But her hug was at least Midwestern – like a hand softly laid across my forehead – it was rush hour traffic jams, it was « You know the story of the Golem? » – shielding himself from the swimming dust motes with a forearm – the secret lay in the codas – a hive of snorting, mumbling and locomotive bodies – to shift her mucosal reeds out of their whistling orientation – he memorized strings of numbers and would recite them – red-eyed and barefoot wearing only pajamas – waking up in the tank to a roar of hallucinations – stupefied by the event – in the junction – the image of the causa sui – tourism – technology and precarity – an affective community of the living – social barbarism – solstice – in between hourly circuits of our thin and wispy nets – the Kabbalists of sixteenth-century Safed – arches kept quiet – hurricane sang – green and brown / but always – though what isn’t –there isn’t a script – scarab of 6th street – Is that a problem? If so, why, and for whom? – Inbox (#) FLASH. This school of entertainment emphasizes the artisanal, the crafted, and the shared enjoyment of these as an extension of the host’s character and ethical standing. It nods towards feel-good liberal politics with a concern over GMO labeling, fair trade (!!!) products, and a kinder, gentler way of slaughtering animals for our consumption. We have created entire industries devoted to certifications of all sorts, to verify precisely how humanely that leg of lamb was slaughtered, precisely how kosher the cheese is, and precisely how genetically unmodified those lentils are. It actually has more to do with what we were talking about earlier. Like I’m sipping some juice inside a diner, which I have just perfectly described, and then realize that I need to be in the Lego store to count the bumps, or collect the surfaces from a thousand other hallways because those are the ones that shrink obligingly around me like memory foam. The bad data pinches my injury. Think of the catalog these surfaces could give — so comfortable, speckled, we get embossed. Just look and what cheeks. What this means, in terms of her relation to the mainstream, is a reluctance to reify the prefab nature of surrealistic hipster culture’s manic pixie dream girl [MPDG] (a ‘noble’ update on the dumb blonde), epitomized by Zooey Deschanel, perhaps the uber-example of the commodified experimental feminine. Corrigan is in a rare league that is able to perform the MPDG cliché in a way that uncannily exposes the ideological constructedness of its alleged authenticity (and authenticity was tied to the creative, bipolar, female long before this current fad). The parodic bending of the MPGD so that she becomes too off-kilter to maintain her cutesy appeal (and off-kilter in such satirically poignant ways as to expose the ideological framework that demands the MPDG) is an aesthetic trait she shares with comedic actress Anna Faris and stand-up comic Maria Bamford, but also with a long history of brilliant “dumb blondes” (including Jennifer Coolidge, Victoria Jackson, Mary Vivian Pierce, Candy Darling, Marilyn Monroe, and crucially Madeline Kahn). But to draw her practice back into the avant-garde, the undermining of the MPDG is not so far off from the way that the conventions of cute surrealism were undermined by language poetry’s open-ended play with signifiers; or how Dali’s reductively Freudian plastic dreamscapes seem empty when compared with Magritte’s twisted irreducible deferrals of meaning. I mean, I guess I can just deny myself $112 worth of activities in the month to come, swapping the bar with my mom and collapsing the latter half of the day into a single meal, the second superimposed on the first, just like the purchase I cannot get over. The public hotline doesn’t get that I’m young, the stakes of this towering not like the highest building in the world but maybe the tallest in Brooklyn, which I walked by today on my way back from the current collapse, knowing that this fact can be swallowed, prophylactic like the zinc tablets I’ve been downing since last night. To be clear, I am totally loving this extra hour, daylight saves me and continues to thrill beyond its logical appeal, as the effects of helium. These zinc tablets have changed the taste of my tongue which changes the taste of everything, so I have resolved to eat nothing but these, agreeing to a conceit not present in the making but definitely selling the good beyond its worth. I covet the small economy of Haribo sweetness, doled out to the river but not the bank, the one I form in solidarity with the spectacular. I would say he was executed, or at the very least, he was tortured to the point of suicide. He killed himself by biting into an apple he’d injected with cyanide; he was obsessed with the Disney film Snow White. All this is after he cracked Germany’s Enigma code, which likely saved millions of lives = Corpse Flowers = the sound of flags = a deepening of dampness = what spills out of the cave / an oracle = feather vats = chest broken as a pearl bone = soft as fruit / salty as blood = “So being, who lives in them, / who rots them out?” = “The liquid tenants of paradise / aren’t coming back” / Long thigh / Think thigh / Is that the wish of my fish body / butterflied / ugly heart nothing but there / to bubble its black soup impossibly over? I think about bursting skyward / clots and / clouds and / clots of brute affections / But it is such a sticky hole. Do you write in fish pose, too? I trace the outline of my body and think crime scene mermaid on a rock / silent Joan of Arc daring a knife with her neck / Marie Antoinette’s last dream / Clarice Lispector at the Copacabana thinking This wasn’t what I wrote / “It’s Pig,” says Kim Hyesoon, “Pig who has never seen the outside, always Pig, depressed Pig, Pig who cries wolf, Pig who has chosen the most terrified pig in the world to be the king, Pig who shouts Oh, fantastic sewer! while hugging its pillow …” What do you mean you don't remember? I was a starfish, blasted into space. I was Aurora, Eos, Ushas, Ostara, because you ran out of names for the dawn. The purpose? Shhh … This is a good question: Why are all the starfish in the south seas blowing up? Divers, submersibles, salesmen fisher men report the reduction of beaucoup Echinodermata to a mere gelatinous mass.
This book is sad, and I don’t have
what’s awful becomes all form. If there’s
one thing I know
the enormous tenderness of the
meat in the pheasant’s bent
but I can have a stomach-ache, I can die!
In fact last nite I puked out my guts.
Someone grows bigger than previously shown (in the real world there are no
Zeros). For each particle in a match
Object pretend one gives, one
Receives (solve for these coordinates
When prioritizing strict price matching).
Small spaces are surprisingly infinite.
All this first dawned on me while pondering Araweté war songs, where the warrior, through a complex, anaphoric use of deixis, speaks of himself from the point of view of his slain enemy: the victim, who is in both senses the subject of the song, speaks of the Araweté he has killed, and speaks of his own killer – the one who “speaks” by singing the words of the deceased enemy – as a cannibal enemy (although among the Araweté, it is words alone that one eats). But most of all, knowledge is itself a collection of strange dreams used to describe feeling. My heart is full of microscopic life. And here we are in the dark in general, like snow in von Trier. At Netflix we know what people are watching now, what they watched before and after, how much of a show they watch, how often they watch another episode followed by another, or if they abandon an episode before the first ten concurrent zones of tonal alarm. Now there is an even sharper separation as the cup approaches. No? Like those shoes BANG those shoes. But what about the thousand names of Gaia? If any goldensealed ampule of fat or if inside any seed a secret, key card, punchcoded gut of they give their faces to the crabs who rise in the nets with the scowls of warriors imprinted onto to their backs so you’re the little lady who yessir nossir my beard my fat smelling like this in analog photography tilt-away from earth and finally thick enough to snap its chain, as I drove down Williams Street a woman yelled at me. You suck! she said. I felt the white onion in my chest. I choked for a minute on its bulb. I do suck, probably. I have done bad things, probably, tho I can’t remember them.
hey HD 43691
I don’t know if this is the right number
if u are even there
I know about quantum mechanics and arithmetic poetry
2 3 5 7 11 13 17
my name is Earth aka Humanity
u can also call me Carl
a lot of my relatives died in the holocaust
my mother never told me
I don’t know why I’m telling u
I’d like it if u wrote me back
if ur there that means the world won’t end so soon
boy super depressing
ignore these messages please
u could still write back
if u want
So imagine it thus. This is it. I was seventeen (when multiplied out being 408.) I moved to Antarctica, where I took some classes as my schedule permitted. Nothing grew there but Ted Berrigan, who ignored me and whom I ignored. As it turns out, it was not Ted Berrigan. Only the shadow I cast on the ice cathedral where I was living at the time, where my breath rose up against me as a figure for music. Or better still, we could say at M-1, in homage to the reference myth MI, the Bororo myth that, as we discover very early on in The Raw and the Cooked, was only an inverted, weakened version of the Gé myths that follow it ((M7-12). The reference myth is thus “any myth”, a myth “without references,” an M-1, like all myth. For every myth is a version of another, which in turn opens to a third and fourth myth, and the n-1 myths of indigenous America neither express an origin nor point to a destiny: they are without reference.
[Note: Sources: bits from TOC of Hypocrite Reader 47; Wendy Lotterman, “Scatter Plot”, “Chinese Checkers”, at Web Conjunctions, “The Runners”, at Hypocrite Reader 34; Danya Lagos, “Radical Hospitality”, at Hypocrite Reader 34; Felix Bernstein, “Cecilia Corrigan’s Blonde Ambition”, at Cold Front, 29 May 014; Cecilia Corrigan, quoted in Fiona Duncan, “Cecilia Corrigan: A Poet For The Internet Era”, at Opening Ceremony, 23 Oct 014; Carrie Lorig & Elisabeth Workman, “from PROCESSIONAL/CONFESSIONAL”, at Delirious Hem, 19 Dec 014; Mario Ariza, “Instructions In The Art Of Filming Atomic Bombs”, at Industrial Lunch 3; Industrial Lunch’s Central Committee, Shelby Kay-Fantozzi, and Jess Nesbitt, “Six Bodies Buried In The Glorious Junk”, at Industrial Lunch 3; JBR; Michael Peirson, “I Am My Own Manufacturer”, at Industrial Lunch 3; Eduardo Viveiros de Castro, Cannibal Metaphysics (tr. Peter Skafish); Ian Heames, Sonnets; Lisa Jeschke, “Love, XXX”, in Dead Cheap; Isabelle Stengers, “Gaia, the Urgency to Think (and Feel)”, at Os Mil Nomes de Gaia; Joyelle McSweeney, “One Voice In The Cosmic Fugue”, at Powder Keg, Cosmos; Emily Kendal Frey, “Five Alive”, at Banango Street 6; JBR; John Beer, “Encyclopaedia Galactica”, at Powder Keg, Cosmos; JBR; AB Robinson, “The Poet of Flowers”, at Ahem, 20 Dec 014]