true

               my self-esteem

               steams over

               and says I conquer

               self-control

                I am

                self-control

                I fuse into one

                like a candle burning

                like nothing you’ve ever seen

                like a snow dance.

                I can dream can’t I?

                Cant.

                It.

                Chant by

                enhancing

                it.

                Snow

                blow

                cold

                meaning

                into

                close

                winter

                evening  .

                Moisture

                hangs down

                ready to drop.

                 Drip drop

                 the completed cliché says.

                 Snow drips into water

                 having first been rain.

                 Or was it mist.

                 I was mist.

                 Now look at me.

                 I’m human.

                 Half-human.

                 Watch out.

                 I might do it.

                 Don’t do it

                 my conscience says.

                 What is my conscience?

                 It’s my no-no self.

                 Outside my imagined self.

                 But my guardian angel

                 will protect me

                 ha ha ha ha.

                 Ha ha ha.

                 Throws me out of harm’s way

                 for another day.

                  Yes I do believe in you.

                  You who-who.

                  You who-who you.

                  You who, half who-who

                  are me.

                  My true half me

                  I am happy more or less

                  to be.

                  Or not to

                  bungle it up.

                  Bundle up

                  it’s winter.

                  And go to bed.

                  Get you out of my head.

                  There is nothing in my head.

                  Some one Eastern tells me

                  to be.

                  I can never be without the real

                  self I am.

                  So there.

                  Tonight

                  I am lucky

                  to be a part

                  of myself.

                   I am now

                   thoroughly happy

                   I am a part

                   of myself.

                   Finally

                   I do belong

                   to something.

                   Finally

                   I am that something

                   that something

                   that is such an

                   important part

                   of myself.

                   They don’t ever

                   want me to talk about

                   anything that has to do

                   with me.

                   So I won’t

                   I’ll show you.

                   I’m all out of myself.

                   I threw myself up

                   in the air

                   and was last seen

                   nowhere.

                   I am not there.

                   I am not there

                         are you happy?

                   Ha ha.

                   Ha ha ha ha ha ha.

                   Let it

                   rain snow.

                   Precipitate.

                   Meditate.

                   I will learn to do it

                   tho it means

                   stretching half-way round the world.

                    Drip drop

                    I’m gone

                    into my want.

                    I want cold.

                    I want winter

                    I want snowpack on the mountain.

                    I want people to go away.

                    They won’t.

                    But it might

                     storm

                     and sing.

                      I sing the blues

                      for the truth.

                       Is truth still beauty

                       beauty aloof?

                        Is truth forever

                        aloof?

                          Or does it light down

                          a bird

                           those cranes I saw

                           flying in formation

                            so close over me

                            in the bosque cottonwood grove

                             of the river of my life,

                             dividing me

                              two & two.

                              No,

                               in two.

                                In two

                                I am

                                 part of one.

                                 In tuned.

                                  Attained.

                                  A peaceful

                                   rain.

                                   The birds I remember

                                    migrating late in a warm winter

                                    keep on going

                                     as truthful as truth is.

                                     The idea on my brain.

                                      Gone away

                                      to come again.

                                       May pleasure be peace

                                       and beauty in the truth that we

                                        come back again

                                        to where I am no me.

                                         Just what I know

                                         stares me in the face.

                                          The face I don’t see

                                          unless reflected.

                                           All I see now is

                                           uncorrected.

                                            I see what I do

                                            and will be me

                                             till I’m through.

                                             I will be me

                                              until I’m through.

           

larry goodell / placitas, new mexico /16dec

from Beyond TV, poems 1995

photograph by lenore goodell