Zeitgeist Spam

RSI

[Note: From a sketch by Jacques Lacan (see image in FCF 101). Digital remix of sketch by Omo Bob. Tatt by Gabriel of Art Attack, Montclair CA. When the guys at the shop asked what is it, I explained the RSI and the Borromean knot. They all got it, straight off. "That's deep," to quote one of 'em. And to think academics have trouble with this shit]

FCF 101

Dear ones--

Dear ones--

Dear ones--

Everything
is a
sidestep, ‘The negative

capability
of weeping
search engines … imagination

is
a failure
of the imagination …

you
read me
as potential, that

is
to say
the nothing to

come …
I’s a
utility like electricity’

whether
I’s
a mailbox, electromagnetic

radiation,
curved spacetime,
the Commonwealth of

Nations,
or a
propositional attitude. ‘I

did
not go
into the house

to
kill Mrs …’
Inexhaustible, inscrutable, equally

tiger,
combustion, Popeye,
god or the

Flying
Spaghetti Monster.
Howsabout a new

philosophical
discipline called
“speculative psychology”, then,

dedicated
to investigating
the “cosmic layers

of
psyche” and
“ferreting out the

specific
psychic reality
of earthworms, dust,

armies,
chalk, and
stone”? If you

can
stand a
little “somatism,” that

is.
Should the
two archetypal masks

that
represent Comedy
and Tragedy pass

through
each other
(imagine a total

eclipse),
might not
their overlapping intersection

be
an expression
of deadpan? And

what
about Janus,
that janitor in

January?
Do his
back-to-back

facial
characteristics
suggest anything more

than
the infinite,
noncommittal gaze of

beginnings
and endings?
the antic and

the
intimate, both
merriment and distress?

“… de Kooning once said, You put in everything you can and then you're done. You might shrug some off but not finally include more in. Until the next time, this is that next time. Length doesn't matter, they are denser than they look. He has even found a way to record some forgotten strains. You get a chance at them only because they lie abandoned here. But as Monk said, It’s up to you to pick it up. I wonder at them as I wonder at my own. Who wants to be cured of desire?” “I must spend a night under the enormous rock … the enormous rock … the …

“What
if there
is nothing special

about
this particular
moment,” so what?

It’s
a great
book, period. It

is a desert… It is a panoramic vision of the desert, and it’s not a tragic or uninhabited desert. It’s only a desert because of its ocher colour and its blazing shadowless sun. – Deleuze/Guattari

            Home

            Belly inter-landscape

            further (parentheticals)

Welcome
to the
desert of the

RSI,

the cornucopia.
PLEASE READ CAREFUL

AND
GET BACK
TO ME IMMEDIATELY.

Today
is just
like every day,

Pinkie,
another day
of impossible atonement:

The landscape has

so much the power to overwhelm; walking back

some yards in the yard, up a small hill, the vista

extends to the ocean; the sky is immense, total; the rolling

hills rock into a reverie of place that is sometimes

just distracting, at others like some dream of the pastoral as

living presence, like

my
honeybunch’s peepers
are nothing like

neon,
nor the
architectonic platonics of

a
belladonna sonogram,
just another day

of
impossible atonement,
singing along with

the
sounds of
owls
in the night

air
the seven
planets in material

orbits
so huge
and moving at

so
great a
speed must produce

harmonia,

may it be our will to forgive and be
forgiven, may we grant, and be granted,
remission for all our transgressions.

KING LOUIS: Oh, Marie, there is so much to be done. I am already tired.

MARIE-ANTOINETTE: No, Louis. Be exhilarated. We have a dream. First we must plant grape vines about the flower borders, for we must make our own wine. And we have to tear out the billiard room to make a place for the wine press. We will have barefoot dances to tread out the wine. Then we will get rid of those noisy filthy peacocks, and we will buy English cows to give us milk and cheese and butter. And little bantam cocks and hens for eggs and poultry. We must dig out a new fish pond for lovely carp and sturgeon – to give us caviar for our parties – and we shall take down all those gloomy yew trees and horse chestnuts and replace them with fruit trees – apple and peach and mulberry.

KING LOUIS: Oh, Marie. Not the horse chestnuts.

The
hummingbirds make
flickering lace / the

hummingbirds
shriek. Soprano
flute, oboe, cello,

prepared
piano and
live electronics. Humming

feather,
mirror in
flight. The cries

answer
me, like
children slaughtered at

night.
A twinkling
of the eye

that
can last
an eternity. Light

of
the edge.
Eleventh interpolation (Lyotard):

“After
Auschwitz” (JBR:
shorthand for “After

Everything”)
it is
necessary to add

another
verse to
the story of

the
forgetting of
the recollection beside

the
fire in
the forest. I

cannot
light the
fire, I do

not
know the
prayer, I can

no
longer find
the spot in

the
forest, I
cannot even tell

the
story any
longer. All I

know
how to
do is to

say
I no
longer know how

to
tell this
story. O flute!

the
haze over
my sleep and

Original
Face. Highly
coloured and plurivalent,

the
ground up
light in circle,

a
strew, a
fulfillment over the

ocean.
Devastated cruising
at top speed.

What
was you
born for, any …

way,
up
30,000
steps
monks
cut
by
hand

shit
brown
& asphalt

laws
of
chalk

pebbled
shores

which was hunger which.

The day breaks

The light fails

mrta

ck

rdes

usp.

ttles

re:

because I did not properly attend          to it this hour has turned tubular & wooly

the t-e-a-r is locked in a wingcase

         [is that teer as in cry or tare as in rip?]

Thread & sugar

Spiraling air

A
man on
the freeway onramp

sits
in an
ornate chair. The

electricity
meter spins
and spins / you

yell
what makes
it spin like

that
what source
of power are

you
abusing        ???
       ???        Send
me a chrysanthemum.

Send
me a
spiderweb, send me

the
shit of
a leopard, but

why
do you
keep calling us        ???        ???

“Dave,
this conversation
can serve no

purpose
anymore. Goodbye” …
A chime in

the
dark is
a dark chime.

[Note: this is Yom Kippur. Sources: Wikipedia entry on Graham Harman; Wikipedia entry on Speculative Realism, re: Iain Hamilton Grant; anonymous blurb for, Clark Coolidge on, Michael Gizzi from, and Ron Silliman on Gizzi’s New Depths of Deadpan, at Burning Deck; Vanessa Place, jeroenn, “Brief notes on ‘Conceptual writing and its environs’, Berlin”, and permanent stuff at top of blog, at transversal inflections, 2009 May 7; the image is by Jacques Lacan, inserted here under a fair use assumption; spam email rec’d from one Abu Salam, Sun 27 Sep 12:41:44 PDT 2009; Pinkie and the Brain; Harryette Mullen, “Dim Lady”, in The Reality Street Book of Sonnets (ed. Jeff Hilson); Philip Kuhn, “sent three sonnets for schuberts sonatas”, in Hilson; Charles Bernstein, “The Simply”, "A Person Is Not an Entity Symbolic but the Divine Incarnate", in The Sophist; John Taggart, “Henry David Thoreau/Sonny Rollins”, in American Hybrid (eds. Cole Swensen and David St John); Eleanor Antin, Before the Revolution, in Eleanora Antinova Plays; JBR, No Sounds Of My Own Making; Beverly Dahlen, A Reading, 12; Jack Sharpless, Soldier in the Clouds, in The Collected Books of Jack Sharpless; Steve McCaffery, “The Murder of Agatha Christie: A True Story”, “Mrta”, in Seven Pages Missing, v.2; Eleni Sikelianos, The Abstracted Heart of Hours & Days; Cecilia Vicuña, “Smoke”, in Unraveling Words & the Weaving of Water (trs. Eliot Weinberger and Suzanne Jill Levine); Rebecca Loudon, “Where are my small incidents, the blood poured from my shoes”, “Cadaver Dogs”, in Cadaver Dogs; Sandra Simonds, “Debt (poem)”, at Sandra Simonds Swims and Swims, 27 Sept 09, and “Feather is Democracy”, at word for word 7]

FCF 100

Dear Ones--

Dear Ones--

Dear Ones--

A bit of the evidence has surfaced between the pages (I should have written between the covers, but the gods who guide my fingers not my mind have led me to a truer truth) a bit of the evidence has surfaced between the pages of this book. Though the only way we know what’s between the pages (indelible invisible ink) is by what’s on them. And what’s on them, it’s as if fever had written/is writing it: Now I’m too something. I’m

I’m a Kiki Smith woman carrying a wolf across her back. Her house has birds flying in it. The wolf is not the kind that sits safely in the lap.

Dear Ones--

Dear Ones--

Dear Ones--

Not only do we support our own biases, we’re also ridiculous when we do it. In a lovely sort of way, perhaps. Nevertheless: all poetry is serious, in the way that all mortal things are serious – which is to say my newest life/art “project” – tho I don’t have the vaguest idea how to carry it off – will be called Breaking the Law of the Excluded Middle ... I don’t know if it will take separate form or will just be a state of mind I bring to other projects or ...

To build (?) on your

Of course, I am post-avant, “after before,” a pose poetical, a stance ironical, I am
words, words on a page, the soughing of breath, the sloughing of sound for spectacle

I should note that my brother once had a project in which each sentence started with I. But none of the sentences were his – he went thru his personal library in shelf order to find them (our working manners do sometimes overlap ...) – yet they did compose an autobiography … of someone. Is that lyric? Dunno. But if so: what’s wrong with it?

Besides, I was just reading an essay by Hélène Cixous, in which she writes, “Otherness, yes. But are we not always prey to otherness? The fever only lets up in appearance. At the exterior floor, ‘up above’, at the floor of the semblance – of myself – of order. Below, next door, we are always adrift. We respond straight ahead and think sideways. Always in the process of betraying (ourself), of leaving (ourself), of leaving (ourself). We ‘take decisions’: in a stroke, we come down on one side – we cut out a part of oneself. We are tortuous, impenetrable. We do the thing we just decided not to do. We are the place of a structural unfaithfulness. To write we must be faithful to this unfaithfulness. To write in voltes. In volts.”

I’ve also been reading Alain Badiou’s Theory of the Subject. I’ve been reading a lot of Badiou. Awesome great ... like everyone else. From an article about him (Robert Hughes, “Riven: Badiou's Ethical Subject and the Event of Art as Trauma”): “Thus truth … is the name of an exceptional event and a process that forces a break with the everyday course of knowledges and situations and consequently brings into being a ‘subject’ where there was formerly just a human animal, a mere inhabitant of a given situation … let us briefly note that a truth in the first instance is an event, a flash, an irreducible singularity, and subsequently is marked by the continued fidelity of the subject who constitutes the site of that truth.”

So: the “I” is a concatenation of voltes ... the “subject” is ultimately/intimately a matter of fidelity to a miracle ... One could throw up one’s hands ... Or say: this is where poetry begins.

(I hear my imaginary: ... Oooooooh! How RoMANtic!)

But anyhow. “This is what it’s like ... For me ... Whatever I am ...”

”We were having lunch. This was not the day we met but the first day we spent any time together. We were having a very nice pleasant conversation when the topic moved to her daughter. Wham! It was like someone turned on about a million lights, or the sun came out from behind a cloud, or … anyhow, this great love burst out of her and I was caught in the blast. No I didn’t confuse it for a second with anything else and I knew it wasn’t aimed at me. But wow,

“Then we were walking back to my office and she caught her toe on a crack in the sidewalk and her shoe came off. Suddenly, it was like she was utterly naked. I’m not talking skin, skin’s not nothing but it’s not all that. It was as if I was seeing her suchness, her big loving heart’s incommensurate incommensurate, her complete and absolute … no, not weakness. Her having been ‘given to’ (think Heidegger’s thrownness) ‘the slings and arrows of outrageous’ life … and death.”

I don’t have to do a thing, just witness. And be destroyed and rearchitected new and improved and completely bent as they say as they say in the utterly confusing bodhisattva process,

your
melody fragile
secretes rays in

a
pint of
violence, jesus what

a
headrush. Sometimes
they declothe to

give
themselves home
made skull tattoos

or
sniff rubber
cement, my mother

washes
newborn stars
in a bathtub,

yes.
Carry me
along, taddy, like

you
done through
the toy fair!

Whish!
A gull.
Gulls. Far calls.

Coming,
far! Your
friends, for their

deaths,
are no
less beautiful.

Everything
that starts
with the letter

K
is my
happiness. First I

wore
the body
and then I

wore
the head
and when I

asked
for trees
they gave me

trees
but not
how I wanted,

always
better, better,
better, something in

your
gait has
led me to

think
of a
flimsy straw, a

new
bullhorn, which
screeches out a

birdcall
instead, a
popcorn-machine hooked

up
to a
microphone hooked up

to
a laptop
which converts the

popping
sounds according
to the dictates

of
Morse Code,
after which the

computer
translates these
dits and dahs

into
a series
of English letters

for
vocalization by
its own robot-

voice.
We transcribe
each message from

this
oracle. Vinyl
is as natural

as
lichen, sloughed
off, like the

carapace
of some
alien (why alien?)

crab
that has
grown up, still

dizzy
from the
fumes, after having

melted
a platoon
of plastic armymen

with
a match.
The finale of

a
dance competition
show is on

tonight,
and road
signs have been

tipped
over, It isn’t
is isn’t is

Fall,
it is.
Piles of land

on
top of
land are orange

and
tan. Tipped
over road signs

have
been annihilated
slowly by a

long
series of
factors: no thing

in
particular. I
apologize. I didn’t

mention
a wooden
ladder with a

camcorder
on night
vision strapped to

my
hand. I
have videoed the

the
last grand
récit in captivity.

I
am no
longer hungry. I

am.
In my
village, hoarding wisdom

is
forbidden; to
jam the three-

pronged
electrical plug
into the double-

dimpled
outlet; yesterday
the birds were

shaped
like paperweights
and we did

little
to protect
them. You lie

there
naked and
wait—
           I
also communicate telepathically

with a handful of
teeth, glass eyes, a broken tympanum.

listening to

dust
settle

I don’t mean I mean I I don’t communicate telepathically, all that stuff speaks to me,

between ultrared
and
infraviolet,

as hammers echo across the river

already a heat haze at 8 a.m.,

a fluttering screen,

like something on a thumbdrive,

might not
universality be …
our own foreignness?

[Note: Sources: JBR, a review-in-progress, letters just sent. The 3rd and last part of the Shampoo 36 mix. And. This is not the end. Or is it? Fuck ... Anyhow. Rebecca Loudon, “Father,”, in Navigate, Amelia Earhart’s Letters Home; Geof Huth, "Words Upon the Opening of a Thought"; Hélène Cixous, “Alterity: Being Human”, as found in French Women Philosophers (ed. Christina Howells); Christoph Girard, “Dunny”; Christopher Cheney, “Two Poems”; James Joyce, Finnegans Wake (not Shampoo); Aaron Crippen, “Bottled Stars”; Susan Denning, “Sight Comes to Owls Slowly”; Osip Mandelstam, “The winter’s here, and I regret” (tr. Alistair Noon); Christian Bök, “Random Poetry 07” (re: a work by Nina Katchadourian), at Harriet (not Shampoo); Christopher Dewdney, as quoted by Christian Bök, and Bök himself, “Virtually Nontoxic”, at EPC (not Shampoo) (the CB material, in fact perhaps all of this, is in imaginary dialogue with Geof Huth); Rusell Jaffe, “I Love the Destroyer”, “They were eating bird”; I skipped Peter Davis; Anthony Madrid, “No More Epigrams Against Sluts”; TC Colbert, “Complimentary”; I skipped Matt Reeck; I skipped Zhuang Yisa; I skipped Raud Kennedy; Louis Armand, “Two Poems”; I skipped Paul Siegell; Laurie Duggan, “One-Way Ticket”; I skipped Guatama Verma; Amy Garrett-Brown, “Grey”; Julia Kristeva, “Might Not Universality Be … Our Own Foreignness?”, in Howells]

FCF 99

This
is like
food porn. “You

heard
of food
porn?” “Like when

you
stuff a
duck in a

chicken?”
“No, you
know, watching

cooking
shows late
at night, when

you
can’t eat
yourself,” i.e., where

are
the pelicans?
In May the

technical
writer watches
a woman watching

an
ice cube
melt on the

tablecloth.
This is
September. It happens.

This
is/isn’t
messiness, is it,

Geof?
This is
not the nostalgic

desire
to construct
a radically simplified

world
“there” is
neither “that” nor

“this”
burning having
been set aflame

in
as the
poem title has

it
the stone
age did not

end
because we
ran out of

stones.
It came
to rest “where”,

like
a black
shrub. Last autumn

they
carried it away
on a barge.

It
was empty
and ruined. And

where
there’d once
been a door,

they
found my
insane friend, and

gave
his cold
corpse right there

its
beggar’s funeral.
Where I really

go
off into
outer space is

line
5 (‘Saugen
brünstet um Zerfallen’).

In
a translation
that takes something

like
the historical
approach I outlined

above,
Michael Hamburger
has ‘sucking lusts

around
decay’ … My
translation (‘ … amputations wink

to
the worms’)
is associative perhaps

to
the point
of charlatanry, but

true,
I would
hope … if not

to
the words
on the page.

“is vast / / why,”

“[pulse       o                     k],”

“the brink or
brim,”

“whatever the month or wound,”

“A text wrapped in leaves,”

“that wwirl”[zzzzzzzzz],

“We’d
which,
when referring,”

“of
uh-huh,”
(page numbers omitted),

I should not have written, “it appears that you agree with …” because of course I can’t legitimately infer anything about your actual beliefs from a work of art. I probably should have written something like “This reminds me of …” since I’ve been trying to get my mind round Badiou’s Theory of the Subject, which is why I’m thinking about Lacan’s real … and Derrida’s il n’y a pas de hors-texte:

W
hich is
always deeply concerne

dwith
the ‘other’
of text, wh

ich

s
nah 2
say that [txt]

can
be rd
the way 1

reads
a bök.
R sez bees

r
her totem
animal. G

says
Yeah, I
tend to be

musical.
The going
sound stops like

smelt
tin, near
stiff. Give your

body
permission to
rest, says the

instructor,
relax the
back of the

heart.
“How thirsty
I am!” I

count
eggs before
a tiny mirror,

they they they they’ve built an eraser factory upon

a mass grave of ripples

slowly undressing seven veils to the

hum of the

4-ringed Borromean Knot.

I am secretly telling
you, The sun drinks
                                wine, thus, sets...

until soil.
no mort.

“How thirsty
I am!”

relax the
back of the

heart.
Eight glass
hours / shatter in

my
glands. and
remembers clearly saying

straight
to video,
there’s blood on

my
knuckle, wherefore
and whence. so the baby he moans
           only one infant word,
           he is screaming his “ran, ran,
           ran, ran”

swaddled only by a pressure of oxygen and nitrogen and trace percentages of other gases, gases including argon and carbon dioxide and some water vapor, gases ironed into the skin Exactly the way the dark,

like
the sleek
black wolf, seizes

and
rides her
land. - one email

says
“I attach
evidence of your

crimes
in high
res jpeg.” The

drinking
fountain in
the park squirted

water
so cold
it could only

mean
one thing,
the plumbing system

under
the drinking
fountain in the

park
leads deep
into the ground

and
lets out
into the attic.

[Note: Sources: 2nd of a mashup set using Shampoo 36. And. Eli Halpern, “Nancy’s house was burgled. It happens”, Blind Copy”; erica lewis, “the stone age did not end because we ran out of stones”; Alexander Pushkin, “The Bronze Horseman” (tr. Alistair Noon), at Horizon Review 2 (not Shampoo); Alistair Noon, “Blood, Flesh and a Packet of Tissues: Putting August Stramm Into English”, in The Last Drop: Versions of August Stramm (tr. Alistair Noon) (not Shampoo); Geof Huth, notes to/or the 2nd page of “Excerpt for Me” (rec’d from Geof via email, 19 Sept 09) (not Shampoo); JBR, comment appended to Ernesto Priego, “The Universe”, at Never Neutral, 16 Sept 09 (not Shampoo); Alain Wittman, and Jacques Derrida, who’s quoted by Wittman, in Wittman’s “il n’y a pas de hors-texte”, at Long Sunday, 5 Aug 05 (not Shampoo); email from Rebecca Loudon, 20 Sept 09, 8:38 a.m.; email from Geof Huth 19 Sept 09, 10:21 a.m.; Alisa Heinzman, “Outside/Inside”; Arisa White, “Yoga”; I skipped Caitlyn Paley; Anjali Khosla Mullany, “Damp House”; Luke Humphries, “Pond”; 4-ringed … Knot: Thomas Svolos, “Ordinary Psychosis in the era of the sinthome and semblant”, at The Symptom 10 (not Shampoo); Eileen Tabios, from THE BOOK; Will Burke, “.eat.”; Dana Ward, “Roseland”; Daniel C Remein, “exergue”; Denise Dooley, “Adda”; Ian M. McCarty, from I Woke Up Early the Morning After the End of the World; Caroline Klocksiem, “Ridden”; Alan Baker, “The Terrors”, and Tom Chivers, The Terrors, as quoted by Baker, at Litterbug, 20 Sept 09 (not Shampoo); Marisa Crawford, “Valentine’s Day”]

FCF 98

if
the lights
go out there

will
[sic] be
no more light;

their
lukewarm red
has mortality and

pliers
in it.
Dildo fuck. Fluff

hair,
belly stains,
wee legs eats

a
sandwich. Pointer
finger pulsates a

key
toward the
bottom end.

“Then
why do
you keep looking

at
the sky
all day long

through
that magnifying
glass?” asked Thomas

Onetwo.
“I’m trying
to find out

how
much of
the wish to

be
loved lies
in the Sun,”

answered
the man.
The recognition of

a
moving white
butterfly onto a

moving
lilac bush. this totally unavoidable value-annihilating freakout
it’s in the nature
it’s in the nature of how the market conducts
totally rational business transactions through us.

The
number 6
dynamics emotional

used
to be
my favorite number.

What
does it
mean [sic]? Susceptibility

also
correlates positively
with a

favorite
color (blue)
and a wish

to
squirt fleasantly
[sic] an hour

&
a half.
I was distracted

from
rapture by
the wish to

be
a fish.
Spontaneous affection is

the
essence of
relatedness X X

X
X X
X X. I

say
X though
the X’s stand

for
claps [7
claps . . . . . . .] My mind’s

eye
sees an image
made of echoes

blurred
by sound-
transparent skin … blurred

skin …
I prefer
a loose thread

or
barely discernible
stain to relieve

my
fear of
being the first

to
spoil a
garment older than

I
is. This
is certainly not

a
fact. When
people say “You

look
like a
cherry” I says,

“You
must be
talking about my

book.”
I is
desperate. The change of color is likely and a difference a very little difference is prepared.
        Sugar is not a vegetable.

Water
is not
a bonobonic chimpesque.

[silver
of sunlight
reflecting off the

windblown
blue-plane
of channel, width

of
fog behind
pine on point]

[white
water moving
in across the

grey-
green plane of
the channel, wingspan

of
pelican flapping
across toward point …]

[line
of grey-
white fog bank

moving
across horizon
to the left

of
the point,
blinding circle of

sun
in cloudless
blue sky overhead]

[grey-
white sky’s
reflection in the

grey-
green plane of
the channel, wingspan

of
gull flapping
toward the circular

green
pine on
tip of point]

[line
of white
cloud in pale

blue
sky above
point, sunlight flickering

off
blue-green
wave to the

left …]
Creamy, glossy
grey … seems more

appropriately
spelled with
“ey” than with

“ay,” …
Uniform holes/
indentations perforating ceiling

tiles
assembled overhead
there to shape

office
acoustics, not
gazer’s aesthetics (aesthetics

a
suspect category).
God, I miss

standing
in the
mosquito dark at

this
or that
pay phone. Unintelligible text

Inkblot 03 a hurried                                   on a
            shadow.

“medical time is the present”

Tibetan bowls

rainy green monkey typing
on a pink enigma showercap.

(is
there a better

day
than a
day with pelicans?)

[Note: Sources: The first of a series of 3 mashups of virtually all of Shampoo 36, each of which consists of bits from approx. 1/3 of the contributors (there are 47 links … I’m counting each link as a contributor, tho 1 has two authors). So they’re supersized sonnets. I’m glad to see Angela Genusa’s cover and contribution. I’ve missed her since her last blog went down. Hi, Angela! (that’s what I call the Carolyn comma, and what Carolyn calls the Jeanette comma …). Occasionally I mix in a bit from < a href="http://www.spinewriters.com/"> Spine 1:4. And. Esa Mäkijärvi, “I’ve seen the roses stripped”, “A light”; Alana Madison, “Song”, “Song”; Ryan B Richey, “I already met you Susan”, Masked Menace”; Ernest M Robson, Thomas Onetwo (neither S nor S); Allen Fisher, “Proposal 32. Commentary” (Spine); Stan Apps, “Market Freakout”; Robert J Baumann, “Did you mean: conduct boredom”; Philip Whalen, “Historical Disquisitions” (neither S nor S); Rob McLennan, “I want to sleep in the runcible spoon”, “it is true I have come inside”; Lucas Bernardt, “#54 Kuei Mei/The marrying Maiden”; Peter Manson, “The Baffle Stage” (Spine); Michael Montlack “Hummus Sexual”; Ricky Garni, “Pillow”; Gertrude Stein, as quoted by Suejin Suh, and Suh herself, “Water”; Stephen Ratcliffe, HUMAN / NATURE 7.1 – 7.5; Steve Tills, Life Sentences; Sherman Alexie, “Requiem for a Pay Phone”; Alexander Jorgensen, “Milwaukee Poem (Winter Movement)”, “The Body as Conflict (Inkblot 03)”; Megan Breiseth, ““medical time is the present”; the Tibetan bowls reference Rachel Rudich; Angela Genusa, “Warren Beatty vs. Julie Christie”. The pelicans are for K]

FCF 97

We have l’ ; played tilontologie our mother (proanaferthe) of ’ ; [ntes].

To l’ the being present hour to j’ ;

is used, [putya] of qu’ or it is established to the root of cicorie from the sea to

everything.

Since a massage of mine more recently than the I has for the house to have it freezes

that it returns, although also n’ ;

it is more than d’ ; it examines into „of l’ version without a series (all’ ;

the reduction of d’ ; ... it is the book) l’ ;

the risk of ...

„With here the aspects, be able to reason which as to haps they were seridos, by

selvage exceptional l’ enjambment of nition of 2 possibilities of d’ ; to accelerate the

motion of inferior partly.

I come flarfineß from Pfenning course.

Quelqu’ ; it (kalosorizetai) with the distance.

Right.

N to the vegetables of d’ ; vinegar - the one achieves.

L’ ; they obtained.

Thus to stroboscoop it loves l’ ; Influence.

         Several words seem to form mysterious-
         ly meaningful phrases & sometimes e-
         ven whole sentences & many mottos
         & exhortations like …

A meta-present, total living, with the lights on twenty-four hours a day. Any time ‘I’ is used

“–

Why should we be moved by

finding that sharks probably do (or probably don’t) have a take on the world that is recognizably like our own?

i was right,

i was right,

there’s no dot on your tongue at all. but it is a peculiar color. Do not look for your face in your neigh-

bor’s, you would see neither [the as such or the in general]. My

instinct tells me that my head is an organ for burrowing …

And the wagging of a dog’s tail, the perked ears of a cat? – And a tiny speck to the West rising upon the horizon of the sea? –

A silence? … – Silence as a phrase … She sings: The oops of life like a stadium wave / wraps the planet … We humans sweat. We try / to make contact.

Yes, yes … but this is too uh, too much like

they congregated on the threshold of Earth to listen to the reading from the book of all things when the word was used as that spiky little brush you

lengthen your eyelashes with, the powdery chalks you draw across your cheek, and nibble through the spectra of,

lost in some box canyon, at a dead end,

who doesn’t love a small kingdom?, a frightened rabbit kicks its hind legs so hard that it can break its own back. She presses the knife against her thumb. Al-

ways, ssss, it came out, I will make your name great: and you shall be a blessing, sort of, the circum-

scription that circumscribes nothing,

or stroke the good, serious face of a horse! Or, as the poet (not me) tries to reassure himself after

the long honey sunlit journey into

this night - » blinding business, I’m standing erect / in the photograph. It’s the sea / in the background that’s tipping. And it was all

strange and it was all natural, as na-

tural as strange and strange as natural, as strange as strange and as natural as natural, kinda like my desire to quote the bit about the “Jew with a capital ‘T’”, in search of transportation or a postcard, who “begged his mole-

cules to link together”, who, “placed in a jar with air holes, she awaited her trial in a state of religious bliss.” Phusis kruptes-

thai philei, to quote Heraclitus: Error 404 - Not Found. Oh no! You looking for something just isn’t here! It was Valentine’s Day; the poet (not me) tried to make an artificial vagina out of stuff in the refrigerator.

“.... Sure, duping to be workable, got you.

A working toward ..., one best apprehend. Pithy. A perception of occupying a flow toward, ever always getting to.” Lovely fucking buzzing a mirror.

(Very long pause; sounds of traffic alter-

nate with vacuum cleaner turned on and off.)

Ima-

gine someone (SADU DAA OOO BLAA hm hm hm a kind of hank of hair, piece of bone, lung, and

el-

bow), mosquitoes swarming around as ever tho no water in the LUNATIC STARS,

what a thing once more to get away with (a journey along the rocks by the shores of A THOUSAND LIGHT BULBS GOING ON AND OFF IN A PRECISE RHYTHM), a presence “combining its process with an absence of product.”

I don’t try to extricate my gestures from their non-art

ORIGINS: “answer the dawn will you” I thought 1011
                                                                      1111 
                                                                      11010
                                                                      11110
                                                                      101011 was a poem. At length my neck learns

the weight of my ass. A SAVAGE WAR IN THE LAND OF … ... [banjos] … as melting RADAR-SMELLS rush over your body, my architect asks me to stop referring

to him as my architect so: you’re now the line the scalpel makes. If so, then hence. Hence: Pass

me another lily, she says, chewing the last one down to the root. THEY KNOW WHAT JUSTICE IS BUT DESIRE FOR IT DOES NOT HAUNT THEM

I want to [un]bracket what I recognize; space hangs from the hooks, covered from head to foot in white veils,

a tune, a ? [a question mark], afloat on the DNA foam. There are the victims, there are the events. My god, so far, so close to

home: “We …

talala,                 ,               talala,            ; never

in formal bodies or memory structures, or in animals, the cunts of paintings. / [slash]. “… Sometimes I think the future begins

at the bottom of lakes …” (Even Agamemnon in his thickheaded stupidity had a feel for the bottoms of lakes.

(I mean a feel for the gods the gods (Please tell those gods to quit

pummeling. CLOSE/CLOSE/CLOSE

PARENTHESES. Noon whistles, and he eats alone each day (“he’s in good company”). Am I [is X], if not the fox, at least the raven?

An iris rots in a vase above the fireplace. Each comma ticks like sleet against a windowpane.

Or if not the raven: some infinitely stuttering thing, like a traveler who’s never before been in an airport?

“Humble is the charity of early mornings. Everything that happens then must happen: to you, to me, to the whole world.” There is

no name for the earthquake that threw the all the words

off their pedestals. How do they do it, with no external organs? The weather, too, it is and isn’t. Ergo, vis-à-vis thy own Yar!, we ascertain that that thing in the mirror is closer to life than

p.
223, “the
wound … invisible in

its
beginning,” “this
wound … rediscovered …,” “this

wound …
folded in
on itself,” “this

essence
of a
rupture …” this dreamless

season
of the
last book of

stars,
stars named
The Heavy, The

Sad,
The Smooth,
The Rough, The

The
Bitter, The
Sweetness None Could

Describe
Except The
Inflamed … It is

still
easy to
get lost on

the
earth, though
all the roads

are
connected … King
John’s just a

head
atop a
pyramid of flat

telebissions …
King John …
Big Bad John …

Johnny
Too Bad …
What we remember

best
about you
blank line is

the
quality of
your precipice. Blank

page.
A little
envelope of petroglyphs,

one
hundred soldiers
for a revolution

in
silhouette
and all caps,

and
Joe Brainard’s
If. If there

had
been words
on p. 57

instead
of this
gray scritch. Simply

put
space doing
the thing space

begging
for fullness
space space shivering.

explicit
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Miracles happen.
“Why can’t we

go
for a
walk and come

back
pleased?” “I’m
so confused, I’m

so
old, it
doesn’t seem at

all
right me
being like this.”

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W yes
we are small

the
smallest pebble.
The dump will

crush
your angel
on a pin.

Potatoes
and onions.
I hold mine

tight
against the
night wind, coming

up
from a
dreamless. This hurts,

that
hurts. It’s
a dark and

stormy
night. I
can say that

with
total confidence.
Words, and sometimes

entire
sentences, are
inevitably butchered. Abrupt

and
uncomfortable laughter
abounds. When one

person
gets tired
of reading, he

or
she simply
says “popcorn,” followed

by
the name
of the soon-

to-
be-embarrassed
next reader. After

an
hour or
so, when readers

can’t
stand it
any longer, they

all
go home.
I saw then

everything
that was
happening on earth

and
can describe
the humming of

the
clouds by
letting my pores

open
and close.
SOJUZ PLODO. It

resembles
(I resemble)
the ambient space

created
around an
ATM. Vug is

a
form
of conceptual writing.

       - Huh!
       - Imagine if
       - Every such prophetic

       - statement
       - were allowed
       - to rust by

       - the
       - side of
       - the road – (      )

The sharp stars swing around, sreee, the poet

wants to draw Venn diagrams. A beetle (which becomes a boat) floating below a fish-skeleton in a watery sky … its long inscription is a verbal collage one suspects to have been selected randomly from

back issues of Meat Science Monthly. “There's something about the book I'm reading—about the cadences? the vocabulary?—that puts me in a narrative outside of it, between the lines as it were, a scene where I'm following a snow choked trail down to the start of a forest and the promise of a stream I can cross, closing in on my destination.”

Each wound is a portrait of a lost branch; and were I not still standing, no one would ever narrate my missing selves; or love or mornings. This disembodied view-

point accompanies the probe Zond – a “bauble … Its only breath … seventy-five watts” on its immense journey to “what the Russians call / ‘Nasha dyevoshka’” – “our dead little girl”, i.e. the title planet. The miles you could’ve covered

with your hair.

with your hair. your hair. covered

The miles you could’ve covered

with your hair. covered

with covered

with The miles you could’ve covered

you could’ve covered

with hair.
with your hair. The miles you The miles you could’ve you could’ve covered

with

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with your hair. miles you could’ve your hair. with your hair. you could’ve covered

hair. could’ve covered
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your hair.
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with miles you could’ve covered

The miles you

with your hair. with your hair.
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hair. hair. miles you could’ve covered with your hair. you could’ve covered

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with your hair. you could’ve covered

with your hair. covered

with your hair. you could’ve covered covered … Not unlike poor Paradise, who in his time located a manuscript of “the night that defied articulation.” Let's pick up the dead now, all

the peace agreements,

insurance papers. Only two people survived the Warsaw uprising, and the one whose eyes etc etc manages to mumble,

“If you could lick my heart, it would

poison you.” … I forgot to turn on

the pop-up blocker. I wouldn’t be able to say one thing is food. Look and see! A giant fly looking to catch disease and spread disease, on wings it comes from you, man, woman, child! It’s up to you, man, woman, child! Our society is advanced enough to inform you and provide you dancing girls. It’s all about intent (I choose what to download). It’s all about, as Donna Haraway put it, “the lovely replicative baroque of ferns and invertebrates … skip[ping] the step of original unity” to be “resolutely committed to partiality, irony, intimacy, and perversity.” The intent, rather than moving forward with the directness of argument or following the sidesteps of narrative, is distributed to form an array of partial realizations,

a “lovely replicative baroque” that is an alternative model of reproduction.

Quoting Haraway again, “The machine is not an it to be animated, worshipped, and dominated. The machine is us, our processes, an aspect of our embodiment.” Like a shuttle wound fat with slubbed, undyed

silk, or, uh, how’s this, an alternating sequence of white and black screens, leading up to a black that lasts 24 minutes …

I

have fallen theatrifally [sic] under snapping jaws. At

whom,
indeed, was
Goethe laughing? The

translator
is a
long strange (hu)man.

it’s
it’s

[Note: A “messy” “self-sampling” poem for Geof Huth. JBR, Autopoiesis CLXXXVIII, Autopoiesis CLXXXIX, Autopoiesis CXC, Autopoiesis CXCI, Autopoiesis CXCII, Autopoiesis CLXXXVI;Edmond Jabès, The Book of Questions, as quoted By Maurice Blanchot, and Blanchot himself, in “Traces”, and “Translating”, in Friendship (tr. Elizabeth Rottenberg); William Fuller, Middleless, in The Reality Street Book of Sonnets (ed. Jeff Hilson); Arthur Vogelsang, “Komodo”, in American Hybrid (eds. Cole Swensen and David St John); Rae Armantrout, “Falling: 2”, in Veil; siglio press ephemera; kari edwards, having been blue for charity; the miracle refers to the fact that I tried some blind typing and, god’s honest, in the midst of it I typed the word “Geof”, to whom this is dedicated; Elaine Randell, “The Snoad Hill Poems”, in Other: British and Irish Poetry Since 1970 (eds. Richard Caddell and Peter Quartermain); Gevorg Emin, “Small”, in Language for a New Century (eds. Tina Chang, Nathalie Handal, and Ravi Shankar); Vivek Narayanan, “The Dump”, in Chang, Handal, and Shankar; Mohammad Rafiq; “No One Belonging to Me”, in Chang, Handal, and Shankar; Gil Ott, “Neighborhood”, in Pact; anon., “Finnegans Wake Popcorn (Best Pretentious Bookclub)”, at SF Weekly (found via Ron Silliman-link); Keith Waldrop, Shipwreck in Haven 6 and “The Theater”, in The Plummet of Vitruvius, in Transcendental Studies; Kevin Young, “Heaven”, in Nineteen Lines: A Drawing Center Writing Anthology (ed. Lytle Shaw); Tan Lin, “A Field Guide to Meta Data Standards”, in Shaw; Michael McClure, “Morning at Mt San Bruno” 2, in The Book of Joanna (I think McClure might be meaning “A small cavity in a rock or vein, often with a mineral lining of different composition from that of the surrounding rock.” (Answers.com)); Brian Marley, The Bargain Basement Sonnets 1,4, in Hilson; Marley and Grateful Dead. “Truckin”]

Big Doll

3.

Knowledge is festive. A deep molecular emptiness hangs in the

air. Dawn is glossed. “I am,” I answered silently. “But

I feel … different.” Let’s dab a double finger half-pissed

kiss on Muddy’s lips, O “Angel Showing Lead Shot Damage”,

off to my left I watch a man break two

glasses on the edge of his table, set them up

again and bring the palms of his hands down on

their jagged rims. The entire audience is spellbound and blindfolded.

All our buds lose their heads. Clink, clank, clunk, halt,

bounce, sway, go again, clink, clank, clunk, halt, bounce, sway,

it is too longshort a time in which to have

many pensées in but then again we’re not penséein’.

Two girls write I’m an asshole in ballpoint pen on

the back of the passed-out drunk boy’s leather jacket.

[Note: Sources: Image © Robert Rissman. Brandon LaBelle, Background Noise: Perspectives on Sound Art; Steve Peters, as quoted in LaBelle; Octavia Butler, Imago; Barry MacSweeney, “Angel Showing Lead Shot Damage”, in Wolf Tongue: Selected Poems 1965-2000; Nathaniel Mackey, Bedouin Hornbook; The blindfolds refer to Francisco López; Michael Gizzi, as quoted in John Yau’s review of Gizzi’s New Depths of Deadpan, at Brooklyn Rail, Sept 2009; Samuel R Delaney, Stars In My Pocket Like Grains of Sand; John Ashbery, “Pernilla”, at The New Yorker, 7 Sept 09. Links courtesy of Ron Silliman]

FCF 96

a. Since these are inflatable dolls (I picture the hermaphrodite in the middle to be male on the right side and female on the left, per that famous Robert Gober), all speech will be prerecorded. There will be 3 voices, though it may never be obvious which doll is speaking. The 3 voices will phase in from silence, all at the same time, ever rising in volume for 2.5 minutes, then will phase out, decreasing at the same speed until total silence at the 5 minute mark.

Voice 1: Schwitters’ “Ursonate” (the Christian Bök speedfreak version)

Voice 2: Michael McClure’s Ghost Tantras in a voice that (electronically???) keeps moving between male and female registers

Voice 3: Patrizia Vicinelli’s “Sette Poemi” (1967-76)

b. A speaks 1,3-6 below. B speaks 2. Throughout, both male and female hands continually fuss with the jewelry: thus there are 4 hands fiddling with pearl earrings, pearl necklace, several large sparkling bracelets, 3 or 4 big rings.

(1) Processes of awareness involve accessing and using cognitive resources.

(2) Some of these resources lie beyond the head of the individual.

(3) Accessing and using these resources [Here A pauses, B interjects 2, A begins again at beginning when B completes interjection] requires acting on the world in specific ways (through eye and head movement, bodily orientation and motion, manipulation).

(4) Even accessing and using internal cognitive resources [Here A pauses, B interjects 2, A begins again at beginning when B completes interjection] (for example, memories, perceptions) often requires such bodily action and worldly engagement through mnemonics, intention-fixing, rehearsal and repetition, talking to oneself, doodling. A repeats 2.

(5) The actions required in 3 and 4 typically occupy a temporal extension of many seconds, minutes, or even hours.

(6) So processes of awareness are temporally extended, scaffolded, and embodied and embedded [B completes sentence with “beyond the head of the individual”].

c. Both speak together, tho B finishes the first sentence before A begins (this is a round, like “Row, Row, Row Your Boat”). As the male speaks he undoes his tie and attempts to tie it around the female’s neck. There is nothing threatening in this; he is not trying to choke her.

Groups of individual organisms can have or can be thought of as having minds in something like the way in which individual organisms themselves can have minds. individual organisms themselves can have minds. minds in something be thought of as having minds individual organisms themselves of as having the way in which individual organisms in which individual organisms themselves can have individual organisms themselves can have can have minds. having minds in Groups of individual organisms of as having minds in themselves can have minds. organisms can have or can or can be of individual organisms can have or can can have or can be thought individual organisms themselves can have have or can be thought of Groups of individual have minds. of individual organisms can be thought of as or can be thought of something like the way in which have or can be thought of as having minds in minds in something like the way individual organisms can have or having minds in something like the in something like the organisms themselves can have minds. minds in something like having minds in or can be individual organisms can having minds in of individual organisms can have or organisms can have or can individual organisms can have or can be organisms themselves can themselves can have minds. organisms themselves can have minds. individual organisms can have have minds. which individual organisms Groups of individual organisms can of individual organisms can have have or can thought of as or can be of as having minds in something like the way in of individual organisms can something like the way in have minds. organisms themselves can have minds.

d. This is not a dialog. It’s a monolog for 2 voices. And … though it’s in a man’s and woman’s voices, the words will have had obvious electronic effects added, and will be projected from far distant speakers, fading from one to another somewhat randomly.

F. Whatever he said dead imagine. Who speaks through me?

M. The curtains raise showing off the actor and hir puppet.

F. While they tell each other jokes, the puppet seems alive, possessing its own voice and personality.

M. The Latin “venter” and “loquere” means “to speak from the belly.”

F. There is a close ventriloquy, when the voice comes from nearby, as when the puppet stays on hir knees.

M. A ventriloquist can also repress hir voice as if it came from the inside of a closed space or a tight box. Some ventriloquists can imitate sounds like an animal call or a baby cry without moving their lips at all.

F. A good ventriloquist can be very convincing. It is said that once a ventriloquist shouted a repressed yell for help while a cart loaded with hay was passing. The people really stopped the cart and unloaded the hay, expecting to find the poor victim covered by hay! Of course, they found nobody.

M. People believed they were speaking with the spirits of their dead who they had returned to pass on information retrieved from beyond the grave.

F. In time, ventriloquy surrendered

M. (speaking over “surrendered”) revealed

F. (continues) its mystical trappings.

M. In time, ventriloquy tragedy and comedy …

F. In time …

Both. Who speaks through me?

Open
the so-
called body and

spread
out all
its surfaces: not

only
the skin
with each of

its
folds, wrinkles,
scars, with its

great
velvety planes,
and contiguous to

that,
the scalp
and its mane

of
hair, the
tender pubic fur,

nipples,
nails, hard
transparent skin under

the
heel, the
light frills of

the
eyelids, set
with lashes – but

open
and spread,
expose the labia

majora,
so also
the labia minora

with
their blue
network bathed in

mucus,
dilate the
diaphragm of the

anal
sphincter, longitudinally
cut and flatten

out
the black
conduit of the

rectum,
then the
colon, then the

caecum,
now a
ribbon with its

surface
all striated
and polluted with

shit;
as though
your dress-maker’s

scissors
were opening
the leg of

an
old pair
of trousers, go

on,
expose the
small intestine’s alleged

interior,
the jejunum,
the ileum, the

duodenum,
or else,
at the other

end,
undo the
mouth at its

corners,
pull out
the tongue at

its
most distant
roots, split it,

spread
out the
bats’ wings of

the
palate and
its damp basements,

open
the trachea
and make it

the
skeleton of
a boat under

construction;
armed with
scalpels and tweezers,

dismantle
and lay
out the bundles

and
bodies of
the encephalon; and

then
the whole
network of veins

and
arteries, intact,
on an immense

mattress,
and then
the lymphatic network,

and
the fine
bony pieces of

the
wrist, the
ankle, take them

apart
and put
them end to

end
with all
the layers of

nerve
tissue with
surround the aqueous

humours
and the
cavernous body of

the
penis, and
extract the great

muscles,
the great
dorsal nets, spread

them
out like
smooth sleeping dolphins.

Most
of the
time, when someone

asks
me a
question, even one

which
relates to
me, I see

that,
strictly speaking, I
don’t have anything

to
say. There
is no terminus

from
which you
set out, none

which
you arrive
at or ought

to
arrive at.
Flip the rainstick.

Scratch
an asemic
text into the

schmutz.

Therybody the wormough be orts fich thositthassiffecte.

Of youlatery …

Clat after veres the on ime-se.

Ontere not classit …

The a clas is beat is is.

Nat ithervally …

Nows.

Thisfacto.

Of the all one’s the what.

On althe all tookin iffer isface c’est

une
promesse de
bonheur. Bonheur: blood

that
burns, flows
and pulses. The

beginning
of the
Word. The Word

swims
between two
shores. no meta

nothing.
“Mars hangs
above you like

a
meat chime.”
“An ovary red

dress.”
“What Is
It Like to

Be
a Bat?”
“What was it

like
be almost
human?” “What Was

It
Like?”
“How to Be

a
Fig” Dancing
is the root

of
thinking. Dancing, which
is chasing down

and
bashing other
living beings on

the
head. Rising
from the trees,

the
last full
moon of summer

seems
to signal
the commencement of

a
masque: everything
depends. – that entire

fevered
history of
the gigantomachies of

mimesis –
Whereof we
cannot speak, thereof

we
must never
stop talking. The

writing
was spaced
out across the

page,
which I
tried to retain

using
blockquote tags
, which don’t work.

1. Wipe the mushrooms clean with a damp not wet paper towel.
2. Melt the blob of butter and a tablespoon of olive oil in a frying pan over medium heat.
3. Add the shallot and red pepper flakes and cook only until it begins to sweat. The olive oil will keep the butter from browning.
4. Add the sliced mushrooms and LEAVE THEM ALONE. You want the mushrooms to get a wee bit brown. RESIST THE URGE TO STIR THEM. If you stir them or add salt at this point, the mushrooms will give up all their water and get slimy.
5. Once the mushrooms have shrunk down about half way, you can give them a stir. There. Doesn’t that feel better?
6. Add the asparagus and tomatoes and just warm them up.
7. Add the wine and let it reduce on low heat until half of it is gone.
8. Add the pesto. If you really really like pesto add more.
9. Cook your tortellini.
10. Mix everything up and put it on a pretty plate or a plastic Spiderman bowl doesn’t really matter.
11. Generously grate with Reggiano parmesano cheese. You can use a fancy microplane grater or just a potato peeler.
12. Taste at this point and add salt and pepper.
13. Top with the fresh cottage cheese.

I know you’re saying cottage cheese what the hell? Ewww! Ewwwww! I know, I know. Just trust me here. And make sure the cottage cheese is very fresh and made with whole milk. Seriously. You’ll be amazed.

As
you tell
us, Repetition is

truth
undetermined by
the stencils in

my
sleep (solarized
and degraded, amended

and
caressed). Our
fright has musical

arms.
Can some
Daedalian knees have

widenesses
unsaying the
paths I think

can
borrow doves?
“There is nothing here to be measured—/

pathis [sic!] …
I heart
this motherfucking problematic

gangstawack.

a tyke astairing across the living room
decades before his first tux

make that a Hong Kong potboiler of missed connections and false
arrangements. and when the hero is down to the last bullet and the gun
jams and by her own free will the girl left with the villain: a low comedy

of manners but with deep buckets of blood.

[Note: for Tom Beckett. Sources: Thrownnest, posts of 29 Sept 08; François Lyotard, Libidinal Economy (tr. Iain Hamilton Grant); Gilles Deleuze and Claire Parnet, Dialogues II (trs. Hugh Tomlinson and Barbara Habberjam); Geof Huth, “Welcome to Asemia”, at dbqp, 2 Sept 09; Jackson, Mac Low, “Therybody Havere [Stein 86]”, “Sleepy Poetry”, in Thing of Beauty: New and Selected Works (ed. Anne Tardos); Stendhal, I think, as quoted in Giorgio Agamben, The Man Without Content (tr. Georgia Albert); Michel Serres, The Five Senses (tr. Margaret Sankey and Peter Cowley); Jean Vengua, “found”, at Okir, 5 Sept 09 (a post which has since been yanked … dunno why, great poem, Jean …); Rebecca Loudon, Cadaver Dogs, as quoted in Amy Gerstler’s blurb, at the lulu ad for the book, “From the Becky Crocker Kitchens”, at Radish King, 3 Sept 09;; epigraphs to ch 14 of Maxine Sheets-Johnstone, The Roots of Thinking; Tom Clark, “Moony Masque”, at Tom Clark: beyond the Pale; Jean-Luc Nancy, The Ground of the Image (tr. Jeff Fort); Jean-Luc Nancy, Corpus (tr. Richard A Rand); Tom Beckett, “Exposures” and surrounding text, at Slim Windows, 31 Aug 09; Slim Windows, 31 Aug 09; Ray DiPalma, The Ancient Use of Stone, as quoted by Nick Piombino, in a review of same, at fait accompli, 15 Aug 09; Richard Lopez, Negatives in Blue, at Shampoo 21; Alex Gildzen, “Swimmers Out of Water” at eoagh 3]