Beheated.
Struck by
bolt of lighting.
The
truth the
cell is strictly
a
nostalgic thing
for me now,
sugar
raised revved
posthumous sensible space
cancels
before impossible
speed under canon
limelit
to ample
zero hush. Tourguides
hold
high their
halfmoons sock monkeys
speak
wirelessly. Of
course it’s time
to
mutate always
è tempo di
mutare
sempre. This
is the tune
but
there are
no words. The
words
are only
speculation. They seek
and
cannot find
the meaning of
the
music. At
a cross roads,
sits
the player.
No drum, no
umbrella,
even though
it’s raining. The
face
singed at
the top of
the
body. My
days are eaten
slowly.
I sit
on the fluorescent
seat.
All the
interface instabilities noted
earlier
are only
exacerbated by the
complexities
of interactivity.
The signifying chains
are
ab so
lute ly crazy.
When
it sank
it thundered, the
tires
are balding,
exhaust is rust.
a red feather signifies ejaculation –
(Solace is in the mail
but there’s no technology to deliver it.)
You. They. I.
We.
Press
the key
you wish to
define
now. Later,
outside, you/they/we/I can
say
the slosh.
They/you/I/we’ll eat candybars
together
play basketball
& speak of
space-
burning satellites.
You, they, I.
It’s
time to
dive into the
Starry Grab.
For
the dance
and the architecture.
weave
among incidents.
The lights the
lights
the lonely
lovely fucking lights
the
big dogs
of Firenze and
the
noise. We
knew Sparky was
under
the engine,
the way a
system
builds around
refusal of a
system,
as a
stateless man lives
under
a bridge.
Supersize that, document
this.
Host and
hostage stir. The
floppy
disk is
programmed to destroy
the
text as
soon as it
is
read. Which
is funny. Who’s
got
a system
that can handle
floppy
disks? Are
people woman? Who
calls
you / on
a sun shirt
sleeves
down his
ecstasy The hair
you
are / becoming?
Mmmm printed like
a
Mapplethorpe don’t
stand there like
a
rosebush curl
of violin. What
is
memory but
an attribute of
negligence?
- the axle
- in synch with
- the
- cathedral and
- the marketplace - dying
- moments, welcome intrusions …
a
slice of
lemon in the
water –
Let there
be lamps – a
dampness
pumps from
the tightened fist
of
a cold
contraption – a severed
hand.
Caravaggio Medusa.
“You’ve made an
old
mistake”, said
A, suspiring. The
agents
lit the
lamp. “Okay, you
recall
treatments of
‘being’ and ‘nothingness’,
and
‘I was
envious of fair
realism.’”
OK. The
United States’ Most
Wanted
painting is
a large-scale
landscape
with deer
standing in a
lake
under a
blue sky with
George
Washington looking
on. One must
go
beyond logic
in order to
experience
what is
large in something.
1.
Uh………………………………………………
…………………………………………………
…………………………………………………
…………………uh……………………………
…………………………………………………
…………………………………………………
……uh…………………………………………
…………………………………………………
…………………………uh……………………
…………………………………………………
………………um……………………………
…………………………………………………
…………………………………………………
………uh………………………………………
2.
I don’t know, of an ocean or in this
case, both in conscious life and elsewhere, I
don’t see it end, it might be any length.
“But only that which has no history can
be defined.” It’s possible to cross out
one ocean and replace it by anoth-
er, un-explained. To give this a context,
I’m writing below sea-level (not), but
I don’t know what time it is (not) and
I don’t speak the language (not – well, maybe).
Now, spritz shapes [sic] rise transcendent in a
gesture that refuses to display an-
y goal or aim: “We have none.” From Was Here:
THIS. This picture shows one such radiant.
3.
I am. We are. That’s enough. Now we have
to start, as the actual unfucking
snow-green coastline stands still and we, the pas-
ty faces lathering the windows like
drawings from the Prinzhorn collection, the
unbearable lightness of being-not-
being, float by. The Master Signifi-
er’s salt and wet and the color of slate.
It’s all there: the art, the illness, toujours
la ballerina assolutissi-
ma, dancing in the waves. Kenna-whit ken-
na-whit, like a little bird, sitting on
a branch and … all by itself the cursor
moves … I/LOVE/REAL/LIFE … in neon letters …
4.
Now
an awkwardness
always signifies something …
as
do chickens
rendered inebriated by
chunks
of bread
soaked in whiskey,
a
walker walking
along a moving
stairway,
in a
truck with see-
through
sides. I
do not have
a
perspective on
my own body
the
way I
perceive other bodies.
In
a world
of all noise,
it’ll
be tonight.
Another three rounds
of
rope, higher
up, do not
merely
frame her
breasts, but cut
deep.
And these
bookmark-sized pages
say
things like
“here comes a
pop-
up / yellow
silt” or “I
flow
in two
directions / radiation up,”
a dropper full of marrow a dropper full of sea
from a planet of mostly seas.
“I
am like
you in most
ways,”
she tells
us. “My introductory
paragraph
comes at
the beginning and
I
have muscle
fat and a
skeleton
that keeps
me from collapsing
into
suet. But
my real skeleton
is
made of
scars; a web
that
traverses me
in ( ) dimensions.
I
am most
myself in the
gaps.”
We have
twenty minutes to
wait
at the
site where Barbie ™
signs
autographs. HOWEVER,
AS YOU MAY
HAVE
INTUITED, I
HAVE YET TO
TURN
INTO AN
INVISIBLE TELEKINETIC CHAMPION
OF
JUSTICE. Artemis
interrupts this celebratory
dance.
In Codex
Artaud III there
is
a figure
holding a banner
with
a head
on it … In
The
Acrobat (1990)
the figures are
dispersed
across seven
vertical panels to
create
a centrifugal
movement composed of
two
alternating images –
a female gymnast
performing
a backward
flip taken from
the
pose of an
Egyptian acrobat on
the
temple at
Carnak, and a
pre-
Columbian carving
of a crouching
skeleton.
I wish
I had my
Lorenzo
Chiesa with
me. Now “imagine a city colonized by its own economy
where power is diffuse but highly centralized
wrapped as smooth as a vinyl texture map
The class structure and day-to-day business are highly ergonomic
They rely on easy listening surveillance
nothing more threatening –
( ) ( ) ( ) –
than a beep from a remote
The weather and the architecture offer no immediate threat
no sense of rifle sights aimed by lunatics at innocents
In fact
( ) ( ) ( )
there is nothing more than the risk of a bad sunburn or an occasional mudslide
We can drive or navigate its “streets” without getting crushed by biker assassins from a Japanese animé
You do not jack up sour memories like shooting with dirty needles here
Everyone loves to talk digital and sleep near the warmth or their monitors
Snap
to Grid.”
You can’t choose
your
illusion[s].
Bleed
Beheated.
Strucken by
bolt of bad lighting.
The
truth the
cell is strictly
a
nostalgic thing
for me now,
sugar
raised revved
posthumous sensible space
cancels
before impossible
speed under canon
limelit
to ample
zero hush. Tourguides
hold
high their
halfmoons sock monkeys
speak
wirelessly. Of
course it’s time
to
mutate always
è tempo di
mutare
sempre. This
is the tune
but
there are
no words. The
words
are only
speculation. They seek
and
cannot find
the meaning of
the
music. At
a cross roads,
sits
the player.
No drum, no
umbrella,
even though
it’s raining. The
face
singed at
the top of
the
body. My
days are eaten
slowly.
I sit
on the fluorescent
seat.
All the
interface instabilities noted
earlier
are only
exacerbated by the
complexities
of interactivity.
The signifying chains
are
ab so
lute ly crazy.
When
it sank
it thundered, the
tires
are balding,
exhaust is rust.
a red feather signifies ejaculation –
we
have no
guns, our deefenses
are
out of
order, so we
retreat,
but we
will return to
place
a loaf
of bread upon
this
spot, so
we won’t be
forgotten.”
[Note: Sources: FCF 106 fragment [sources: Jacques Derrida, as quoted in Declan McGonagle, “The Classical Trace”, in Jon Bird, Leon Golub: Echoes of the Real; Nicolas Bourriaud, Relational Aesthetics (trs. Simon Pleasance & Fronza Woods with the participation of Mathieu Copeland); Jon Bird, “Survey: Dancing to a Different Tune”, in Jon Bird, Jo Anna Isaak, Sylvère Lotringer, Nancy Spero; JBR, comment appended to Ernesto Priego, “The Age of Simplicity”, at Never Neutral, 19 Oct 09; quote from a poem that’s been incorporated into Nancy Spero, The Ballad of Marie Sanders / Voices: Jewish Women in Time, 1993, as seen in Bird/Isaak/Lotringer; Sylvère Lotringer, “Focus: Explicit material”, in Bird/Isaak/ Lotringer; Anne Boyer, quoting Lynn Behrendt (while reviewing her Luminous Flux and Ann Lauterbach’s Or to begin again), in “'13. Tiny distinctions appear among luminosities’ or ‘perform parthopoeia on what used to be your gallows’”, and “14. ‘oh mute promise of bunnies overpopulating the sod’”, at Books of Poetry, 18 Oct 09; Shelley Jackson, Patchwork Girl, as quoted by George Landow (sample includes a little Landow-bit), “Hypertext as Collage Writing”, in The Digital Dialectic (ed. Peter Lunenfeld); Brenda Laurel, “Musings on Amusement in America”, in Lunenfeld; Peter Lunenfeld, USER: Infotechnodemo; Nancy Spero, interview with JoAnna Isaak, and Isaak herself, in Bird/Isaak/Lotringer; Norman M Klein, preface to Peter Lunenfeld, Snap to Grid: A User’s Guide to Digital Arts, Media, and Cultures; Guns’n Roses. i.m. Nancy Spero]. And: English language pamphlet from the Roman church Santa Barbara dei Librari; the rest of this is built of bits taken A-Z from Nuova Poesia Americana: New York (a cura di Luigi Ballerini, Gialuca Rizzo e Paul Vangelisti). And. Bruce Andrews, “Primum Mobile 10”; Amiri Baraka, “A Poem for Willie Best”; Bill Berkson, “Russian New Year”, “Ivesiana”; Peter Lunenfeld, Snap to Grid (not Ballerini etc) (One must … large in something is Lunenfeld quoting Gaston Bachelard); Charles Bernstein, “Internal Loss Control”, “Catabolism”, “Residual Rubbernecking”; Lorenzo Chiesa, Subjectivity and Otherness: A Philosophical Reading of Lacan (not Ballerini etc); Anselm Berrigan, “The Cultual Revolution”, “‘To what end is what we’ve got …’”; Ted Berrigan, Sonnets, I; Paul Blackburn, “Brooklyn Narcissus”; Brian Blanchfield, “Thirteen Point Three Three”, “If the Blank Outcome in Dominoes Adds a Seventh Side to Dice”; Joseph Ceravolo, “White Fish in Reeds”; Jordan Davis, “The Tourist and the Tsarist”, “A Fancy Bear”; Ray DiPalma, “Paving the River”, from Caper; Timothy Donnelly, “Accidental Species”; Barbara Guest, “An Emphasis Falls on Reality”; sonnets from the Alaska trip (texts etc. at hand aboard the cruise ship Infinity, May 08, found on this laptop): 1.: simulacrum (first typed simulacum – shoulda left it?) of my mind and soul fuck in Disenchantment Bay (aka The Sublime) (cf. Duino 1) (cf. Jennifer Moxley: Nothing matters that is not made to matter, and in this indiscriminate climate … nothing can be made to matter (“The Best American Poetry”, in Nineteen Lines (ed. Lytle Shaw). Anselm Berrigan, Zero Star Hotel, in Nineteen Lines; 2.: all stuff from Nineteen Lines. Dan Farrell, The Inkblot Record; Bernadette Mayer, Spring Journal, 2000; Carla Harryman, The Words After Carl Sandburg’s Rootabaga Stories and Jean-Paul Sartre; Lewis Warsh,”Mt Tremper Variations”; Marcella Durand, “Machine into Water 23”; Jeff Derksen, But Could I Make a Living From It; Barrett Watten, Bad History (actual typo is sprit); Emily McVarish, Was Here; John Ashbery, “Alone, I”. “Out on de rolling sea” (Joseph Spence); 3.: Texts etc. at hand aboard the cruise ship Infinity. Ernst Bloch, Spirit of Utopia (tr. Anthony A Nassar); Brian Kim Stefans, “A Poem of Attitudes”, in Nineteen Lines; Lacan via Slavoj Zizek, In Defense of Lost Causes; Bob Flanagan, The Pain Journal; Robert Pincus Witten, back cover blurb for Eleanor Antin, Being Antinova; Geraldine Monk, “Ava Va Va”, in Escafield Hangings; Ross Sinclair, I Love Real Life, 1998. Rome-Assisi-Firenze-Venezia]
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