... Nothing fades. The affective faculties dance ...
(photograph found at the Golda Foundation)
"The unestablished and unrecognized GIANT poet and scholar is of course Lionel Ziprin - the Manhattan born grandson of a Jewish sage who has since became a sage himself in his own right.
"FIBA publisher GP SOLOMOS in his Publisher's note to this April 's issue!
Mr Ziprin is not an artist. He is 'a citizen of the republic' wishing 'to remain anonymous'. He is also the author of a substantial volume of texts, apparantly not ready for publication.
Some of his texts, like the one reproduced here, were made public though, raising all kinds of questions.
Whatever he is, Lionel Ziprin is definitely missing in the world of the Written Word, a universe rappidly being eaten by Google (cfr the graph near the end of this file).
If you do Google him, the only thing you’ll find of any substance is the text reproduced here, an extract from the 1971 ‘multi-media kit for schools and colleges’ Aspen issue no 9, edited by Angus MacLise and Hetty MacLise and luckily saved from total web oblivion by UBU web.
Apparently he's living now somewhere near his place of birth in New York, anonymously
” Go the way of process. There is no terminal.”, the text reads, and “A text-full, it hath a text-full of functions. / See it as it flies” . Well, that was almost enough for me to make him a Cathedral Resident, and so he is, from now on because reading the rest of it is an experience i want to share with you.
Try it, keep in mind where & what you are, this is 2005, you're probably at work, reading this article written by a slightly(?) wacko Flemish poet who claims he can somehow make computers run his very verse as code ...
by Lionel Ziprin
The diatomic numeral: phase three: I am amplified.
Establishment controls vision.
I am electro-biochemical today.
Curves make me.
Every third marksman is lost.
Do not penetrate internal change.
Recognize the fourth factor always.
I support an ecstatic environment.
Peril is between two structures and a third.
Disassociate: the bridge is clear.
Ten men mitigate against an eleventh.
He is bound by quantity.
For him points expand.
For him is vision.
He foresees an end.
His beast is politic.
He foresees a beginning.
Cortical efficiency bespeaks him.
And what if there are obvious avenues?
What if kings have learned to speak?
Has the Lord not learned?
The danger is not physical.
The mind is not its province.
He who was was a proud circle once.
He who gave gave too.
That is the method gained.
I do recognize the threat.
It is risen between two charities.
Princes pledge it.
it is a substance like mine.
it is the story of our undouble lives?
See but where the cat goes.
There where he goes Peril is.
I have known it for textureless eons.
A text-full, it hath a text-full of functions.
See it as it flies.
it has a square for safety.
But take you care you naive questioners you!
He who proclaims will proclaim flat.
The hand is temporary.
it signifies only a single lifetime.
it is damned: let it be damned.
There is no time for specie.
Golgotha was wrong.
There is one realm and then there is another.
What I establish I increase.
Go the way of process.
There is no terminal.
I return because I am entropic.
A hundred years — and there has been no equivalent!
Transfer the recognition then.
For the Lord, He produced a man.
But Devil the pana-cea.
A doctor obviously has two heads.
Today is an example.
I cannot relate one to the other though, because primarily I am a risk.
The perspicacious write me off.
And those who do not, those who don't — what of them?
Whose burden do they carry?
But do not miss the point.
I have suffered your influxes before.
I cannot say I like them.
I cannot say there will not be a time I will not want to pull out.
My partner and I don't change.
He heightens me.
That is the whole salacious story.
There is no introspection.
one rides the way one rides a fable.
The results however have been extremely variable.
But the body has been displaced.
And there are other more pertinent proportions, and because, because
when one dreams one uses the other end of the sensorium.
it is called victorious entry.
Be ye an extract then.
Be ye strange animals and brilliant flowerings.
All is animated.
Be ye strange animals and brilliant flowerings.
All is animated.
All is brief.
All is surging.
All is shining.
The affective faculties dance.
What has been forgotten has been made to reappear.
Dead is the colossus of apathy.
A child has abandoned him.
Lucidity as a consequence becomes notably shorter.
But like you I suffer lassitude.
Like you I am infected by herpes and erysipelas.
Thus are those typified by the increased measure of conversion.
The policy is enforceable.
It lands and has a following.
What is altered is the gas and the pressure of the gas.
It is here that we initiate investigation.
It is here that the maximum ceiling is put.
Free fall is terminated.
One abounds over an arc.
There is no continuation of hypothesis.
One has passed a vermillion corner.
One cannot deny inertia.
One has obviously moved toward the right,
The associations are all clear.
Praise a particular circuit,
it is longer by far than that number of years we ordinarily wait.
The Grail, she is of course a harlot.
Too many have drunk from her.
There is nothing inferior in the process by which a man rises and goes.
But wet the percolation then.
Bitters are applied.
Who seeks will find her.
She is translucent soapstone.
There are fine grown artisans who have carved her body.
They are precise and successful.
They play a decisive role in the manifestation of final costs.
Otherwise they are ordinary.
Ordinary and harsh.
With them it is as if everything had to be looked through an instrument.
Still there are arrows.
These fly over the great knots hanging erect over the sitting
And I am the scribe said the longest of these.
I will enter and depart.
For mine, mine, hey, is a loud voice.
You can hear me on my mother's gramophone.
The first words rise far behind consciousness.
They are commanded by inner winds.
Repeat them and they are volatized.
But now, now I no longer talk aloud.
My head is heavier and heavier.
A few more strokes and I am among the archetypes.
The habitat of the ear though is more extensive than that of the eye or mouth.
It has another order of seed.
She gave it birth near the Caspian Sea.
Rumphius though noted there was a difference.
He accepted three distinctions.
For he, that one, Rumphius, was a prodigious man.
He ate carbuncle and soap.
Now, however, I concede the purely botanical basis.
I no longer serve a lesser geometry.
The trees grown in Serbia were deployed mainly for gallows.
God cut them.
He sent them down rivers.
It was He who heard them reverberate.
They were His: all His fibers: He cultivated their persistence
It was He who fed their excess to the birds.
I saw it, as they say, with mine own hallowed eyes.
There was no argument in the illustration.
It was riveted at the genitals.
It was twelve and then a thirteenth foot in height.
That's how it began, as a structure, as a pendulous stigma of a single oily seed.
Who could make it?
Where could they go?
There was so much roughness already.
So much that was already uncharacteristic!
We would have to try it again.
To fail was to perish utterly.
To fail was to put an end to potency, to put an end to choice.
That we dared not do.
No, to that we dared not come by.
After all we had our own constituent in that-there country.
On our side also was certainty, certainty and the belief in small good things,
What more could we need?
We had gainsayed all that was visible.
There was no doubt whatever that the final flower fell from the sun.
Was it not the color of albumen?
Was it not designated female?
Didn't it have one closed and one open side?
Was it not androcentric?
Was it not dioecious?
Did it not fertilize like I fertilize ?
Wasn't it sessile and stemless?
Did I not admit pertinent investigation?
Plainly there are methods for alleviating fatigue, for making the long short, and soon?
Are there not?
You and I have indeed a compass for such trips.
is that not so?
Then why fashion distinct differences, as say, between you and I?
Can one be true and not the other?
Intoxication is the same.
There is only one well, one water.
One cannot deny those elements.
Besides there are other evidences, other indications, other proclivities.
You cannot test their ultimate satiation.
One lasts and one lasts not at all.
It isn't I though who maintain their antagonisms.
I am for an invariable man.
I covet social justice.
I believe that the metaphysics of India are corrupt.
More than one child of hers has perished in my arms.
They showed no anxiety as they went.
They were not afraid.
They would not suffer discount.
So go then elsewhere.
There is a more convenient house on another hill.
It is easy to handle.
All its shingles are colloquial, colloquial and dependent.
But Latin is the language of gossip.
In it I can speak and not speak.
In it I can write and not write.
It has a trademark.
It is known by the horse.
It repeats its dosage.
It moves by overwhelming impact over overwhelming impact.
See it in its psychosocial phase.
It drips beatitude.
It has a value and a norm.
It rides primarily via minor minor steps.
It suffers strange incorporations.
They move too, accordingly.
They are produced in an evolution of their own.
Chase them and they run.
Fund them and you die.
Such is their succulent organization.
They are a-genetic.
They turn like religions turn.
They are cumulative in outright tradition.
They are endowed with a second hand.
Launch them and you launch a queen.
For essentially it is a quasi-legal pattern all your purple eyes
The apparatus, it is the apparatus of the mind.
We can if we want though, prohibit the pattern.
Transvestites do it all the time.
You merely translate one mode of action.
That is the whole game.
There is no other.
Moses passed it on to the Elders.
It is from them I have it.
Of course new types evolve.
I have counted psilocybin in the rain.
There are informed contagions deep in Spain.
There though the largish minority are free.
Not subject to either your or my supervision.
That is the tone of it.
That and that.
For my sons are abstracted of both space and time.
it is the nature of sonship.
The very obverse is true of the father.
He is predictable whereas I am not.
Take then if you will a conditional journey.
The scabs have it.
They too have become part of the outer shell.
It is their operative psychosis.
In its depth they are specialists.
Spontaneous to the end.
I, for one, could forgo the symbiosis.
I have had my impressions of course.
Your preconceptions are my — those!
It's the old ambivalent landscape.
Go better where none has gone before you.
Where beasts slouch.
In it there is no reproach.
Nothing I hear matters.
Verbal annotations convey not a thing.
It has all been expostulated before.
Before I desired it another did.
That is the text, the grim text,
But there must, you say, be some acquaintance, some together-point
between man-plain and man-visionary.
Somewhere is union.
We are not after all intended to be consumed.
That is not common-you or common-I.
Common-you and common-I are combustibles.
if we leave flesh we burn.
We are not hallowed like some are.
Simple women cut holes in us.
Our tricks are gross.
We are still rooted in the absolutely necessary.
There is only so much we can make.
Only so much we can change,
I of course who do change and you of course who are changed are not
any longer than that.
We have forfeited our sides.
We have undreamt our perpendiculars.
We have been, so to speak, deconditioned.
We no longer refuse to be enslaved.
Vacuity is in our mouths.
We no more hold fast.
our ships are broken.
The ocean is dry for us.
The fish are dead for us.
We have become essentially what we are not, not any more.
So with all enlightenments.
They are disclosed and useful tools.
By them we enjoy an analytical knowledge.
And in such wise we come to passiveness.
There is our drain.
We have lived before us.
We have passed before us.
Tentatively the scales are even.
They are like in their exercise.
So do integrate it all.
Build a star.
I have the suitable stuff.
All of it.
it burns a man's palm.
it merits heaven.
For evolution, as the hog cries, is incomplete.
Consequently I am suspended between two major dominions, one of one
ball and one of two.
My attributions I derive from both.
There are seven ventricles in my head alone.
Omniscience demands it.
it goes the way men went hitherto.
Assign it to your God.
Such after all is the theory of your source.
But I. Lionel, refused.
I am not a cell in a supra-organism still on its growing way.
I do glory.
He who is He is my function.
In Him are my phenomena, my sweater and my coat.
He made me.
I was not grown between a lion and a bear.
Of its own kind — so me.
I am in the last of all generations.
After I died I began.
After death was abstracted!
So do not lie to me.
I know exactly where you go.
I have taken your size.
The count is mine.
So is the thumb-print.
Trust me therefore.
Neither you nor I have other choice.
That choice was a model of all indeed it was we had forgotten.
And done in a single stroke.
And spat out by the Lord, as it were.
I agreed I would give it to no one.
I was a behaviorist to the core.
None would suspect me.
This silenced the world.
I grew rich with wanting.
I became a fusion of tenses.
I could predicate forever.
If need be die forever.
But Christos and the Michna interfered.
They were the two wholly free variables in the plan.
They had in-puts totally their own.
Atomized, who could fight them?
They cast down every manifestation I reared.
It was the affectation of a final vengeance.
The story can be read in the literature of yoga.
Patanjali speaks it.
These powers are spreading, he says.
Total samadhi occurs in Jerusalem only.
Therefore stick the tongue out.
I am about to treat of restraint.
I have the highest authority as source.
Count my pennies just to see.
All my dreams are all outgoing.
Man is not merely a vessel.
Injure him and you injure me.
Submit to him — and I perish.
The terms are subjective.
You need only try.
You need only count my pennies again.
Here however is where surprise entered.
It withered me with its open regard.
With approximately thirty aphorisms it circled me.
I could not get out.
I was already twice and thrice produced.
It was indeed as if the time had come.
I became the specific organ of an act of genesis.
But for these I provided instantaneous abatements.
in the beginning, I said, was the great skull.
I can, I said, refer you to it.
It hath for thee a message, one and then another, and then another still.
He who confounds it confounds him.
Who goes inside goes on an inside track.
Do not cross it by shameless sunlight.
Be friend to plant and animal alike.
There is a crack through which these may be seen.
A cutter cut it.
Nonetheless I do admit there are such things as be developments, some
relatively superior to others.
These go aghast.
But why should one betray another?
If I am quick to fulfill it is because my father was quick too.
The topic after all can never be left to echelons.
It is no ambient myth.
it is no ambient herb.
it is not like them free of influence.
it has desire.
It expresses control.
Shake it and it shakes.
Spill it and it spills.
A guru cannot change it.
A savant cannot alter its bright teeth.
Though for the best, it remains always I suspect invisible to the larger eye.
And precisely because of this, I as I feel not compelled to perish.
I go as you do.
just see my alpine face to prove it.
See it and see my beard.
I am, sir, as alive as you are.
My fingers are all counted.
I can conceal as fast.
That we have like tricky distances, and like compatible graves, does not
shear, as it were, the summation.
That may be varied but the experience is not.
Its results are invariably equal.
As always it is the diving concatenation.
That it is private I will grudgingly allow.
That there is no unitive knowledge of anything but one's own gross
physiology I will allow too.
But what if the exact opposite were true?
What if one's body were indeed the last basis for factuation?
What if there were nothing?
What if inside were hollow?
What if the gods were dead and it was only to their inoperative memories that one could refer?
Whom would you bless?
To whom, in that instance, would you pray?
There is, I admit, a pre-mystical conditioning.
A state of that order does patently exist.
It is boundless.
It is fathomless.
It is packed with mystery.
It is packed with meaning.
But a cat won't purchase it if it has no brand, if it remains forever
without response, without projection,
must, if it must anything, produce consciousness.
It must, if it must anything, transmit between one mind and another.
It cannot forever remain undemonstrable.
Along some line somewhere it must give.
Two people cannot own it, except they quarrel.
I am obsessive enough to know that.
The silent area of the brain is a familiar of mine.
I am sufficient toward it.
I do not equivocate.
I am an old partner in hypothesis.
I have gone that way before.
There is little left requiring verification.
There are no more prolonged gazes.
While a man continues to live he continues to communicate.
There is no fascination in betrayal.
As it goes, so it has gone before.
The number of the number of the Jews is invariably a constant. There is only so much prescience one can envision at one sitting.
The rest is plain.
The rest is an irresistible credo.
It does not belong to man at large.
My living room is no hashish paradise.
I am that: not it.
It I have spied.
It and the secret places whence it came.
It is I who consequently dance.
I who ride the octoform!
My birds love, are not enchanted.
Their gardens are natural gardens.
It is I, I alone, who fashioned their bells.
I who have arisen suddenly above them.
There is no reason whatever to dispute these faculties.
My habits are observable.
About me nothing is extraordinary.
Like your feet, my feet too, are clay.
That I have my own elevated preferences I admit.
But I am more abstract than you are.
There is after all no power but it is not discreetly mine.
Mine is the effulgence.
I am the light.
I am the orb requiring no intermediary.
Just weigh my inadventures.
None succeed like they succeed.
There is no miracle greater than theirs.
They live always.
They come to the tryst.
They, they moulded my politics.
Verify my illusions!
Harbor my accidents!
Lionel Ziprin in Aspen nr 9 available through UBU web at http://www.ubu.com/aspen/aspen9/sentential.html
Allen Ginsberg mentioning Lionel Ziprin
in an interview with Paola Igliori
on Harry Smith
from Milk Magazine
...He made all sorts of drawings and constructions, particularly toilet-paper tubes and the cardboard tubes that are inside a roll of towels. He would set them up on a flat surface and glue them down, and cover them with a kind of glue to make them permanent and they looked like futuristic cities—round buildings—and he would draw on them a little bit. One day—angry at me for some reason or other, or angry at something—he smashed them—four month's work. So I took a lot of photographs.
Oh, you have them?
Yeah, they're all in my office. I've shown them. One of them, "Turning Milk into Milk"—him pouring milk—it's from his last days at Hotel Breslin. I don't have any earlier pictures. At the Chelsea he'd met Mary Beach, translator of Burroughs . . .niece of Sylvia Beach, a Parisian friend and publisher of Joyce. . . of the Shakespeare & Company bookshop (not the new one, the old one).
I think I might have heard from Lionel about that.
Oh, Lionel Ziprin. Apparently, Harry first came to New York to visit Lionel, who was part of the hermetic group connected with Jordan Belson. Not to forget "Hube the Cube" from San Francisco, a bearded guy who had a newspaper stand, also hermetic, amphetamine head. There was Harry and then there was Jerry Joffen, son of a rabbi, and Lionel Ziprin. Do you know him?
Yes, I do. What other kinds of things was Harry taping while he was there?
Then he began taping the ambient sounds of New York City. I had this kind of machine, Sony Pro-Walkman (points to a tape recorder on the desk), and he exhausted two of them—or over-used them. If ....
"Dear Dirk Vekemans,
We would like you to know that we have shipped the following item purchased via Amazon Marketplace.
Almost All Lies Are Pocket Size [Hardcover] by Ziprin, Lionel
ViLT DiGiTAL ViSiON
This being a rare title, your package has been dispatched from our US warehouse and it should reach its destination within three to five business days.
If you have any questions about this message, please feel free to contact us by replying. Also, we would like to ask you to, please, contact us when your package reaches you. That would greatly help us with keeping a better track of the fulfilled orders and building the best service possible."
email from the bookstore
|A personal friend of mr Ziprin has contacted me and kindly offered to put my questions to him . I gave some explanation and asked this personal friend to ask mr Ziprin for permission to publish more texts by him on this website.
||My copy of 'Almost All Lies Are Pocket Size' has arrived. It is a wooden box containing a small excerpt of each of the listed works of Lionel Ziprin. I have no time now to be more detailed. Until further notice Mr Ziprin is a Resident of the Cathedral.