I mean, hi everyone, do you sense something amiss in the room of the years, a kosmic disarray or void in the body, pervasive gloom unchecked by splendors? Blah blah and the word ‘WORK’ strobing over a picture of the warming world? But yo, we’re not, finally (or entirely I should say) economic determinists, living, as we do, for the mysteries of what will not reduce, their truth being both the plainest thing & blurry. I’m typing this up on a Horcrux now (“my Foxconn laptop”, to quote Anne Boyer), those fires out there / in here have meanings. Mark my worm. Christmas can unfortunately be a heightened form of capitalism too, but I don’t mind that because Christmas is good for criminals. Shoplifting is easier, there are presents in the car you can steal. The missile rushing over your head was processed through an Instagram filter just hours previously. As you see it pass out of sight behind the apartment block opposite some young conscript is preparing for video footage of it to be compressed and uploaded to YouTube before the hour is out. By nightfall tonight that explosion which just shook your neighborhood, in one of the most densely populated areas on earth, will have been liked over 8,000 times on Facebook. Welcome to Gaza City. Mr. T audibly breathes, “I like worlds. I gave my favorite chain to Stallone. Oh well. I’m fully reclined by the way, Lemonhead. This car has 12 little Bose speakers. The Mountains sound rich. I see leaves falling from trees. I see a lake that’s still. I see a frozen dragon.” The chain snake expands until it becomes a desert. An Arabian desert. A caravan there was moving over sand. Dunes and desert forever. The caravan is traveling an incense route. A route the camels know well, harsh and long, but worth it in reward and spice. The caravan leader has nine year-old twins who go with him, always. A girl named Alima, and a boy Imam. On the third day of the third desert crossing of the year, the twins find an abandoned hawk’s nest with three unhatched eggs inside. Alima insists on taking the eggs in and incubating them, despite everyone in the caravan telling her it’s too late to save what’s inside. She mothers them with constant vigilance. She speaks to them and breathes on them for hours. Weeks later, in Gaza, after the caravan arrives, the eggs hatch. Everyone’s bewildered. It shouldn’t have happened. There was no life in those eggs. But Alima knew, never doubted, and thus, three baby hawks were born to the desert world. And each hawk with emerald eyes. Green, light filled emerald eyes. Mr. T: “What happened to the cloud snake? I had nice leather bracelets too. But gave those to Dolph Lundgren. He probably didn’t even wear them. I like the Mountains. I’m calm now. It’s like time travel, Lemonhead. Except with falconry. I feel like I know how snowflakes are made now too. I should get that chain back.” The bath remained the perfect temperature after cooling perhaps because of the ginger / Maria Sabina chanting bringing an old Mexico into the yard she fully came as a visitation she is a saint / I was in the bath talking to the dying cottonwood and this is what she said / Trees thrive on sound more than you can even imagine. Why is it the birds are so cacophonous? And a tree so loud when full of birds? Trees need the frequency of a certain kind of sound, know how to make use of screeching children. The sound of a dying tree / the hollowed branches, the drying, the sound of gravity, the wind pulling and creaking.
[Note: Sources: JBR; Dana Ward, “A Year in Music By Dana Ward”, at Coldfront, 28 Nov 012; Stina Kajaso, “Progg”, at SONOFDAD, 28 Nov 012; John Waters, as quoted in Nick Gazin, “John Waters Is Doing a Live Christmas Show and I Interviewed Him”, at Vice, 28 Nov 012; Hew Lemmy, as quoted in Derek Gregory, “Just looking (and shooting)”, at Geographical Imaginations, 28 Nov 012; Trent Moorman, and Mr T, as quoted in Moorman’s “Mr. T Stared At Clouds And Had Mountains Interpreted For Him”, at Vice, 28 Nov 012; Bett, “I think jackie w would agree …”, at bett’s blog, 28 Nov 012]