The looted sandstone Duryodhana should be removed from Sotheby’s and returned to Angkor Wat. But where are the spaces (ever risible!) interwoven with the possibility of some sense in heaven’s eggs that might turn it into a more than chronic same as books for the blind music for the deaf bridge always thought to be an elevator initially collapses. There’s good cognition in guessing the right tubes, too: hung smack in the lure’s jam, blink to swing the hinge, to impersonate the mirror, greasing the bad glass: now run like fuck. We are the future doing tons of saliva wave drugs like Disney wave options to observe option prices when there’s no option prices and assuming everything a kind of hairdo equivalent so that the ignored undone unsaid. I wanna be your sugar hanging yawn tooth neon and throwing up yet I am watching thinking this is a sort of basic unconscious falling from the top of the atmospheric sense of being able to see the arctic smoke range nostalgic like a wounded Eiffel Tower but what if I mean like what if. How might it feel to be forced to drink molten gold? There is nothing magisterial about it except sweat and a certain willowy Weltanschauung. It has no discernible structure. Why even call it a sense? Perhaps it’s not a sense at all but just another nutty dollop of peanut butter, inflated to the size of a man’s head, rhymed by the ka-thunk ka-thunk ka-thunk of windshield wipers on a deep blue little numb moment in the palm of my hand. Dusters wrapt in itching flame, streaked in limbic cloud
pt in itching l 6
blue sky on the setting water, nod til
made to still, remade in onward chains?
Looking out the plane window at the feather grass and spiders,
the three p bears
a triangle dunked in the oil prism a head left. Who knows if what I’m thinking is this, or worse? Dispersing the riot in smoke like love in conscience: “the use value of a thing does not concern its seller as such, but only its buyer.” In which case use values are exclusive to consumers, and consumers are in that case the Blinky, Pinky, Inky and Clyde of the way of despair squared. In Actor Recursion Theory, actors can be traced and furthermore, executed by diachronic recursion and the repetition of finite rules, which have the capacity to refer to themselves and act on other recursive actors. Wave, though ... heh ... that’s utterly brilliant: the word ‘Wave’, but stripped of all / any prefix-signifiers. “It has to do with the porous feeding of the universe, every pore is the ass hole of another person. You lie in the bath for five days and old spoiled meal floats on top, the salad acid enters into the pores, also the orange acid if you get an orange peel on the head – if you spray some on a fly it spins around a few times and dies. The whole universe inverts itself so that the whole outside surface becomes a stomach lining ... When one experienced that, the universe inversion is worse than a dying Christ ... Below right a small doll lies wrapped in hemp. That is due to the fact that I previously influenced to urinate into a water bowl, then the ladies stuck in the unwrapped dolls and then into the vagina ... That happened often at that time.” This salad is delicious. [Punches air.] My tooth wants to be slower and closer to my matter brain. Moving is touching here also. Touching is moving. The DOE has a tunnel plug. Excellence is postmodern styling mousse, sharply perfumed yet curiously flavorless and disconcertingly soft when placed between meringues. Its difficulty is really just a lived obstruction to the reception field, as what nestles between ‘wounds’ can reveal itself in the ‘the show to hope again’ that gathers together a granulation tissue ‘around the wound’ as a ‘bar to wing,’ within the ‘trembling brilliance’ (‘in parvo’) for a viral transmission within the language string, (non-segmented rather than meta-stranded) it may feel ‘like eyelids over grit’ ‘quite sheer’ ‘and awash’. You enter a ring of limited and fraudulently sparkling numbers, and at their centre a balding, bigoted sun. The weird Gnosticism. As if the rich were some kind of jagged knife, out on the social perimeter, and we, the very poor, were being scraped against that knife, over and over. You move in slow motion. You feel like you’ve just been injected with 300 mg of burning dog. How fixed or stable is a (or “the”) “partage”?
[Note: Sources: JBR, but see Hrag Vartanian, “10th C. Cambodian Sculpture Seized from Sotheby’s in NY”, at Hyperallergic, 5 Apr 012; Conrad Diodato, and Steve McCaffery, “Slightly Left of Thinking”, as quoted in Diodato’s “April is poetry month: what’s good and what’s not”, at Word-dreamer: poetics, 5 Apr 012; Neil Pattison, “May Ode”, in Falter 1.2; Neil Pattison, “Militant Optimism”, in Beautiful 90210; JBR; Amy Lawless, “Valerian”, in “Amy Lawless: Empire”, at PEN, 5 Apr 012; John Olson, “Ezra Pound Looks Down From Heaven”, at Tillalala Chronicles, 5 Apr 012; JBR; Keston Sutherland, “Ode to TL61P 1”, in THE ODES TO TL61P; Robert Jackson, “SOME QUESTIONS ABOUT ACTOR RECURSION THEORY (ART): AN INTERVIEW WITH ME – (PART 1)”, at Algorithm and Contingency, 5 Apr 012; KEK-W, “Genre Tags of the Day”, at KID SHIRT, 5Apr 012; Joseph Sell, as quoted in Hans Prinzhorn, Artistry of the Mentally Ill, as seen at Girl Under Ice, 5 Apr 012; Damien Neva, via Pentametron, 5 Apr 012; Feng Sun Chen, “hamperks”, at * Secret Amazon, 5 Apr 012; JBR, but see Geoff Manaugh, “Tunnel Plug”, at BLDG/BLOG, 5 Apr 012; Timothy Morton, “IMPACT”, at Ecology without Nature, 5 Apr 012; Mark Dickinson, and JH Prynne, Pearls That Were, as quoted in Dickinson’s “Mark Dickinson: First of 3 READINGS”, at Intercapillary Space, 5 Apr 012; Sean Bonney, “Third Letter on Harmony (unsent)”, at Abandoned Buildings, 5 Apr 012; Bowman, at Rancière Blog, 5 Apr 012]