In the House of the Hangman 1243

And there I was, the lousy poet. There were rumors of many dead. One trader carried a hundred crates of alarm clocks. I spent my childhood in the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. “I could eat a horse.” A phrase once expressing hunger has recently been transformed into a contemplation you might mumble to yourself while considering what to pick up from the supermarket for dinner. Such a thought resounds with disgust, yet that disgust has, over the last weeks, remained unanalysed, or perhaps unsynthesised. It has remained merely an outburst. Where it is thought about, the usual conclusion has been that it has something about the domestication of horses, the fact that they are the sort of animals we give names to, and that under the conditions of their domestication they often are treated by their owners as if some kind of emotionally reciprocal relationship exists. Against this, I would like to suggest that the disgust that is felt at eating horses actually has rather less to do with the fact that they are pets than it is to do with feelings about the history of class, the production of food, and the experience of contemporary conditions of labour. Which brings me to the question: Why am I here? I know why I’m here. I’m here for Vigilance, a Simple who, for his own safety, must be constantly monitored. Who left that window in that basket? & a doctor is hammering. He’s hammering & hammering. My pyjamas full of nails. On which wall should I hallucinate a ladder, a nurse climbing that ladder? I noticed something strange and beautiful about the word “sad.” This is precisely the subject to which Oscar-nominated film director Milcho Manckevski addresses himself in a small book published by punctum’s Dead Letter Office last spring, Truth and Fiction: Notes on (Exceptional) Faith in Art. Manchevski’s “letter” discusses Vlado Taneski, a Macedonian journalist who, as Manchevski has written, was a correspondent for two major Macedonian newspapers from a small town, Kičevo. Taneski had been covering the case of several missing women in the town. They were all elderly, some of them used to work as cleaning women, and they all lived in the same neighborhood. They could almost see each other’s houses from their windows. Taneski wrote that the retired women had all gone missing over a period of three years. Their bodies were later found in plastic bags, discarded in illegal dumps, after having been raped and strangled. The truly shocking part of this story is that Taneski also turned out to the murderer and, after being arrested, was found dead by drowning [apparently in a bucket of water] in his cell, a “suicide” or “murder” never solved. Red are many Blue Leaves. I mean, a + b  glow in the clover. Flowers at the edge of the field. Language. — Language is fallen for the animal. And strikes the a of sound. The c merely zips around and / is also briefly its / rifle. Break out the sour cream. I ditched my gnosticism, along with any form of depth hermeneutics, somewhere in the cornfields of Iowa. A repeated circle can be seen to hope: This is a beautiful statement, accompanied by root vegetables: Baba, I cried / Because they’d bury the foxes that were so happy. / I hid the foxes alive inside my crying. / The Brontë sisters — But my own real friends. / Detroit a sex machine. Joey / And I, thirteen, peddling into Duns Scotus. / Trees. … / But then she was racing, racing. The boys put a stick / In my spokes. Is Katzie’s in your poem? Chili size! Red’s? The Coop? I think you put in Stanford Webb (a trip and a half, man) and James Wallace of the giant old Cadillac in which we cruised and smoked & Bobby Whetstone (it ain’t the size of the ship, it’s the motion of the ocean!)? And gay Peter with the paint-it-black-in-’73 fingernails? And Freddie the deaf-mute with his girlfriend Peaches (the inspiration for James Brown’s “Hot Pants”!) and his typewriter that faced the wall? and Sylvia ... and Pie Die Mites! ... And the bank run, man: it takes an hour? What? It. Takes. An. Hour. And the OGs? And Roy Little Bull? And The Shelf? An estimated 80bn new clothes are made around the world each year. There are only 7bn people ... 

[Note: Sources: Blaise Cendrars, Prose of the Trans-siberian & of the Little Jeanne de France (tr. Alan Halsey), at West House Books; Jacob Bard-Rosenberg, “On the composition of lasagna: A caprice on horses, abstraction, and the division of labour”, at Prolapsarian, 20-something Feb 013; Philip Hammial, “Nurse”, at The Wonder Book, 24 Feb 013; Kathleen Ossip, “On Sadness”, at Plume; Eileen Joy, “Confronting the Fact of Fiction and the Fiction of Fact”, at Punctum Books, 24 Feb 013; Ernst Herbeck, “Red”, “Language” (tr. Gary Sullivan), as quoted in David Evans Pritchard, “Dazzling and Tremendous”, at Critical Flame, 24 Feb 013, via Robert Archambeau, FB post, 24 Feb 013; Ernst Herbeck, “My Last Will”, as quoted in Ugly Duckling Press blurb for Herbeck’s Everyone Has a Mouth; Barrett Watten, FB comment, 24 Feb 013; Jee Young Lee, Diary of Use, as quoted in Susan M Schultz, FB post, 24 Feb 013; Laura Ulewicz, “from Nightmare to Be Born”, as quoted in Barrett Watten, “Document 08: Laura Ulewicz”, at Barrett Watten, 26 Jan 010; Omo Bob, email rec’d 24 Feb 013 approx 3:42 PM PST (with expansions by JBR); Dirty White Gold, FB post, 24 Feb 013]

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