All those ships that never sailed
Today I bring them back
And let them sail / Forever
--Bob Kaufman

A new poetry is in the making. And just like the possibility of life based on silicon, it's here to stay. But before everyone can congratulate New Orleans on becoming the new center of the universe for the Imaginary, let me mention a few things.

First of all, unlike its spiritual neighbor and counterpart, Catholicism, there was no virgin birth or immaculate conception. The Imaginary has many suitors. Nor are we at pains to demonstrate otherwise, i.e. "Jesus" begets "Hey Zeus." You see, when one is imaginary, one may well suffer from insomnia, but hardly from sleeplessness. Or that is to say, those who cannot remember the future are condemned to repeat it.

Besides, looking back through the looking-glass at the twentieth century and all its impossible hells is no longer meaningful. It's merely sentimental (much like Ike & Tina or dead Eva Peron moaning inverted teardrops). Throw yourself a bone for chrissakes! Sing your mind into skew! Let's have fun at everything: Cotillion Balls! Ancestral Compost! Strobe-a-phobia! Menu Pounding Spoons! It's such easy feet and more in the world than shipwrecked bath toes! Not to mention being adult is like having a bad trip, and therefore, a not-so-complicated double-joke!

Particularly so, as Poet Bernadette Mayer points out, for "merger" and "acquisition" types. Indeed, revisionist experts have bankrolled our idea of "The Land of the Free" into "America the Inimical!" It's a sinister three stooges orgy of what Lewis, Clark & Co. would have found if they were born tomorrow.

Hence, as was prophesied by Poet Ted Berrigan: "Baffling combustions are everywhere downriver." This whorling primordial goo consists of creosote tomatoes, busted concrete, and palmetto bugs (that souvenir of Native Night and Big Muddy), and is belching up from fleshpots even as I write. In fact, this summer, at a secret location in the Undercity, and incubating at record-high temperatures, two secret brains gave birth to a many-headed pigeon. This fantastic creature will serve as mascot for all said "Imaginary" endeavors. It's function is to induce people into a good nap, and hereafter, pardon the soul like a broken church bell on Sunday afternoons.

Brace yourself for psychological impact. This is a Poetry of Collisions, a Language Crystal of sorts, where all hours and futures float your head by the ankles and spin your mind into suspended animation orbit. Yes, this highly unhypothetical event is imminent! On September 25th, in the year of the triple zero, "The New Orleans School for the Imagination" begins its inaugural season. Presiding Emeritus Professor of Abomination, Andrei Codrescu, is its bi-spiritual founder.

And while his or my genius can't be helped, help yourself. Greet the day with wide drowsy yawns! Whisper with all tender rage your one great calm! Tie snake rattles to the ends of your long black braids and mercilessly compose Imaginary Poetry! The corsets of happiness are begging to be opened!

New Orleans, 30.viii.2000