In the House of the Hangman 931

The trouble was, you inattentive lovers, one of victory. Human beef powder as impacted war porn. “Put these and this on they said and you’ll do it because of the passport.” The app is framed as a product parody, but I could easily see this being an art piece deliberately situated in the frame of the New Aesthetic. “This is the kind of thing I think I want.” Ask for the check or point out that the cloud is made of water. Deliria recalled both less and more than some minute particular: Like Mark Bradford’s four ‘contentless’ paintings describing broadcast technologies. Data float down; the own rote load doles out / a doubt-load flow into. ‘Can it be you don’t hear this?’ Item: minor surface noise. I mean, its celestial arc has got us surrounded. For some reason, it was 1649, we were trapped inside it, maybe it was 2003 or something. To commune with Baudelaire’s ghost in the kitchen night upon night, to ask him whether and receive gracious confirmation that yes, that line ripped off the Butthole Surfers is the correct historical update to his phrase. Even if it’s a piece of lint, it might be really awesome. Take the bodies piled up in pyramids. You’ve seen them on TV. I’ve seen them in The Law. They are beautiful even though they are hairy. But in The Law, the killer is depicted as a child on a white pony. The pony is whited out in order to evoke death: bones, hoods, photographic evidence destroyed in the afternoon, his eyes, china, people who burnt black people with gasoline and such, the stitches on a dancer’s body. So I tried hiding in the deficit touching me inappropriately. I suspect I was a spam filter in an earlier less lackluster life. Mutual respect between me and the corporatist government is becoming increasingly unlikely. I was granted the nirvana of pain meds, a 6-day steroid pac, am lying and waiting for magic to occur. MAGIC. The good doctor said that by tomorrow I will feel like a superwoman. I’m interpreting that as meaning that by tomorrow I might be slightly high, New York City. If you see me out and about and my lipliner goes a little out of bounds, or I'm a little bright-eyed, don't judge me, more than you already do. HAPPINESS IS A LIZARD IN THE SUNLIGHT GETTING WARM AND THEN IN THE NIGHT BENEATH A ROCK EATING FLIES AND SWALLLOWING THE MEAT OF THE TRASH OF THE DIRT. OK OK OK I know there is a north, south, east, and west. But I don’t know which is which. Aren’t there any other directions? My face is big as a rabbit and equally small. Hells Fargo. Sometimes dogs eat melon rinds and apple leaves but though I know this there has never until now in the dark been an occasion on which I could “happen” to say so unless I were willing to interject the information into conversation as a non sequitur and I’m not since that would contribute nothing to the general good. Talk among us, perhaps at L’s or K’s or perhaps here at home, no matter the degree of animation, no matter the force of our agreements or disagreements, is all intended for the general good. There was talk the other night about forests. B so strongly disagreed with A’s opinion that the adaptation of birds to blighted environments can be regarded as progress that I thought she was going to cry. But the workers treat them with familiarity, grabbing the ghosts’ hilariously elastic penises and shoving bottles of wine down their throats — a technique that not only cools bad wine but also improves its quality. I look at the moronic viewfinder. It pivots slightly in the wind. It should be put out of our misery. Tonight it did not rain in Bologna. But the other night I was sitting on a stoop in this city, next to a bar where I had bought a beer. It was crowded, because it was Thursday, and it was raining. There were no tables, because the ones in the rain were wet, and because it was Thursday. I sat in a doorframe. People with dogs kept coming in and out of it to take the dogs to shit on the smooth sidewalks and to leave that shit there. I was reading Günther Anders. I don’t know German, but his books are translated into Italian. Every time I read him, I’m startled that he hasn’t been more important to more people, myself included. The book is Die Antiquertheit des Hassens (or L’odio è antiquato orThe Obsolescence of Hate. The section I was reading might as well have been titled, “The Waning of Military Affect,” but it is not. It has a better title: “I beneamati artiglieri,” the beloved gunners or, better, the beloved artillerists. It’s about how the transformation of warfare toward war at a distance is bound to, and furthers, the outmoding of hate. It bears an enormous amount in common with Farocki’s films, albeit shot through with a bitter jag of melancholy.

[Note: Sources: Marianne Morris, “De Sade’s Law”, “Seabass Skin on Glass”, in Tutu Muse, at Bad Press; JBR; John Rico, “Why Soldiers Take Photos”, at Salon, 22 Apr 012; An Xiao, and Jotly, as quoted in An Xiao’s “An App to Rate Everything, and They Mean Everything”, at Hyperallergic, 24 Apr 012; Simon Jarvis, “Night Office”, LK, “On Simon Jarvis”, Sean Bonney, “from The Commons, Set 3”, MW-H, “SOME THOUGHTS IN THE VICINITY OF THE POETRY OF SEAN BONNEY”, in Simon Jarvis / Sean Bonney: 18th June 2010 / Cambridge Reading Series / Judith E. Wilson Drama Studio / Faculty of English / University of Cambridge, at plantarchy; JBR (re: work seen at SFMOMA); Johannes Göransson, “from THE SUGAR BOOK”, at Bathhouse 9.1; Arielle Greenberg, “from BLANK CITY”, at Bathhouse 9.1; Kate Zambreno, “Pauvre me”, at Frances Farmer Is My Sister, 24 Apr 012;Daniel Bailey, “Drunk Sonnet 14”, at Poetry Foundation; Mervyn Peake, Gormenghast, at Theater of Diminished Faculties, 24 Apr 012; Dan Bailey, “my face or whatever”, at Word Riot; Josh Harkinson, “Wells Fargo Turns Away Its Own Shareholders From Its Shareholder Meeting”, at Mother Jones, 24 Apr 012; Lyn Hejinian, The Book of a Thousand Eyes, as quoted in John Gallaher, “Lyn Hejinian - The Book of a Thousand Eyes”, at Nothing To Say & Saying It, 24 Apr 012; Marcela Valdes, as quoted in Joyelle McSweeney, “Marcela Valdes on Cesar Aira’s ‘Ghosts’”, at Montevidayo, 24 Apr 012; Clayton Eshleman, “For Don Mee Choi”, at Montevidayo, 24 Apr 012; Steve Fraser and Joshua B Freeman, “Getting Paid 93 Cents a Day in America? Corporations Bring Back the 19th Century: Nearly a million prisoners are working in call centers, working in slaughterhouses, or manufacturing textiles while getting paid somewhere between 93 cents and $4.73”, at Alternet, 19 Apr 012; Evan Calder Williams, “Three screens, a blinded cyclops, a name”, at The New Inquiry, 24 Apr 012]

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