In the House of the Hangman 1144

They were about 35 miles away from where the bomb was dropped. “It detonated at 8,000 feet. We had our eyes closed, but even with our eyes closed we could see the light through our eyelids. It took 49 seconds for the light to stop. As soon as that happened, we immediately turned back. Fortunately being in the navigating position, I had a little window and I watched the whole thing develop and spread and then start climbing. I think I saw the face of God.” When the mushroom cloud had passed over them, Pasquini looked up at the window and had another surprise – “It's the only time I've experienced rain at 46,000 feet.” This is the second general strike this year in Spain. It comes after a 53-year-old woman, Amaia Egaña, jumped from a 4^th floor balcony to her death as the evictors arrived. LIBERA ME. Pain resur­faced, exit­ing out of my arms. In the dream was the face of your father but not my father. In that way I knew he had taken you with him. Music, a tor­tu­ous path. There­fore grief is ascribed to the body. ORPHEUS RESTORED. To write this poem I had to get drunk and also high because it was so scary and I needed to take leave of my senses a lit­tle and also I had some ice tea. I am prob­a­bly ignor­ing some red flags. ATTACHED TO THE SWAN COMES THE WATER. EXCERPTS FROM WOMEN BORN WITH FUR: Def­i­n­i­tions Hyper­tri­chosis: An exces­sive growth of hair on the body, pos­si­bly as a result of endocrine dys­func­tion, as in the hir­sutism accom­pa­ny­ing exces­sive adreno­cor­ti­cal func­tion. Hyper­tri­chosis: specif­i­cally refers to hair den­sity or length beyond the accepted lim­its of normal for a par­tic­u­lar age, race, or sex. Papa loves mambo! Mama loves mambo! Havin’ their fling again, Younger than spring again, Feelin’ that zing again, Wow! Los Ange­les I didn’t know what he did with his after­noons until I was six months preg­nant and he didn’t show up at home after a week or so. I got a call from his AHAB, AHAB. But this begs the question: if indigestion is the failure of adequate translation by the organs, what is the ideal of shit? Shit is the translation of food into waste. What we’re left with is supposed to be the processed unburdening of everything useless about nourishment. And I suppose that’s true for the hegemonic logic of translation, too. To follow our metaphor, imagine a turd that looks exactly like what you ate. Gross, right? And yet this is supposed to be literary success or something! These are “mechanical birds” hanging from a chandelier. The diary holds within it an implied criticism worked out in diffuse landscape remnants with plenty of chrome. The brain has become a blur in the discourse and is mostly fat. Table 5 adds to this. The barbed wire looks like foliage. In rapid expansion the dust clouds perfectly demonstrate self-similarity, foliage partly hides a waiting tank that slowly turns. After the dream of the laughing alligators in the theater, I dreamed I brought Oprah Winfrey a truckload of aluminum nitrate. I thought it was something she could use. She was in the middle of raising money for Eve Ensler’s V-Day campaign. When the Colonel found out I was accompanying Hassan on one of his weekly smuggling trips he insisted on joining us. He gave me the nickname “Ayoosh” and said that within 24 hours he’d have me on the front lines in a hijab, yelling “Allahu Akhbar!” after witnessing the regime’s brutality. Defert describes how at the end of Foucault’s lecture on heterotopia the architect Robert Auzelle offered Foucault his history of funerary architecture. Auzelle saw the cemetery as an important ‘green space’ and at one time also proposed the creation of a single cemetery for the whole of France, built in an under populated department of the country which would be devoted entirely to the dead. Night, white stars on black, town in blue relief, facades, roofs, chimneys: the figures walk on the line — in observation of a beautiful night, an unseasonable warmth. Night, white stars on black, town in blue relief, facades, roofs, chimneys: the figures walk on the line, a star shoots in a bold white curve, bursts, the figure points, the animal turns around, drops of sweat splash — a bit of hope, a piece of advice. Night, white stars on black, one star brighter, town in blue relief, facades, roofs, chimneys: the figures walk on the line, simple strokes, street lamp in relief, the animal figure hits the pole head-on, a crash and a light spiral, ripples emanate around colored stars — comments on a constellation. We all entered a deep meditation in which we visualized a thousand petalled lotus on top of our heads. Two developments of the past few years make me think it is worth re-opening this discussion of the relationship between feminist politics and the referentiality of language: the feminist blogosphere and the lyrics of Taylor Swift.

[Note: Sources: Joe Pasquini, and Keith Moore, as quoted in Moore’s, “Nuclear test veteran who flew through a mushroom cloud”, at BBC, 8 Nov 012; Amy Goodman, as quoted in Jodi Dean, “General Strike Sweeps Europe as Millions Reject Austerity as Solution to Economic Crisis”, at I cite, 14 Nov 012; J Mae Barizo, Tina Brown Celona, Julia Cohen, Beth Couture, Cheryl Diane Kidder, Garrett Rowlan, as seen at the landing page at Map Literary 2; Brandon Brown, “Gastrointestinal Effluvia and Translation”, at Harriet, 14 Nov 012; JBR; Tony Lopez, “Screen one”, at Free Verse, Spring 02; Bett, “after the dream …”, at Bett’s Blog, 14 Nov 012; Anna Therese Day, “Gunrunning with the Free Syrian Army”, at Vice, 14 Nov 012; Peter Johnson, “Deathscapes (3)”, at Heterotopia Studies, 14 Nov 012; Éric Suchère, Mystérieuse (after Hergé), in Jerome Rothenberg, “From Éric Suchère’s Mystérieuse (after Hergé), translated by Sandra Doller”, at Poems and Poetics, 15 Oct 012, via Ancients; Bhanu Kapil, “Electricity and Petals”, at Was Jack Kerouac a Punjabi?, 14 Nov 012; Voyou Désœuvré, “Speak/Now”, at The New Inquiry, 14 Nov 012]

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