In the House of the Hangman 1169 & 1170

Ambient air testing by a certified environmental consultant detected elevated levels of benzene, methane, chloroform, butane, propane, toluene and xylene – compounds associated with drilling and fracking, and also with cancers, birth defects and organ damage. The well tested high for sulfates, chromium, chloride and strontium; her blood tested positive for acetone, plus the heavy metals arsenic (linked with skin lesions, cancers and cardiovascular disease) and germanium (linked with muscle weakness and skin rashes). It’s an atypical Velvets number, which may be why I’ve always liked it so much, a raging garage banger, or the incessant sound of banging inside a garage. Maureen Tucker’s drumming … maybe one could split minimalistic musicological hairs and argue that the above are contrasts in centrifugal versus centripetal force or something. The faster we goes the more the skin pulls from the face til the girls grow hair like Rapunzel, turn into animals or have different kinds of hairy and furry doppelgangers or twins – some of them fully visible to the outside world, some not. This is the curious threnody of integrated circuits. Its contingent vacuity is a nebulous beam – a spiral into ether gushing with waves and intoxication. There is deformation and mutation. It is the glowing confluence of a billion black suns! I live at home. Or not at all. Technical architectures: polytunnels, an inverted tree, an elm woven with cloth strips, willow branches, metallic elements. A shelter. A method. A garden. A staunch definition: all meshed up. Ruined. I wanted to design a floating home, like the Kashmiri houses on stilts: windows with no glass, families wrapped in quilts on the floor. What happens to the mermaid? “Hmmmm,” he said. Then again, “Hmmmm…” Finally, he concluded, “The question is wonderful, but I couldn’t answer. It’s too difficult for me. I’m not that clever.” Kaloki errata: Poem 1, line 9: for ‘0ush’ read ‘flush’; Poem 8, line 8: for ‘firsts’ read ‘fists’. And there we were. And we walked with this mist or fog or smoke and amidst it also and I could tell you of the other things too. A European influence. A Middle Eastern influence. A list of skirmishes. The products on the shelves, pickled by geometry. They are our chorus, fourth axis, add to zero. They set the limits, load the springs, force such place as the red moons of it drag us through each other, a kind of trading floor, a land that is all borders without volume. That’s not an assertion so much as a ruthless misunderstandpoint loaded up with epistemological weaponry. I mean, one of the reasons that the event at the Historical Materialist conference was so tremendously exciting for me is that it was attended by a great number of those Marxists whose livelihoods are temporarily or inadequately sustained by the crumbs which trickle down from the table at which Big Art delivers its flatulent graces to Our Father Who Art Dumping Chemicals Into The Villages of Nigeria. And arms trading cheap to kids who kill kindergarteners in Connecticut. In acupuncture, I reported that after an intense phone-call – in which I expressed a profound anger – I felt dizzy. So I received a liver young rising treatment. Many extra needles in the top of the head and the various webs. Like between the fingers webs. Like a fire set by a person in a tract of agricultural land on the border of Pakistan and India. Actually: my dream is: the Oklahoma labs. Where the chimps are periodically relocated, for testing, then returned to the sanctuary with its blankets and TVs and shit. Ask Anne:

I am a dollar sign and you are a number
You are a tourist, a bomb, a bone marrow match
We are a box of crayons, I fall through your clouds

You’re no slogan, you’re far from an empire at peace
A valentine bullet, diploid pleadings, cretaceous
Icing teeth, smeared black ink, eyeliner, font smudged
Automatic loveletters smeared on veins
My face was hacked
Is so dry, can’t be felt, is so red
Your demon accusers, your fear’s font, mango pockets
You’re like the AT&T people, or Santa Claus on Prozac

Thistle, this is why you’re fat: because the stars won’t go out if you slap them
This sadness has no mayonnaise, and this sandwich will never end.

[Note: Sources: 1169. Elizabeth Royte, as quoted in Good German, “Fracking Our Food Supply”, at Disinformation, 14 Dec 012; Greyhoos, “First Degree Batterie”, at Our God Is Speed, 14 Dec 012; JBR, ekphrasis practiced on the photos at the head of Our God Is Speed; Maria Margareta Österholm, A Girl Laboratory in Chosen Parts: Skeva Girls in Swedish and Finland Swedish Literature from 1980 to 2005, as quoted in Johannes Göransson, “‘The Girl Laboratory’: The Gurlesque and Swedish Literature by Maria Margareta Österholm”, at Montevidayo, 14 Dec 012; Chris Moran, “Fuckscapes by Sean Kilpatrick”, at HTMLGIANT, 14 Dec 012; Bhanu Kapil, “Rogue Notebook”, at Was Jack Kerouac a Punjabi?, 14 Dec, 012; László Krasznahorkai, as quoted in Vynthia Haven, “László Krasznahorkai to Colm Tóibín: ‘I was absolutely not a normal child’”, at Stanford University Press Bookhaven, 10 Dec 012. 1170. blurb for Jefferson Toal, KALOKI POEMS, at Critical Documents; Juliana Spahr, “Poem”, as quoted in “The Insurrectionary Turn, Con’t.”, at The American Reader; Jasper Bernes, We Are Nothing And So Can You, at Deep Oakland; JBR; Frances Crot, “Certainly I think that …”, at Francis Crot; JBR (another school shooting); Bhanu Kapil, “Liver Young Rising”, at Was Jack Kerouac a Punjabi?, 14 Dec 012; JBR; Anne Gorrick, “I’m a celebrity in a plastic bag”, “In a Golf Galaxy”, at Cricket Online Review v.8 no.2]

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