Hi, we need you to investigate cheesecloth. See the cheesecloth paper on your desk and call me first thing. By the way, the guy reading “Pick a color” is fucking amazing. I swam with big sea turtles yesterday morning brushing my hand across their shells. My dog, Lamby, is a rescue (age not clear) who is wonderful and sweet but has some bad anxiety issues that lead him to burrow, chew, and drink his own urine. Here’s my nephew showing me his wing. Can you email your 20 most diverse and likely (attractive, interesting, curious) contacts in the next day or so? I’ll keep looking for a venue. Send me any other venue ideas you have. Also, I’ll talk to Ben about the contract. Yes. But that’s why I like the idea, “Poetry by all or not at all.” At galleries I’ll often spend time with friends talking about / explicating fire alarms and exit signs: perfectly placed to give the impression that they're “real” – aged just so (“look at the way the paint flakes off there at the edge, the grime along the bottom. If anything, it’s TOO realistic, too perfectly placed.”). Science now confirms that miso prevents radiation injury. I wake up + think oh no another day will I walk in2 sum 1 whos generous //? //or a fist #kit 20 Jul. people I kno on th streets theyr grateful 4 a cuppa theyr freezing #dooley 23 Jul. #anon couple living in tent // mortals of small stature #fred 26 Jul. Then i remembered a term anti-epic / that i’ve read in a critic about charles reznikoff’s poem testimony: the united states / i wasn’t sure what it meant / but it sounded like something that could be / sublime and messy at the same time / gold and dust / and it helped me understand / how to deal with this project / then i felt better / i said to myself / if we failed / maybe it could be / a good way to fail. To pull cities together, and then push them apart. To feel their bricks crumble in our fingers like honeycomb, before fusing them once more between our palms. To hang the great capitals of the world from the crescent moon, like a nightwatchman’s lamp. To fold them into origami birds that nest in our hats and pockets. To unpack them into radiant flotillas that span the placid oceans seems thus pittanced ease against just, so thinking that for thus, missed shat for trust, mistook, under grave conditions no less which bloodied for hours some dumb serpent wheezed to bone-level diagrams of stumps, and in turning that path downward leans to frame the arousal of last cupidity, genuflected prior to a vision left wilting on the printer, left the lab soon after, get this seeming lost to frowning upon a gesture stacked and busty with strawberry tongue all the more of which that until then had not yet gone under, this, yet something not unsavory prolonged the gasp, bite clench, as if the inlay were interior parsimony, chevrons lately of desire came later in the last pass by otiose decorum, and this, yet not until bye accounts for procedural distemper, clouds of quartets in the pyrocentric tabula unfit for cheery entrance, sits down, blades lock into announcements of typographic patter, rump tipples in trails the crimped blood snuggie, talked to without circles of data to hold talked to like never before crass with blow nose and fruits of those fiendish time exchanges, lest in spring breed views to concrete music and value tacks settle into broke, term mantic swirly, and to sundryfold cheaters same sparkling fascia tends, nowhere spotted the pink noose slipping off the lofty dais, assurance registered into likeness, gummy and marrow, demi-gag to the apple of his throat, restores voyager spitum [sputum?] to the sweat before taste all roomy dancing pump-pump / pump-pump / gorged gladiator hearts beat on bloodred! / sauce & chain-paints we’re forced to taste / pump-pump / pump-pump /… / white spiders / crawling out of our Statues of Liberty costume / pump-pump / a life is long, i don’t want to shop / On the way to the light the tree fell onto the gravel / … / The “voice of exile” Du Bois said of the sorrow songs / … / Other items surfaced that didn’t hurt as much to confront, but that still had the effect of making a story I received second-hand somehow suddenly immediate. My grandmother used to tell of a group date that got interrupted. Working for El Paso Products (natural gas) had taken them to Algeria in the late seventies, and one evening my grandparents were out with other couples from the gas plant when grampa saw a camel carcass, and thus potentially unclaimed ivory (the teeth). The fog is your way of remembering to forget the 3 centipedes in your closet / Look at the distressed face of the baby held by the priest in the giant mural / … / When I don’t feel bad about myself Kant’s importance shrinks / Like the banks I merge to become something greater than myself / … / My ears are still ringing / … / And then, when I feel myself falling I remember my dream in the flash of a sunflower opening behind my back. There’s nothing there by the time I turn around and everywhere I go my back is turned to the dream, until the moment I hear the latch open and the square of concrete beneath my feet dislodges. Where am I? Only Autochthons of the Book ask such questions. Saying this, we clarify that we will not lower ourselves to charge to our European brothers the vile and bloody rates of 20 and even 30 percent interest, that the European brothers charge the peoples of the Third World. We will limit ourselves to demanding the return of the advanced precious metals, plus the modest fixed interest of 10%, accumulated only during the last 300 years, with a 200 year grace period. On this basis, and applying the European formula of compound interest, we inform the discoverers that they owe us, as first payment of their debt, a mass of 185,000 kilograms of gold and 16 million kilograms of silver, both amounts raised to the 300th power. This is to say, a number for whose total expression would require more than 300 digits, and one that easily surpasses the whole weight of planet Earth. Those masses of gold and silver are pretty heavy. How heavy would they be if they were calculated in blood? To suggest that Europe, in half of a millennium, has not been able to generate enough wealth to repay a modicum of interest, would be to admit her absolute financial failure and/or the demented irrationality of the capitalist presumptions. Such metaphysical questions, after all, do not matter to us Indo-Americans. But we do demand the signing of a Letter of Intent, that may discipline the debtor peoples of the Old Continent, and force them to fulfill their commitments through a rapid privatization or re-conversion of Europe, that allows them to completely turn her over to us, as a down payment of the historical debt. Dear Bhanu, Half, half, half. Calf, calf, calf. Three halves, as in haves. Three calves, as in caves. When you dreamed of dancing with a circus acrobat, I entered the dream and cut my body in half. In half, and in half again. A luuk kreung, half [child]. Two penises — one deflated, one bloated beneath it. This is where I show you the illusion, the invisible edge that is not an edge. This is where I show you the cuts, and how I’ve learned to use mirrors. Dear Jai, To be human is embarrassing. I, too, want to transform after reading “Humanimal.” I get tired of feeling naked, unlike animals. They’re always seeing me cry. Here we have 600 pages of 37-point type full of super-power muses who by the power of touch can teach your muscles the kind of memory required to leap into a firefight with the agility of a mountain lion, or think with the criminal impatience of immanent tidal data, or expertly operate any recorded species of limb-mounted artillery, from Aztec hard-floor gun to etheric flamethrower fired naked and rabid at midnight, and I have never read more stunning descriptions of a community’s astral planes.
[Note: Sources: Rodarte, Etgar Keret, Catherine Opie, Lena Dunham, Danh Vo, Sheila Heti, emails quoted in Miranda July, “An email about what you're working on. We Think Alone, Week 9”, email rec’d 26 Aug 013 approx 6:02 AM PDT; Joseph Thomas, FB comment, 26 Aug 013; Odilia Galván Rodríguez, FB post, 26 Aug 013; #kit, #dooley, #fred, Steve Giasson, in Tweet from Engels (eds. Philip Davenport and Lois Blackburn); Dominic Pettman, In Divisible Cities, quoted in punctum books blurb for same; Ryan Dobran, Confection, quoted in Richard Owens, “Notes Toward a Reading List”, at Damn the Caesars, 7 Jan 013; JBR; Paul Cunningham (or Rauan Klassnik), in Rauan Klassnik, “…Paul Cunningham’s Poetry Patriotism — Pump-Pump!…”, at HTMLGIANT, 26 Aug 013; Jackie Wang, “Because There Is Silence”, at h Ballerinas Dance With Machine Guns, 26 Aug 013; CJ Martin, “The Ordinary Weather (Part II)”, at Rhyme Eats the Words, 26 Aug 013; Evo Morales, “Statement of President Evo Morales Ayma to the gathering of Heads of State of the European Community, (06/30/2013)” (tr. Winston Orrillo), via Odilia Galván Rodríguez, FB post, 26 Aug 013; Jai Arun Ravine and Lucas de Lima, “Half [ ]-half [ ]-half [ ]: Trauma and Transformation in the Humanimal: Letters to Bhanu Kapil”, at Tarpaulin Sky, Aug 013 (“Note to reader: In 2010, Ching-In Chen asked Jai Arun Ravine to interview Bhanu Kapil for a speculative literature issue for Asian American Poetry and Writing. At the time, Bhanu was in India and unavailable for an interview, so she asked Lucas de Lima to answer Jai’s questions as an interpolate.”); Critical Documents blurb for Jo L. Walton, Invocation]