This passage illustrates the manner in which a motif foliates outwards through the surrounding text, beginning from a single word — here the ‘flash’ in ‘flash and crash’ has ‘electrified’ the words which follow, and a German formation has similarly ramified into the context. But there was something else in the wind and the snow, something not quite right with the night. Which may be why the piece began ominously with sonar beeps from the organ, and as it developed, Sun Ra rolled his hands on the keys, pressing his forearm along the keyboard, played with his hands upside down, slashing and beating the keyboard, spinning around and around, his hands windmilling at the keys — a virtual sonic representation of the flooding of Atlantis; Nikuko felt a great sleep come over her, and woke with her body covered by wings. Five minutes later the brass entered, and then a rather conventionally notated swing saxophone-section melody surfaced to be undercut first by brutal bursts from the organ and then by the brass and drums. The weight, the sheer gravity of the piece which developed was almost unbearable. And then suddenly the Arkestra shifted to the “Sun Ra and his Band from Outer Space are here to entertain you” chant. This is why dogs don’t have horns on their foreheads. In a split second, then, Nikuko and the ferret changed places. A monk passed by, laughing, and asked, Nikuko, after all this play, are you any the wiser? Nikuko replied, not in the slightest, Izanagi, not in the least. Nikuko tried to think. She couldn’t think. She didn’t have time to think. She itched. Nikuko scratched herself and flakes of skin fell into the water. Did I just say something, said Nikuko. She thought, now I can say all sorts of things. Just as she thought that, all sorts of things appeared. They were grey until she said, What a colorful life. They were dark until she said, I wish it were sunny out. They were hot until she said, I wonder when it will snow, and they were too shiny until she said Good night. The sun was shiny metal in the grey sky; there were mists about. Someone was walking towards her from the distance, as if in a dream. Nikuko recalled later that the woman looked like a stranger, then familiar, then a friend. This is a story that has been told many times, but is well worth the retelling. The way was steep, and suddenly, a white fox bounded across the path in front of them, disappearing into the bamboo forest. A little further on, they came to a stone carved in the shape of a tortoise. A well-made shakuhachi is created from root bamboo, worked on for weeks and months, lacquered inside, a hardwood insert in the mouthpiece. Bacteria thrive, stationary waves hold colonies of protozoa in perfect suspension. Nikuko pared her toenails, and a slug, ever-fearful of death, crawled into one of the cuttings. Izanagi replied, let them find out for themselves. She traveled through Afghanistan and the outskirts of the Roman Empire, coming at last to Palestine. There were kami gathered in the shrines, shadows swimming without a ripple, beneath the surface of the ponds. Are there no female Leopards, asked Izanagi. There are not enough things in the world for parables. Let us stop for a refreshing drink, said Izanagi. It is even better that the base rotates and wobbles with the rest of the planet, sweeping the heavens above and the oceans below. Yes, replied Izanagi, we never know where our ascent will take us, but Yamato is friendly and grateful, and a good place to sit. Don’t spill your drink, said Nikuko, this world has gravity. Speaking of which, on March 1st, Elena Urlaeva, head of the Human Rights Alliance of Uzbekistan, was forcibly committed to a psychiatric clinic for “treatment” to shut her up from speaking out on forced labor and human trafficking. On March 15th, the Risk Assessment Committee of the European Chemicals Agency (ECHA) ruled that the toxic herbicide glyphosate, the active ingredient in Monsanto’s Roundup, is, in spite of all evidence, not carcinogenic. Yet Hartman’s travel narrative, Lose Your Mother, which has been described by some critics as fretful and pessimistic, actually frontloads her disappointment in her failure to integrate into Ghanaian society as a returned daughter. This move allows her to turn to speculative methods to fill in holes in slavery’s archives, rescuing from oblivion the stories of those thus traumatized. Slavery does not belong to diasporans solely; it, too, is bound up inextricably with the postcolonial condition.
make room in your mouth
The signing of the Emancipation Proclamation was included in the film Lincoln; the hanging of the Dakota 38, which happened the same week, was not. Or was it the doll who was watching? We didn’t know who the doll really was. She nodded her head back and forth, something we’d never seen a doll do before. And she seemed persecuted and excluded, too. If you sat her on the ground, from above she looked like a little girl and we like the adults, and we thought that we actually were a little like that, a tiny head you could hardly see. “Her eyes are broken, that’s why she can’t close them. You have to lick her eyeballs so she can see or else she can’t see.” Marina held out her doll; that was the first thing she’d said to us. We stuck our tongues out until the tips touched the cold glass of her eyes. And it was true: the doll could see then. After all, in the words of Helen, “everything in the world is a palimpsest, motherfuckers!” What I’m getting at here is that we have made enough concrete to create an exact replica of Earth 2mm thick. We have produced enough plastic to wrap Earth in clingfilm. Which is why I would spend hours under the bed with a flashlight and a roll of tape, obsessively taping every crevice in the wooden bedframe. In any case, the Milwaukee of my book is not the real or factual Milwaukee by any means. It could have been Seattle or Houston or Minneapolis. Looking back, I don’t even know why I chose Milwaukee. First there was the idea of fog, a beach, then waves on the beach, then waves ringing like bells, and aha, let them be sheep’s bells, and let there be some lost sheep, and let the fog be fleecy, like a sheep, and let the waves come to pasture like sheep, followed by — oh, why not — the actual sheep, no a ram, no a ram and sheep, all — doing what? — trailing after Mr Spitzer. And ever after that, he had been followed by men in grey cities, by lost men although he was lost, and none more lost than he, this old musician blowing his horn in the clouds. Given all this,
what does the peasant
facing the freeway
where cars hum
for a moment head-raised want to tell you?
that work is hard?
that life is less and less a forest?
that workers of the world
the beer can
someone’s tossed out the window
is this the reality principle?
it’s father’s day and my underfed neighbor
received a bottle of cologne
he asks me to smell his marrow
to be immigrant is to be poor: flamenco!
to be immigrant is to be persecuted: flamenco!
to be immigrant is to be illiterate oral: flamenco!
to be immigrant is to be marginalized: flamenco!
to be immigrant is to be objectified: flamenco!
to be immigrant is to be expelled, then expelled again:
to be immigrant is to be ghettoized: flamenco!
to be immigrant is to be trapped in a binary of baptism or
to be immigrant is to be appropriated: flamenco!
to be immigrant is to see birth language eradicated:
to be immigrant is to be human history: flamenco!
Here “ruach” is Hebrew for “spirit” and “rauch” is German for smoke. Ben’s subsequent book was based around his long poem “Levinas and the Police,” which opens with a kind of lure: “Without question / to be / Put into question”
Being, well, you know. For instance,
First Question: What do you know about the Middle East?
Second Question: What do you want to know, really?
First Answer: James Baldwin says: “One cannot argue with anyone’s
experience or decision or belief” (The Fire Next Time)
Meaning, perhaps, one has to argue with one’s own.
What he overhears is the underbrush. What he
overhears in translation tears in this underbrush:
lemon grass or cloth, neither lemon grass nor cloth
under that music, or no one under that music by itself.
So then when we got there and said we wanted the “nano way”, he led us into the shack on top of the pontoon where he kept the sex sacs, flesh grafts pulsating while oily brackish mucous leaked out. Much later, after I climbed out, I heard voices on the dock, a man and a woman apparently sitting next to him. He was saying something like, “Anyway, I touched us down, the other side of the Line, that’s the area we operated in back then, least likely place for the Specialty to look.” That’s when he spotted us in the shadows. He jumped from his seat and yelled, “We see you, ain’t no use hiding over there. Okay, let’s see them flesh crystals, kid.” Time passed and things happened I’m not mentioning here. Then Blud-Bod pulled up his shirt and pulled out a vastly overdeveloped homologic skin-sponge, replete with clustered basal ganglia grafted directly onto his belly. It was beating like a second — and external — heart. At that precise moment, Vagi-Con leaned toward us, asking, “You two ever hear of a guy goes by Black Nosferatu? A true-flesh trader?” We hadn’t. “You kids are real sweet,” she said, “You should come on with us, the
author’s last osmosis unmuzzles hiero/
ditto pidgin manuscripts: so torted dis
like ball's “goramen” as well as latent
INDO-WANT: go roll yourself a syllable
play horse to foreign carts to intro-
ducing mix-o-lydian (where disparate
particles demonstrate non-success:
and dank what actually (what actually
“exists but at the moment of its
simulation”) should after all be called
flamingoes in fruitfight always futuristic-
perfect. thereafter years on the job —”
Or something like that. Destruction of self is never voluntary. We keep on walking, our deaths concealed inside our mouths. There is nothing worse than a judge. They should be pleased there are no more oceans, because if ever we opened our mouths, their cities would flood. But however much Said explains, I cannot seem to fully understand. This is not about a failure of language it is about failure of experience. Some things need to be lived to be understood. This is a little of what I’ve written in my notebook:
Left Aleppo today, mit kleine
(Mimes action of walking with fingers)
By foot. You understand?
Left Aleppo today, they walk. 1 years old boy. His wife.
Walk to Turkey.
Because she has appointment with Embassy
But they won’t let her go through
No other way
In ein gruppe? Nein.
No. She’s not walking in a group
Only with her baby.
The only chance she has
To find her way is to go through quietly
(Shows route on mobile phone, google map
Near a forest, near a border)
She has no papers.
If she gets through, it just depends on the day.
This is the only chance.
I tell Said that he is a very gracious host. He says, “By now, you’ve probably seen James Bridle’s ‘Autonomous Trap 001,’ a magic salt circle for ensnaring the sensory systems of autonomous vehicles.” Nonetheless, it’s not those canvases but the project’s most basic conceptual move — putting the Caltrans striping crews into the same context as, say, Barnett Newman or Bridget Riley — that interests me the most here,
In the time of the ancients
the earth went dark for 5 days
and they broke many pots
and the pots spoke
And the demons in the dark came forth
The lion, the snake, the jaguar
And the people perished from them.
The little children sprouted wings.
“You will die mother”.
And the child went outside
And changed into a bird
And the children survived.
At dawn, no single person
Only birds, Jay, woodpecker, sparrow ...
Then the people were transformed. They were good
again. The sun came out
in the soft white radiance.
[Then a bunch of other stuff happened]
Are you here now?
I am here now
Are you here?
I am here.
Have you come here?
I have come here.
Will you drink a little
to sweep away the fear?
Breathing the gods, getting the goods
[Then a dream happened]
Now vast sky of clouds move over
Now the sun warms
[Then her heart stopped beating]
where, am I in time
Me is memory
through the courtyard door
take me out, take me out
Which is to say that, in its own way, this book consists of many books, but two books above all. The first can be read in a normal fashion and it ends with Chapter 56, at the close of which there are three garish little stars which stand for the words The End. Consequently, the reader may ignore what follows with a clean conscience. The second should be read by beginning with Chapter 73 and then following the sequence indicated at the end of each chapter. In case of confusion or forgetfulness, one need only consult the following list: 73 - 1 - 2 - 116 - 3 - 84 - 4 - 71 - 5 - 81 - 74 - 6 - 7 - 8 - 93 - 68 - 9 - 104 - 10 - 65 - 11 - 136 - 12 - 106 - 13 - 115 - 14 - 114 - 117 - 15 - 120 - 16 - 137 - 17 - 97 - 18 - 153 - 19 - 90 - 20 - 126 - 21 - 79 - 22 - 62 - 23 - 124 - 128 - 24 - 134 - 25 - 141 - 60 - 26 - 109 - 27 - 28 - 130 - 151 - 152 - 143 - 100 - 76 - 101 - 144 - 92 - 103 - 108 - 64 - 155 - 123 - 145 - 122 - 112 - 154 - 85 - 150 - 95 - 146 - 29 - 107 - 113 - 30 - 57 - 70 - 147 - 31 - 32 - 132 - 61 - 33 - 67 - 83 - 142 - 34 - 87 - 105 - 96 - 94 - 91 - 82 - 99 - 35 - 121 - 36 - 37 - 98 - 38 - 39 - 86 - 78 - 40 - 59 - 41 - 148 - 42 - 75 - 43 - 125 - 44 - 102 - 45 - 80 - 46 - 47 - 110 - 48 - 111 - 49 - 118 - 50 - 119 - 51 - 69 - 52 - 89 - 53 - 66 - 149 - 54 - 129 - 139 - 133 - 140 - 138 - 127 - 56 - 135 - 63 - 88 - 72 - 77 - 131 - 58 - 131 – which is to say, I am dead. I see the sky awhirl with dust, like the cone of air in an old movie theater cut by the projector’s beam. Several luminous, milky white globes are aligned in the far reaches of the sky. A long metallic stem grows out of each globe and one of them pierces all the way through my chest without my feeling anything but a great sense of euphoria. I advance toward the globes of light, slowly sliding along the length of the stem, ascending its gentle incline. In each hand I grasp those nearest me among a chain of others who are also climbing toward the sky, each following the rail that skewers them. The only noise to be heard is the faint squeal of steel through the flesh of our chests. One of my immediate neighbors is Max Jacob. The patients are out on the sidewalk, each one encased up to the waist in a small, round — or, more precisely, polygonal — cage with bars just like those protective railings that are normally placed around a manhole when its cover has been removed. Between these two paragraphs we have the transposition of one structure into another. Beneath the statement of the economic facts, a text of reference has been slipped, the text of the anthropological critique which states the process of alienation. It all takes place on the level of two statements, which I give in simplified form:
— Man produces God
— The worker produces an object
So why did I go into the Polidor restaurant? Why, since I’m asking that kind of question, did I buy a book I probably wouldn’t read? (The adverb was already a trick, because more than once it had occurred to me to buy books with the tacit certainty that they would be lost forever in the bookcase, and yet I bought them; the enigma was in buying them, in the motive that possibly demanded that useless possession). And into the chain of questions now: Why, after going into the Polidor, did I go to sit at the rear table, across from the large mirror that precariously duplicated the faded desolation of the room? And another link to put in place: Why did I ask for a bottle of Sylvaner? (But that last item is left for later; perhaps the bottle of Sylvaner was one of the false resonances in the possible chord, unless the chord was different and contained the bottle of Sylvaner just as it contained the countess, the book, and what the fat diner had just ordered). “Je voudrais un château saignant,” the fat diner had said. According to the mirror, the diner was sitting at the second table with his back to the one where Juan was sitting, and therefore his image and his voice were forced to have recourse to opposite and convergent itineraries in order to come together in suddenly solicited attention. (The book, too, in the shop window on the Boulevard Saint-Germain: the sudden leap forward of the white NRF cover, coming toward Juan as had the image of Hélène before and now the fat diner’s phrase as he ordered a bloody castle; like going to sit obediently at that absurd table in the Polidor with his back to everyone). Of course, Juan was probably the only customer for whom the diner’s request had a second meaning; automatically, ironically, as a good interpreter accustomed to the instant liquidation of all problems of translation in that struggle against time and silence which is an interpreter’s booth, he had fallen into a trap, if it’s proper to speak of a trap in that acceptance (ironic, automatic), in which saignant and sanglant were equivalents and the fat fellow had asked for a bloody castle, and, in any case, he had fallen into a trap without being aware in the least that the displacement of the meaning of the phrase would suddenly cause the coagulation of other things already past or present that night — the book or the countess, the image of Hélène, the acceptance of sitting down with his back turned at a rear table in the Polidor. (And having asked for a bottle of Sylvaner and drinking the first glass of chilled wine at the moment when the fat diner’s image in the mirror and his voice, which reached him from behind, had merged into something Juan couldn’t name, because chain or coagulation were nothing but an attempt to give the level of language to something that presented itself like an instantaneous contradiction, took shape and fled simultaneously, and no longer entered language spoken by anyone, not even that of an experienced interpreter like Juan.) This intimate relationship between music and the true essence of all things can also explain how when appropriate music accompanies any scene, action, event, or surroundings, it seems to reveal to us its most secret meaning and emerges as the most accurate and clearest commentary upon it: to such an extent that he who devotes himself entirely to the impression of a symphony feels as if he is watching within himself all the possible events of life and the world move past in procession: and yet he cannot, when he stops to reflect, demonstrate any similarity between that play of melody and the things which hovered before him. In any case, I’m the only person on the planet who has a special computer chip implanted in my brain that can read my thoughts and send those signals through a port in my skull out to a computer, which can then send that information back to my body and make my body do stuff. For the past three years, I’ve been using this technology, called NeuroLife, to bypass a spinal injury that left me with quadriplegia. The technology reanimates my arm and allows me to control it with my mind, similar to the way I moved before I had my accident. I’ve done a lot of cool stuff with this technology like play Guitar Hero. But the best moment thus far was the first day I was able to pick up a bottle, pour the remains of that bottle into a smaller dish, and then pick up a stir stick and stir the contents around. All power to the Soviets! All power to the Saints! Free Omar Ali Ewado and Ahmed-Kadar Nour! Please share this message with your friends, family and fellow union members. The object, known as SDSS J0104+1535, is a member of the so-called halo — the outermost reaches — of our galaxy, made up of the most ancient stars. The research team was led by Dr ZengHua Zhang of the Institute of Astrophysics in the Canary Islands. He said: “We really didn't expect to see brown dwarfs that are this pure.” By pure he means 99.99% hydrogen and helium, which makes it around 250 times purer than the Sun. Speaking of which,
If there existed a column of air between earth and the sun,
we would be able to listen to its bell-burning sound.
This column would be like a solar stethoscope.
But the sun would ignite our air-column,
as well as anything else we used to hear the sun.
This may explain why the sun is surrounded by nothing.
When sound doesn’t need a thing to travel through, it is actually light.
This is what radiowaves are, a type of light.
The sun produces radiowaves even when it is calm.
If our ears had been constructed to hear radiowaves
we would hear the sun almost everywhere.
Radiowaves are difficult to block, but they can be blocked.
To our radiowave-ears, the blocked places would be
like shadows are to us now.
They would be shadows in a world with extremely few shadows.
Ergo, I am confronted by a clay audience of roughly shaped creatures. Black’s fingerprints define and add texture to these tiny spectators, most of which are wearing cotton white t-shirts that have infinity signs on them. Three wall-mounted flat screen televisions surround them, each looping a video depicting dawn. The accompanying un-synched soundtrack is a compilation of personal conversations between the artist and friends, a British fascist song, Celine Dion’s “A New Day Has Come,” and recordings of Octavia Butler and Kofi Agawu, amongst others. Off to the side, framed by a sunny LED glow, a Philips “Wake Up Light” clock displays the time: “00:00.” Which is to say that while Black is a good artist, my first thought is she’s wrong about Dana Schutz’s right to paint a portrait of the dead Emmett Till, merely because she’s white. Maybe not this painting, maybe this is the wrong painting, but no one owns suffering. Ask me. I’m a Jew. On the other hand, if, as Christina Sharpe has said, Schutz “seems to traffic in Black spectacle, like the painting of the fight in the elevator,” maybe Black’s onto something. Anyway, after she left, a man came by with a dead rat. Then a court in northern Indian gave the Ganges and Yamuna human status. From that moment on polluting them would amount to harming a person. The ruling came a week after the Whanganui River in New Zealand was granted the same status. In each instance the seemingly innocuous verb of being that follows ‘What’ immediately torques its whatness, and it is a credit to Villarreal that she preserves the knottiness of Sor Juana’s Baroque Spanish as she so skillfully baits each English language trap. Happily, Pluecker provides an excellent afterword that allows the novice sorjuanista to grasp Fabre’s sleights of Spanish, as well as the stakes of his own translation. The effect of so many esdrújulas is a heaping up of plaited and plated riches, best evinced here in “Mashup 2: Sor Juana y Medusa,” resulting in a great spasm of the entire textual body, which joyously discovers glands, organs and limbs in its folds. The abject in this case comes from uncertainties of categorisation; toxic substances have been reclassified as foods,
like a hasp spent or a hen bent
over eggs in the nest of
where scum will be superstars, but the stars won’t rise. The uppers shall be downers. In slime. A convulsive sublime. Bacteriality. Country vs. city, gods vs. men. Meanwhile, I have been, my friends and lovers have been, struggling with survival for most if not all of our lives. I am talking here about other poets in America who also come from poverty, who are not abled, I am talking here about my trans friends, my queer friends, who, without adequate healthcare funding, will not survive. I am talking here about the families of my friends who work two or three jobs to stay afloat but are undocumented and are in direct danger. I am talking about the difference between those who found themselves empowered and filled with rage, and those who are exhausted and depleted from struggling their entire lives.
[Note: Sources: Stuart Gilbert, quoted in Finn Fordham, Lots of Fun at Finnegans Wake: Unravelling Universals; Alan Sondheim, “Parables of Nikuko”, in .echo; JBR; John Szwed, Space Is the Place: The Life and Times of Sun Ra; Alan Sondheim, “Parables of Nikuko”, in .echo; John Szwed, Space Is the Place: The Life and Times of Sun Ra; Alan Sondheim, “Parables of Nikuko”, in .echo; Alan Sondheim, “Parables of Nikuko”, in .echo; JBR; UF UITA IUL, “Uzbekistan: forced labour in cotton continues, rights defender confined to ‘psychiatric treatment’/glyphosate alert”, email rec’d 21 Mar 017, approx. 11:55pm PDT; Michelle D. Commander, Afro-Atlantic Flight: Speculative Returns and the Black Fantastic; Layli Long Soldier, and Gillie Collins, “Tókȟaȟ'an: To Lose, to Suffer Loss, to Be Gone: Wordplay as dissent in Layli Long Soldier's Whereas”, at BOMB, 21 Mar 017; Andrés Barba, “From Such Small Hands” (tr. Lisa Dillman), at BOMB, 22 Mar 017; Gene Kwak, and Patty Yumi Cottrell, Sorry to Disrupt the Peace, quoted in Kwak’s “What is a Real Substitute For Blood?: An Interview with Patty Yumi Cottrell”, at HTMLGIANT, 22 Mar 017; JBR; Owen Gaffney and Will Steffen, “The terrifying mathematics of the Anthropocene”, at Climate & Capitalism, 19 Mar 017; JBR; Patty Yumi Cottrell, quoted in Gene Kwak, “What is a Real Substitute For Blood?: An Interview with Patty Yumi Cottrell”, at HTMLGIANT, 22 Mar 017; Deanne Sole, and Marguerite Young, Miss MacIntosh, My Darling, quoted in Sole’s “Miss MacIntosh, My Darling”, at Pop Matters, 28 Apr 09; JBR; Víctor Rodríguez Núñez, “[indisciplines]”, “[destinies]”, “[protections]” (tr. Katherine M. Hedeen), in “Poems by Víctor Rodríguez Núñez”, at The Brooklyn Rail, Apr 012; Eileen R Tabios, “BIG CITY CANTE INTERMEDIO”, at Tea and Tattered Pages / Panthalassa, 21 Mar 017; Joshua Schuster and Steve Dickison, and Benjamin Hollander, quoted in Schuster and Dickinson’s “Benjamin Hollander, 1952–2016”, at Jacket2, 29 Nov 016; JBR; Aaron Winslow, “Night of the Flesh Scanners”, at Smallwork; Ulf Stolterfoht, “(1) talent in rut”, “(2) abruptly herder appeared” (tr. Rosmarie Waldrop), in “From: Fachsprachen I-IX”, at Coconut; Sean Bonney, “Our Death 31 / Discipline”, at Abandoned Buildings, 18 Mar 017; Philip Davenport, “Walking From the War Zone”, at Arthur + Martha, 21 Mar 017; JBR; Geoff Manaugh, “Spells Against Autonomy”, 20 Mar 017, and “Striper”, 25 Aug 012, at BLDGBLOG; Joanne Kyger (RIP), “from ‘Marian Lopez Calixto’s Story,” (Visit to Maya Land, Fall 1976)”, at EPC; JBR; Joanne Kyger (RIP), “from ‘Marian Lopez Calixto’s Story,” (Visit to Maya Land, Fall 1976)”, at EPC; JBR; Joanne Kyger (RIP), “from ‘Marian Lopez Calixto’s Story,” (Visit to Maya Land, Fall 1976)”, at EPC; JBR; Joanne Kyger (RIP), “from ‘Marian Lopez Calixto’s Story,” (Visit to Maya Land, Fall 1976)”, at EPC; JBR; Julio Cortazar, Hopscotch (tr. Gregory Rabassa); JBR; Michel Leiris, “March 15-16, 1923”, “April 11-12, 1923”, in Nights as Day Days as Night (tr. Richard Sieburth), at SPD; Jacques Rancière “The Concept of Critique and the Critique of Political Economy: From the 1844 Manuscripts to Capital”, in Louis Althusser, Étienne Balibar, Roger Establet, Jacques Rancière And Pierre Macherey, Reading Capital: The Complete Edition (trs. Ben Brewster and David Fernbach); Julio Cortazar, 62: A Model Kit (tr. Greogry Rabassa); Friedrich Nietzsche, The Birth of Tragedy from the Spirit of Music (tr. Douglas Smith), in The Nietzsche Reader (eds. Keith Ansell Pearson and Duncan Large); JBR; Ian Burkhart, as told to Wilbert L. Cooper, “I Have a Computer Chip in My Brain That Reads My Thoughts”, at Vice, 24 Mar 017; JBR; LabourStart, “Free jailed teacher trade union leaders in Djibouti”, email rec’d 24 Mar 017, approx. 8:33am PDT; “Astronomers identify purest, most massive brown dwarf”, at Science Daily, 24 Mar 017; JBR: Brent Cunningham, “Some Facts About the Sun”, in Journey to the Sun, quoted in Lauren Levin, “The Double Dream of Reason: on Brent Cunningham’s Journey to the Sun as satire”, at Lana Turner; JBR; Audrey L. Phillips, “Hannah Black Conjures a New Dawn in the Timeless Loop of History”, at ARTSLANT, 25 Feb 017; JBR; Christina Sharpe, quoted in Siddhartha Mitter “‘What Does It Mean to Be Black and Look at This?’ A Scholar Reflects on the Dana Schutz Controversy”, at Hyperallergic, 24 Mar 017; JBR; Chris Randle, “‘I Feel Like Everything Shouldn’t Exist’: An Interview with Hannah Black”, at Hazlitt, 23 Aug 016; “India court gives sacred Ganges and Yamuna rivers human status”, at BBC News, 21 Mar 017; Joyelle McSweeney, “The Monstrosity of Sor Juana”, at Boston Review, 23 Mar 017 (a review of Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz, Enigmas (tr. Stalina Emmanuelle Villarreal), and Luis Felipe Fabre, Sor Juana and Other Monsters (tr. John Pluecker)); Laura Ellen Joyce, and Joyelle Mcsweeney, quoted in Joyce’s “The New Canon: The Necropastoral by Joyelle Mcsweeney”, at Enclave, 16 Mar 017; Cynthia Cruz, “Where We Go From Here: On ‘Political’ Poetry and Marginalization”, at VIDA: Women in Literary Arts, 14 Mar 017]