Aber
haben ancient
bahben he-ah-buh, he-ah-buh,
you
need to
know what that
means.
We may
relate with pleasures
and
[quote] “pleasures”
because we’re We’re
in
the midst
of an explosion
and
think it’s
just everyday life.
Mon
tortilla ferocity
laminated klieg Mittwoch
deuce
dapple nepotism
rábbit-page alleluia.
We
are those
lifeforms. Linkedy link.
Con-
tented lifespace.
Lilly of the
conju-
rer. I can’t
believe it either.
Well,
but blue
places dance and
stroke.
Be light
light that. Think
of
it as
a watery wave
force.
Whoever hears
plaster dry listens
best.
Or listens
last. Or, as
Nada
Gordon makes
Alli Warren sing,
Gold Dirt
out of several secretions
nectar
come bursting through the ground
secret swelling
in gaping engagement
must be made more moist
with spore sacs and sac fruits
and we were all like
plugging the whole
lactating
all gummy in the mouth
breathing and peopled cupping
we wipe each other off
waxing real hard
pussywillows whip in the wind
I lick around the perimeter and then I lick under
insert two fingers to bring breath
the flooding comes
donk for days
I lay my button down on naked ladies
if this is decadence
I had something special on
for pants
big breathy icons
and fruity knockers
I held it in my mouth
but
this illness
(which is however
not
a real
illness, but a
complex
and exceedingly
rare natural phenomenon),
just
as each
caterpillar’s head is
blinded
and left
black, its torso
thinned
by a
veritable explosion from
which
the symmetrical
wings flare up,
is
simply onomatopoeia
without mimesis, perhaps,
I
want to
believe it makes
a
difference / our
crowding together like
this /
pooling our
burden of neurological
disaster /
secret symbols
and laying on
of
hands. It’s already morning
even though I can still feel the tight insistence
of my eyelids.
And chipmunk-cheeked
and out-of-cash and damp
and burning calories,
a long day ahead
and a long long night
and a day, a mammal lifeform
ordered by our bulging ears,
the cat sits down
this poem writes
itself again
and one bears witness to a destruction of the field which, thus, becomes extremely blurred to the extent that everything from this time on can coexist, and on the other hand, everything crumbles into splotches of what’s important – real time cut with elastic – let’s recall how interested we were in the contest between two whirligigs,
O sleepless data glaze glazed
drool echo echo then not
this poem begins to
writes and writes
itself again
everything I touch turns
to flesh and
that’s right
flesh and.
The starry night to stare at.
The sandwich-eating Shadow.
flesh and.
The
spaces in
between your fingers
shift
throughout the
day and almost
disappear
in webs.
The great ball
of
crystal – who
can’t lift it?
Good
when a
branch scrapes the
roof
of your
shed. ‘Où vont
les
chiens ?’ That’s
right. I do
have
a gag
reflex. Or is
this
a Rancièrean
assertion that there’s
an
aesthetic dimension
INHERENT in any
radical
emancipatory politics?
“When Freud says
that
the obsessive,
on the cultural
level,
yields the
religious and that
what
is hysterical
yields art … there
is
a difference
between what makes
things
move and
what stops them …”
Le
nom du
père (le non
du
père) trickles
Rome’s thin prose
yet
we’ll move
the deeper part
ellipsis
into every
ellipsis falls a
dialectic. It would therefore be prudent to distinguish such providential outcomes as History affords us from Utopia itself as the opposite of our history as a whole. Returning to earlier speculations about a spatial dialectic, we may argue that in that sense Utopia is no longer in time, just as with the end of the voyages of discovery and the exploration of the globe it disappeared from geographical space as such. Utopia as the absolute negation of that fully-realized Absolute which our own system has attained cannot now be imagined as lying ahead of us in historical time as an evolutionary or even a revolutionary possibility. Indeed, it cannot be imagined at all; and one needs the languages and figurations of physics – the conceptions of closed worlds and a multiplicity of unconnected yet simultaneous universes – in order to convey what might be the ontology of this now so seemingly empty and abstract idea. Yet it is not to be grasped in the logic of religious transcendence either, as some other world before or after this one, or beyond it. It would be best, perhaps, to think of an alternate world – better to say the alternate world, our alternate world – as one contiguous with ours but without any connection or access to it. Then, from time to time, like a diseased eyeball in which disturbing flashes of light are perceived or like those baroque sunbursts in which rays from another world
suddenly
break into
this one, we
are
reminded that
Cartoon prawns and
crabs
go into
Eurotunnel singing along
with
zydeco music.
Redwoods fall. 57
million
something tons
ice just melted
in
the Antarctic.
Our fortunes are
in
the stars,
truly, since brokers
are
using astrology
in the stockmarket.
Anywhere
near blank
rage I veer,
oblivial.
Blank rage
isn’t very useful.
It
is the
name for an
X
whose V
does not view
the
surface of
a lake but
the
mirror on
a wall, where
U
and you
become a tautonym,
a
kra haa
car-eek kee-arr kay-rrr,
kip
kip kip
kow-kow-kow, ga-ga, let
the
party-goers
go in the
grass
and fuck
in the night,
no
good (nor bad) will
come of it.
no
possible good (nor bad)
can come of
it.
one’s picture
of the keeper
at
the gates
is straight from
the
movies.
Like that dude
in
the Kafka
parable: Clyde Robert
from
The Wizard of
Oz.
What we
need are SPIMES.
If
we had
SPIMES, we’d maybe
only
have melted
56,000,000 tons. Ublopia
or
Otivion. Holy
Perplex! & Sanity
surreal
as Hell.
It’s not all
O pioneer alpha evolve zero.
What the word on an image track inherently defines is the nature of a fact-image confusion history becomes that landscape whose sewage rises to events in one thick vertical the semantic becomes a territorial presence
…you’re carried high into gray sky coughs and splutters leaping from your throat and thighs you materialize at any time by back-formation……
like monkeys smile when they’re afraid
somewhere between the prairie and the ocean
we are 8 o’clock years old
the
miraculous hat
falls off / the
top
rung of
a ladder appears
at
the window /
in exile Andromache’s
handmaid
builds a
miniature Troy: tinfoil
glitter
superglue toothpicks.
O how undone
now
as I
push to notate
the
whole: GRAPHIC
BUSH-FIRE NARRATIVES.
Bind
the straw
with flesh … the
impossible
parting of
face and mask.
[Note: Poem for my 59th birthday. Sources: more stuff I picked up or was gifted with in London, and stuff that’s been posted on blogs I read since 22 Oct 09, the day we flew to Rome, and stuff from the shelves that center this project (!), as well as and. Autopoiesis CLI, which just popped open, for some reason; Nada Gordon writes: “I started to write my thoughts on Alli Warren's new chapbook, Well-Meaning White Girl, and I realized that I was picking out the dirty parts as I read. Here, then, are the dirty parts, pretending to be a new poem”, at ululations, 9 Nov 09; Hélène Cixous, Hyperdream (tr. Beverly Bie Brahic); Francis Ponge, “The Butterfly” in Unfinished Ode to Mud (tr. Beverly Bie Brahic); Stan Apps, “Onomatopoeia Without Mimesis”, at Freewill Applicator, 22 Nov 09; Angela Gardner, Views of the Hudson, 26; Adell Joan-Elies, “Any Morning” (tr. D Sam Abrams), at Poetica.net; Stan Apps, “I Managed to Think About It”, at Poetica.net; Aaron Tieger, “10/19/05”, in Anxiety Chant; Jean-Marie Gleize, and Charles Baudelaire, as quoted by Gleize, “Où vont les chiens?” (tr. Louise Højgaard Marcussen & Lasse Gammelgaard), at Sibila.com; Arkadii Dragomoshchenko, “On the Upper Layers of the Atmosphere” [on Alexei Parshchikov] (tr. Genya Turovskaya), at Sibila.com; Emily Critchley, “Andrea’s Reading”, in Who handles one over the backlash; David Kennedy, “Momentary Ode”, in MY Atrocity; Alan Bernheimer, “Carapace”, as quoted by Ron Silliman, in a review of Bernheimer’s The Spoonlight Institute, at Silliman’s Blog, 18 Nov 09; Geof Huth, “Preview of the Most Recent Yesterday”, at dbqp, 22 Nov 09; Peter Hughes, “Lakes”, in Physical Geography; Ezra Pound, The Cantos, 116; Maurice Scully, “Self-Portrait as Oddity”, in Work; Slavoj Zizek, afterword to Jacques Rancière, The Politics of Aesthetics (tr. Gabriel Rockhill); Hélène Cixous, as quoted in Amy Hollywood, Sensible Ecstasy: Mysticism, Sexual Difference, and the Demands of History; Lisa Robertson, “Virgil’s Bastard Daughters Sing”, in Debbie: An Epic; Fredric Jameson, Valences of the Dialectic; Tony Lopez, “Assembly Point D” in The Reality Street Book of Sonnets (ed. Jeff Hilson); Christian Bök, Veils”, “W”, in Eunoia (upgraded edition); Eleni Sikelianos, California Poem, in American Hybrid (eds. Cole Swensen and David St John); Beverly Dahlen, A Reading, 16; Bruce Sterling, Shaping Things (tip o’ the cap to Sam); Ronald Johnson, “ARK 43, Lot’s Pillar III”, “ARK 72, Arches VI”, in ARK; Steve McCaffery, “Apriopriopriapus: Prefatory Notes on Stein & The Language Hygiene Program”, in Seven Pages Missing Volume Two; Paul Violi, “Moving”, “Loose Ends”, in Waterworks; Yevgeny Antinov/Eleanor Antin, The Man Without a World; Reginald Shepherd, “The Tendency of Dropped Objects to Fall”, in Swensen/St John; Gavin Selerie, “Soundings”, in Hilson; Laurie Duggan, “East, 6 (1939)”, in Hilson; John A Scott, “Thatching” and “Two Performances 1 Edith Piaf & Hancock”, in Hilson]
Comments