02.25.11Dr Eduan Naude, Pretoria Rep South Africa

I've come accross the follwing reference: "Lectio Divina et Kabbalistica: The Overlapping Performative Hermeneutics of Christian Monasticism and Jewish PaRDeS. Andrés Amitai Wilson, University of Massachusetts, Amherst. Request: I take it for granted that you are the author - woulc you be so friendly and provide me with a copy? Regards, Eduan Naude.


Hey Andres,
I work with your wife, Asia. She had suggested to me that I contact you about potentially getting together with my band if you were to be interested. We're a funk/rock band called Orange Television. One of our guitarists just left and we are looking for someone else to replace him. Would you be interested or know anyone else that would be? You can hear some of our older stuff at myspace.com/otv

05.04.10Jared Clark

Are you the son of B.J. Snowden?


A bad faith morning

Awake, I listened to rain
outside my window.

I'm on an island in the Atlantic,
thinking about an island
in the Pacific--
about a girl
with lips, soft and pink
like cherry blossoms.

One wave of passion
moves through the world
as we float on oceans--
separated only by distance.

But between us are more
than miles.

Time is
the longest distance
between any two points.

I used to think
Penelope first sang
"I cover the water front"
while she waited
for Odysseus
on the shore of Ithaka.

And this morning
your memory calls me
like an Odysseus
to a longed-for shore
I'll never reach.

02.25.10C.J. Glass

Andres and Asia are so cool!

02.09.10Charles from Digitalverse

Because I've been missing your work, I thought I'd pass some of mine along:

"Looking down: another week in NYC"
N.B. Recently, I saw Patti Smith at B&N in Union Square and she told the following:

That her former roommate/lover Robert Mapplethorpe
worked at this high end art shop in mid town and came
across a one of a kind William Blake print (from "America a
Prophecy")--he steals it while on the job; gets paranoid and
fishes it out of his pants only to flush it down the toilet before
he leaves work.

"There are heights of the soul from which
even tragedy ceases to look tragic."--Nietzsche

As I dodged fierce umbrellas
in Monday rain and Thursday snow,
my second self looked down
from the Empire State Building
to see myself among only flowers.

He couldn't see
the homeless guy
asleep in the stairwell,
or hear the violins on the subway.

And when the city breathes
on cold days from sidewalk sewers
--where a Blake print floats,
thanks to Robert Mapplethorpe

(Fuck you Robert!!
Art belongs to those
who love it
not just those
who can afford it.),

I know I made the right choice
to be here: among umbrellas.

Sitting in Miraflores

"Lucky man, upon whose bed there blows
the soft bloom of a lovely girl
with gleaming hair, sweet with oil!"--Euripides

"In More's Utopia," you'd said,
"the flowers of vice grow
in the shade of privacy."

But in the imperial garden
of China's Forbidden City
beautiful peonies
open like the heart
of a nurse I once knew.

Her emotions
were like the origami
she once sent me:
beneath folds
of soul, hidden in places--
revealing themselves only
occasionally in her eyes,
a touch or sometimes in words
I didn't understand.

She stands with Mount Fuji
in an old photo
and all those private
emotions I only now see,
clearly--like that mountain
in the distance.

Oedipos goes on a date (the morning after)

While she was moving
on top of me,
I could see them
closing and opening
in rhythmic unison
like a chorus.

I meant to tell her
that her belly button
and the hole left
by the piercing above it
were a double-mouth oracle:

vaguely foretelling perhaps
of some ill-fated future.

But in that moment,
what did I care?

She certainly didn't
have the face
or the body
of a Greek tragedy.