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your address should be a time–3:15 Experiment Poem

October 1, 2008

08—06—08 315 am

your address should
always be a time
my house growing up
was 318
the longest address
would be 1259
any longer than this
your address would be too late
any higher
boggles the brain
it is unnecessary
for us to go on & on
distance is not timeless
distance could be measured
by minutes
if you needed more
numbers you could
go into seconds
1259:22 for
example or 1259:59
not sure how many
addresses would be
impacted for this
greater good
Malibu for example
or Mulholland
the numbers on the
addresses are just
too long.

We don’t need to be
taxing people in this
way with long addresses
when they could use
their time and brain power
on other more
like sleep &

I have been transcribing my 3:15am poems from August 2008 to finish getting them up on the site. This is one of the stranger ones from this year.

7 Comments leave one →
  1. October 2, 2008 12:29 am

    That is strange. Houses are the self according to dreamlore. But that still makes it odd intriguing and original thought poem.

  2. Jason permalink
    October 2, 2008 2:23 am

    I once lived at 8:21. That was a.m. The early hours seemed like years.
    I later occupied an 11:03 (a.m. in Ojai time)
    Those were glory minutes!

    Now I’m at 7:72
    (I reckon an extended p.m. these days)
    Not only do I feel older now,
    but I often feel I’ve missed the train.

    I study now, looking for synchronicity.
    Spending Time to move time.

  3. October 2, 2008 2:39 am

    hey jason

    i like the idea of living at 7:72!

    do you know this book? i am thinking about tracking it down so i can read it

    Altazor by Vicente Huidobro

    “All languages are dead”: A startling statement for a poet to make about the tool of his trade. For Vicente Huidobro, language was dead. The book-length epic poem Altazor was written between 1919 and 1931, right as Humpty Dumpty fell off the wall with the devastation of World War I. The King’s Men were optimistically trying to put him together again; the poets, the artists, the scientists attempted to create something within the space left by the destruction. Art may have been corrupted by the propaganda of the war to end all wars, but this was a chance to make language anew. Poetry needed to be about execution, not just a “lady harp of beautiful images.”

    Altazor refuses to simply represent a distilled version of life. The modern age had arrived –- the age of radios, bridges, skyscrapers. The vehicle of this new age was the aeroplane. The unsung hero of this epic is Charles Lindbergh, who flew non-stop across the across the Atlantic Ocean in 1927 and proved that anything is possible. Thus our protagonist Altazor, the Anti-Poet, echoes his journey, only he flies away from the earth entirely, gaining speed, the rhythm of words cascading perpetually faster. In this emptiness of space, he has the liberty to “revive the language/ With raucous laughter/ With wagons of cackles/Witch circuit breakers in sentences.” When he reaches the Einsteinian boundary of language, his words turn from poetry to energy.

    In Altazor’s world, language acts. A “brutal painful grammar” massacres the old “internal concepts.” Words are not mere representations but the things themselves. There are words that have the “shades of trees,” words with “the atmosphere of stars,” words that “ignite,” words that “freeze the tongue.”

    What happened to the language? Why, asks the reader, did it die? Too many “stellar words” and “cherries of vagabond goodbyes.” Now, says Huidobro, we are “looking for something else.” Let us play the “simple sport of words” with pure words and nothing more, “no images awash with jewels.”

    Our hero Altazor flies further from the earth, further from Latin Homeric poetry tradition, closer to the pure pleasure of sound. Sentences romp and play, nouns masquerade as verbs, prepositional phrases hijack sentences, but the meaning and power behind the words remains constant:

    The waterfall tresses over the night
    While the night beds to rest
    With its moon that pillows the sky
    I iris the sleepy land
    That roads towards the horizon
    In the shade of a shipwrecking tree

    By interchanging associated words, Huidobro keeps the connotation behind the phrase while infusing new life into old themes.

    With Altazor, Vincente Huidobro releases poetry from the chains of nostalgia and sets “fire” to a “shivering language.” Translator Eliot Weinburger maintains Huidobro’s playful game of words, resulting in a forceful and timeless epic.

    Altazor by Vicente Huidobro, Eliot Weinberger (Translator)
    Wesleyan University Press
    ISBN: 0819566780
    196 pages

  4. October 2, 2008 2:41 am

    btw, Laura Felch wrote that article and it can be found at

  5. October 3, 2008 2:45 pm

    Love the way you got the numbers into the poem. I always put a number after my poem for example my latest created yesterday is 021008.

  6. October 3, 2008 3:00 pm

    wow–that’s very organized fo a poet! and then if you write more than one in a day (making you prolific poet as well as organized poet?) do you add a dash and a letter or a number? how do you handle revisions? i used to print and date them all. it was fun to see them evolve. now i just edit on the computer and rarely print or save my drafts.

  7. October 3, 2008 3:55 pm

    I love the dream logic of address as time. Irrational, but metaphoric, the annoyances of the dreamworld. And I wholeheartedly agree with the ending. Good stuff.

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