A sound poet might link this transcription with Walter Garstang’s skylark song (1922) — “Swee! Swee! Swee! Swee!/ Zwée-o! Zwée-o! Zwée-o! Zwée-o!/ [...] Joo! Joo! Joo! Joo!/ Jée-o! Jée-o! Síssy-sejóo” — and its resemblance to Schwitters’ 1922-23 Ursonate: “Ooobee tatta tuu/ Ooobee tatta tuu/ Ooobee tatta tuii Ee/ Ooobee tatta tuii Ee [...] Tilla lalla tilla lalla/ Tilla lalla tilla lalla”. Or with Velimir Khlebnikov’s “transrational” zaum, which the poet (whose father was an ornithologist) sometimes described as “Language of the Birds.” However, the fact of the matter is that I just woke up one morning, well before I was awake, and simply grabbed my laptop and took dictation. That was X years ago, on the eve of a war that, with no end in sight, has reawakened the world to an always-already uncertain future. It was also the eve of my five-day retreat, an attempt to avoid the televised spectacle of “preemptive” invasion, in the wilderness of Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument, and it surely involved some quest for healing, some preemptive balm for the coming hurt (“Things to Do Around Ocotillo”). Me, I am nothing but a sorry part. Quickly, the walls burst their molecules. I’m never ill when rested. Oh! Poor sap, now I’m ill and rested. The demands of abnormal market euthanasia generate fatigue; this agitation suite is designed to combine the light of conquered debris masqueraded as civic vents of delight with a queer jam and divine dalliance of tropes, carried through the calmest quilt of evidence followed by an encore of votes cast by impulsive loins, impulsive thighs that kill with fraudulent abattoirs. In the war for diesel we’re less than huge, I limply lit the vitrine, the mantis, the tessellations, I meant to cheer the dancers in the trench of the illest illumination. Simple care confuses me like a quest for thermal collagen or a quest for sapience caught in tantric parties, infinite O of a silenced O. S’not as if I knew these men she sent out hunting, each in their mere self declined to make or blinker more nosh for the owls by her altered den, s’not s’if I mind them retching all the way to Wanstead. A bird nailed to a hat nests untrampled over vibrant pills, trapt ‘tween fig leaves of sauce no sooner rid of the bell-ring. That’s my problem, I don’t ever think! Good thing you’re constantly saving, pulling me back into our collective HELLYEAH heart before I hopscotch into traffic / It’s amazing how good cheap pizza tastes when you’re not alone. But the noise his body was making was also not only his body. At first he thought he was hearing things from the basement, the whizzing burr of hard-drive fans and diesel engines running at high volume, intermixed with the occasional crisp jangling of metal keys and it was too loud and too rhythmic to ignore. He lurched to the couch and one by one dragged each cushion and pillow and blanket and dog bed and throw rug and soft sculpture and tossed them down the stairs. He did not ask if what was happening was real or if it was the product of parasites and alcohol and sodium channel inhibitors and adrenal glands of animals and downloaded photographs and depressing statistics all mashing up in his stomach and nerves.
[Note: Sources: Jonathan Skinner, “Ethno Plunderphonics: On Some Mockingbird Transcriptions”, at Interval(le)s II.2-III.1 (thanks, George Ttoouli, and Jonathan!); Ollie Evans, “The Travels of Sisyphus (after Michaux)”, “Das Unendliche (Leopardi’s ‘L’infinito’ – written on the plane to Jordan)” (“This Unending Lick”), “An Henri Michaux Blot” (“Man Sang”), “Infinite O (after Leopardi)”, “Draft of Alfieri 173 (from Stackelberg’s German)”, “Correspondance (w/Dan Barrow” [“Come Spoon Dances” (after Baudelaire’s ‘Correspondances’), “Last Lyric of 2012” [“Route 173 (After Vittorio Alfieri - Sonetto 173)]”, at orte; Layne Ransom, “Wolves”, as quoted in Mark Cugini, “My Last-Ever AWP Apology”, at HTMLGIANT, 18 Mar 013; Juliana Spahr and David Buuck, “the Side Effect”, at Floor 1]