The smears remind me of chemical mishaps. “I’m a motherfucking journalist you motherfuckers” Fox-news-crew getting tear gassed and the white woman being arrested for standing alone on the corner and the young black man who is crying into the camera of Democracy Now and everyone tweeting “What did the police do to the guy with no arms?” Swans chased a bulldozer over an ill-defined landmass until it was vanquished, comically falling over a cliff. The voice was intoning things warmly, like a mom. I have to be in one of those caverns. I’m loading up on Brecht right now. And the immortal Nina Simone. And now thinking about reading Sianne Ngai’s Ugly Feelings. “There is a sprawling apparatus.” I didn’t sign an oath to defend bankers. I mean, I did do it. I signed it “Jack Spicer” the day my flaying commenced. [The “falling objects” are rockets. And wallowed foaming winefats. We come at this huge and terrible earth one serpent inside another at a time, above all, none.] At ten went to bed. I had not turned out the lights for more than a quarter of an hour when I was awoken by the loud roaring of the unfortunate [Nietzsche]. I rose half up and heard two, three times, the long, raw, sounds, as if groaning, which he cried out with all his strength in the night. At night I love them, and my love endows them with life. During the day I go about my petty concerns. I am the housekeeper, watchful lest a bread crumb or a speck of ash fall on the floor. But at night! Fear of the guard who may suddenly flick on the light and stick his head through the grating compels me to take sordid precautions lest the rustling of the sheets draw attention to my pleasure; but though my gesture may be less noble, by becoming secret it heightens my pleasure. I dawdle. Beneath the sheet, my right hand stops to caress the absent face and then the whole body, of the outlaw I have chosen for that evening’s delight. The left hand closes, then arranges its fingers in the form of a hollow organ which tries to resist, then offers itself, opens up, and a vigorous body, a wardrobe, emerges from the wall, advances, and falls upon me, crushes me against my straw mattress, which has already been stained by more than a hundred prisoners, while I think of the happiness into which I sink at a time when God and His angels exist. No one can tell whether I shall get out of here, or, if I do, when it will be.
[Note: Sources: Geoff Tuck, “Kevin Appel, ‘Paintings’ at Susanne Vielmetter”, at Notes on Looking, 18 Aug 012; Anne Boyer, “The Day Steve Jobs Died”, at Poetry During OWS; Dana Ward, “From ‘A Trip Back in Time’ for Anne Boyer”, at Poetry During OWS; Marie Buck, “Surviving”, at Poetry During OWS; Laura Levin, “A blog post from September 29, 2011. …”, at Poetry During OWS; Brandon Brown, “Trending: Ressentiment”, at Poetry During OWS; Alli Warren, “Stellar Corpse”, at Poetry During OWS; Michael Cross, “The Katechon (lines 68 – 92)”, at Poetry During OWS; JBR; Harry Kessler, “Weimar, October 2, 1897. Saturday”, in Journey to the Abyss: The Diaries of Count Harry Kessler, 1880-1918 (ed. and tr. Laird M Easton); Jean Genet, Our Lady of the Flowers (tr. Bernard Frechtman)]