I kept getting the building code wrong.

A mansion, an entrance way, columns (a la House Of Leaves).

I remember L. K. calling bullshit (actually he said "spurious") on Jack Spicer's last words reportedly being "my vocabulary did this to me/ your love will let you go on." His whole thing was that Jack was catatonic in the hospital, couldn't speak, couldn't move, that there was no way he could have been lucid enough to form those two sentences.

A couple weeks ago I was invited to a poet's birthday party at Specs in North Beach, I didn't know the poet whose birthday we were celebrating, I was invited by Angelos and Jack Hirschman. Hirschman told me that L. K. had moved back from Europe, he told me he's gotten skinny, I told Hirschman that L. K. had invited me to spend some time as a writer's resident at his girlfriend's barn in Switzerland, I couldn't afford the ticket to Europe.

Was reading Ron Silliman's essay My Vocabulary Did This To Me in ACTS #6 this morning. Ron argues that Spicer's last words were antithetical to his poetics, that it was never about "vocabulary" for Spicer, VOCABULARY was a R. Duncan thing. Vocabulary is furniture, merely furniture. And then Silliman returns to Spicer's last words, ties it all up in the end, I can't remember how, I was drinking sour Colombian coffee in bed.

Benjamin Hollander (ed. ACTS #6) and George Albon are reading at Bird And Beckett this Wednesday at 7pm, not to be missed.