And
tho a
mickle is indeed
a
muckle I
am na fou;
I’m
just sittin’
here watchin’ the
wheels
go round
& round &
the
foraminifera fall;
& the river
keeps
a talkin’ …:
true … … me mash
up
me mash
up me mash
up
… …
rub my ass
as
if it
were a magic
lamp //
your wish
to rub my
ass
is coming
true.* *That’s a whole poem. Let us
speak
clearly of
what we are
taking
pictures: I
like it when
the
camera stops
outside a door
like
this [sic]
& just waits
a
moment, listens.
By the time
something
is useful,
it’s usually too
late ...
like an
ambulance for someone
who
just died …
killed by a
large,
ferocious electric
dog … the metallic
beast,
shining black,
had a bamboo
broom
stuck up
his anus … many
people
were struck
and fell bleeding.
That
day my
father, driven up
against
the brick …
surrounding the garden …
finally …
Some of his own broken ribs stabbed his heart. While his bones were crushing noisily, I, tottering in a storm of cherry blossoms, maneuvered to place myself in front of the snout of the steel dog and fearfully caressed his fluffy nose, which I had always wanted to touch at least one time.
What’s
up with
that finally? Yet
let’s
be useful,
like that famous
embarrassment,
etc., “The
dill plant lives”,
etc.,
like Yellowstone
National Park, like
those
famous earthquake /
gowns, that is,
warm
gowns to
sit / out of
doors
all night /
tonight [in], (an
earthquake
having
been
predicted.)
>The puke had that acidic quality and I could hear people yelling for me to hurry up but I felt my head lulling back and forth like when and I got lost a little between the tall iron sides of the building and the full moon made depth perception impossible and there was jostling and yelling and now we were and I was trying to ask for water and I was spilling it on myself and then I was in the bathroom and some guy was whistling and peeing and I started dry heaving into the toilet and thought I knew the tune and I remember spilling more water on myself and the waitress kept smiling and asking if I wanted pie.
All
the poet’s
geological terms are
accurate
and I
deem go boom
as
a counter-
aphorism to the
presumed
impaling. “Tyrannosaurus
must lie down
with
the herbivore.”
Or so I
overstand
ProtoIsaiah 2 say.
Meat & blood
&
hair &
fatty tissue &
NERVES!!!
Electric wires
COILING through your
fingers
up your
wrists // and
arms,
into your
shoulders, here: // [imagine
Fig.
7] you
twist and shake
your
arms … and
then … [imagine Fig.
4]
you vibrate
completely OUT OF
YOUR
BODY!!! (I
lost my body
once …
at the
time it was
no
big deal.)
Wouldn’t you rather
fall
in love?
(The light’s still
Out
There from
[sic] this morning.)
Cf.
“THE A
STORY”: I was
briskly
scrolling the
streets I rested
my
rust on
an angle …” (I’ve
got
3 of
S’s asterisks left
over.)
& 1 …
I mean I …
&
I … &
MH to HM:
Let us hope we’ll finally see each other well again … I’m already quite old and am getting more and more stupid.
HM to MH:
No, Max – we’re not getting more and more stupid, but this world is terrible and becoming ever more terrible, “beyond our capacity of imagination.”
“I
don’t care
what they say,”
he
thought fiercely,
and his vision …
the
knocking paused
in its course
to
do stallion
to God … that
ultimate
insomniac … somewhere
at a station
he
(who thought
fiercely) was given
a
riceball the
size of a
child’s
head …
his body
feels smooth and
cuddly …
for writing
to be manifest
in
its truth
(and not in
its
instrumentality),
it must be
illegible.
Read the
blank ( – Edmond Jabès),
the afterglow of torment passing through figures of speech while refusing the authority of a masterful dialectic our unthought horizon “normality is death” becomes audible presencing a body that can’t be redeemed by aesthetics the body wants to be art and fails at it from gender to works by this radically asynthetic writing moves thru polyphonic configuration of word image and concept the intersection between abstraction and narration practicing a militant ethic of non-mastery as every one of its sentences sounds like a sensory organ in the process of becoming its own theoretician.
***
[Note: Sources: a mickle is a muckle … I’m hearin’ Bunny Wailer, “Fig Tree” but lyrics found via Google have mickle/mottle or somesuch WTF … did find mickle/muckle in a Ziggy Marley song, and in Pato Banton’s “Gwarn!”, which is where me mash up comes from; Hugh MacDiarmid, A Drunk Man Looks At the Thistle; John Lennon, “Watching the Wheels”; Hugh MacDiarmid, “On the Ocean Floor”; Grateful Dead, “Easy Wind”; Gabriela Anaya Valdepeña, “Magic Lamp”, in Welcome, Eavesdropper (tip o’ the cap to Steve Mitchell); it was a sunny drive to work this morning, snow on the mountains, A Braxton & amigos on the box … what the hell. After the ride, and at my desk: Stephanie Young, “As a Sailor Breaks a Biscuit”, in Telling the Future Off; Joshua Marie Wilkinson, “A Moth in the Projector Light”, in Lug Your Careless Body out of the Careful Dusk; Chuck Richardson, reply to a comment of mine at his eponymous blog; Abe Hinako, “Garden Party” (tr. Hiroaki Sato), in Japanese Women Poets An Anthology, (ed. Sato); Lew Welch, in his review of Philip Whalen’s On Bear’s Head, called PW’s “Further Notice” useful; PW's “Further Notice” itself; Sasha Steensen, “Disaster of Doing”, in A Magic Book; Maurice “Alex” Burford, “Barf Manifesto” (re: the publication of the same name by Dodie Bellamy) at panda panda panda; Thomas Dilworth, and David Jones, The Anathemata, in Dilworth’s Reading David Jones; Anselm Berrigan, “Postcard to Brett Evans”, “’Neath the subservient field”, in Some Notes On My Programming; Gary Sullivan, “ON SPEAKING IN PUBLIC”, in How to Proceed in the Arts; Peter Lamborn Wilson, “Wouldn’t you rather …” in rain queer; Edmund Berrigan, “THE A STORY”, in Disarming Matter; Anselm Berrigan, “8/1/97”, in Integrity & Dramatic Life; Max Horkheimer’s last letter, and Herbert Marcuse’s reply, in Max Horkheimer A Life In Letters (eds. Manfred R Jacobson and Evelyn M Jacobson); Stefanie Goldstein, “Paper Foot (sleigh royal part two)”, in The Anthology of Spam Poetry; Koyanagi Reiko, Rabbit of the Netherworld, in Sato; Dodie Bellamy, Pink Steam; Craig Dworkin, epigraphs to chapter 7 (Barthes, then Jabès), in Reading the Illegible; Rob Halpern, blurb for Carla Harryman, Adorno’s Noise, at Essay Press]
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