Dark rooms and light rooms. And every notebook from time one to time two found and flung. The ink bleeding and the mouth bleeding. The cells sharp and concerned. Corporeal. Not a code but a signal. Tinged. I keep a blue bottle. Inside it an ear, medallions, kindnesses, parachutes, kisses. In my land, a small god named Cocijo, where he urinates a river is born. Arch flowing into arch flowing into arch, and through the last arch, what was dumb will speak. After all, it is the halos that tell us who the saints are. He poured bleach down a sink with frozen pipes behind it and now the bleach has nowhere to go and my house smells like fucking Auschwitz. I closed off that room and it does have a motorized ceiling vent but we’re getting nowhere. Maybe I should just pour that hydrochloric acid toilet bowl cleaner from the dollar store down there and get it over with. (Fall asleep with hands guarding hills and old woods inside your sweater, softer wood eating into harder sand — a soft world means a thin barrier) “I want us to be like that 95-year-old oven,” you say. Big cement lions on both sides of an overpass bridge. What was the story about the boy who had little boxes in his eyes and he would send them up in the sky and each box had sunlight inside it for the moon who couldn’t find the sun because earth was in the way so the boy wanted a rainbow in the shape of one circle as big as the sky and as colorful as no wind so his little boxes could fly through them? “That puppy is so cute I could eat it! Wait, what?” The rules of Camover are simple: mobilise a crew and think of a name that starts with “command”, “brigade” or “cell”, followed by the moniker of a historical figure (Van der Lubbe, a Dutch bricklayer convicted of setting fire to the Reichstag in 1933, is one name being used). Then destroy as many CCTV cameras as you can. Concealing your identity, while not essential, is recommended. Finally, video your trail of destruction and post it on the game’s website -- although even keeping track of the homepage can be a challenge in itself, as it is continually being shut down. True poetry is hideous, because it is base communication … Poetry does not strut logically amongst convictions, it seeps through the crevices; a magmic flux resuscitated amongst vermin. Zagat and NYC DOHMH grade signs on tinted plate glass windows // garbage day sludge, bonus for the smell // these common large-leaved weeds wilted in heat wave // no chicken bone hunting today, she feels this is an ugly break from routine // totally fried Bachelor’s Buttons//who has the courage to pull out their appliances // I did, “let’s never let it get that bad again” // … [oh yeah] … // I remember being hostage to my desire with only a jar of Nutella to last the weekend. It was Tiziana Terranova who first suggested Tarde. I was trying to think through these ideas I had about the contagions of network culture. I had, up until that point, been trying to develop an assemblage theory approach to networks. Another important thing about Tarde’s role in Virality is that he does not distinguish between nature and society or similarly between biology and culture. He helped me as such to break through the artifice of metaphorical contagion which makes it seem like the biological is always invading the social, at least where biological language and rhetoric seem to impose themselves on social phenomena. We came from surfaces. / We encountered sudden weavings in the two patterns of latitude and longitude. / We threw ourselves into weavings, forming designs; we raised our heads then found love. / Wearing gaudy clothes / we circulated, crossed borders then regained someone. Dove song in my eardrum / doves thrum in my ear low / dove’s sob and my ear thrum / doves throb in my ear’s song / my ear’s song my blood low / dove’s song in my blood’s song / love hollows my ear / here Venus your bird. If cumulative behavior defines the construction, and that construction’s accretionary (aleatory) behaviors are its manifest tactics and actions, a building, or a body, as a meaning-free map, redrawn to make of itself the a priori object. This broke part you rope to / scrape you all outside still / when you grab as touch drowns. THIS is not a man vision / THIS is not a Blake vision / THIS is the Vehement Desire of Form / TRIVIA ! you’re in a suit of clouds ! ... My mouth of itself gathers foam, / hammers “same, same, same,” her eyes prize the fatness of my throat, milk seeping / from the corners of her lips, her nostrils, fairly pouring forth her throat in propulsive / waves against my face, I turn on my knees, arms linked behind me with comrades, / creativity is intrinsic to law like a cloud is intrinsic to snow, snow to blood, which means / also to have died to law ... Love loves difficult things / We’re on our way! “Cause there ... there’s heaven you ... Can you make ... that you ... talk ... That’s ... the problem [...]” The quartz fashions a nappe around its axis. The crystal taches quickly from the friction. The rock is a fraction of some other stone. Nitrides mask the etchants. The crystal was embedded. The roche once was rached. Each face is false -- irregular, inconstant. The rock is just. The rose aches. The cusp is hastate in its jut. A ridge knaps from the back of the neck, where it tapers to a wedge. The quartzes gestate as they hutch. Accretions seek the furthest edge. The stone is asleep, but not for long. The difficulty of accounting for harm. And in stumbling is at work. New forms of civic life. And then my brother and I made a fire outside and the year turned.
[Note: Sources: Melissa Buzzeo, For Want and Sound; JBR; Pablo Neruda, “Melancholy Inside Families” (trs. Robert Bly and James Wright), in The Oxford Book of Latin American Poetry (eds. Cecilia Vicuña and Ernesto Livon-Grossman); Pablo Antonio Cuadra, “God Creates the Andes” (tr. Brian Whitener), in Vicuña and Livon-Grossman; Donna Stonecipher, “Album”, as quoted in Eileen Tabios, comment appended to her “My Brother’s Gift”, at Sit With Moi!, 20 Jan 013; William Keckler, “He poured bleach …”, at Joe Brainard’s Pyjamas (The Sequel), 26 Jan 013; Kate Schapira, “Train Notes (Expanded)”, “Heirloom Notes (Concluded)”, as quoted in Rob McLennan, “Kate Schapira: The Soft Place”, at rob mclennan’s blog, 27 Dec 012; Edwin Torres, “Quest”, at Drunken Boat 16; Stephanie Pappas, “That puppy is so cute I could eat it! Wait, what?”, as quoted in “‘the less control and more desire to ‘grrr’ and squeeze’”, at The New Inquiry, 26 Jan 013; Guardian article, as quoted in “‘Axes, ropes and pitchforks are all encouraged’”, at The New Inquiry, 26 Jan 013; Nick Land, as quoted in S C Hickman, “Nick Land: The Master of the Infernal Wisdom”, at Noir Realism, 26 Jan 013; Stacy Szymaszek, “JOURNAL OF UGLY SIGHTS: 7.6 – 7.20”, at Drunken Boat 16 (DOHMH = Department of Health and Mental Hygiene); Tony D Sampson, as quoted in Jussi Parikka, “‘Tarde as Media Theorist’: an interview with Tony D. Sampson, by Jussi Parikka”, at Theory Culture & Society, 25 Jan 013;Li Yawei, “We” (tr. Jami Proctor Xu), Caroline Knapp, AURICLE, Suzanne Stein, Tout Va Bien, Stacy Doris, Fledge: A Phenomenology of Spirit, Brent Cunningham, Journey to the Sun, Farid Ud-din Attar, The Conference of the Birds (tr. Peter Sis), Alice Notley, Close to me & Closer ... (The Language of Heaven) [and] Desamere, Craig Dworkin, The Crystal Text (After Clark Coolidge), Myung Mi Kim, Oppen lecture, Melissa Mack, as quoted in Mack’s “2012 Disinhibitions: Melissa Mack”, at The Disinhibitor, 26 Jan 013]