I structure this poem like a story so you may understand there is no story beyond / beside the sun still burning its banknote the ‘cow of the lord’ will ‘measure me for my wedding glove’. Art is dead between us, our eyes are built from seeds of this a drunk arm phut phut plip plop bop plunk scrunch hic and hawk flob up bleep bloop flip quop. The room you slept in is in a country or a person you have never visited. Pale farmers rake clouds. I read this in a book so it might be untrue. In Canada when a bear hibernates it packs mud round its arse; this thwarts ants from crawling up the sphincter & eating its liver. Or to ask the question differently, perhaps we should examine why so many Americans need mood-altering drugs today – why anxiety and depression are so rampant that the effects have literally spilled out into the rivers and streams to become a problem for other species, like the fish in our lakes and rivers, who are all so badly stoned on the pills we ingest then excrete that Jonathan Skinner calls them (and us) “vertical floaters” (and yes, I know what a floater is …). Perhaps the issue is not Big Pharma per se but rather the structural violence of neoliberal economics, petrochemicals, and the political commitment to permanent war. The power went out in my whole neighborhood and then this light appeared in the sky, invisible to teachers and parents: on this wonderful day, a star of pure love appeared to be my gift ... I’m not speculating about the future, this is the reality here today; sometimes we have to do a little dance before they open the gates or windows and it's not going to happen again. The refrigerator will keep food for about four days as long as you don't open the door once the power has gone. There are other options. One is that a breaker tripped but the handle didn’t move, the other that you are obviously holding on to certain secrets. This can be checked by gently pressing on. You really want me to eat clown flesh? Fields marked with an * are required. Would you like to be added to our mailing list (no spam)? At the center of the golden eye, there is a pair of golden pliers. Everything has personal meaning. It was just a fact that the mother and father couldn’t remember when the egg phobia got started, although the mother believed it was ‘when they tied her up and threw eggs at her.’ But then she retracted and suggested it was the copious globs of eggs interlaced with ketchup in which THE EGG PHASE must be noted as a mixture of trauma and yet one had to endure years wondering what happened to this string of soft language. Then she went back to work stationed in a dark office on the bottom floor. What remains, as I suggested earlier — against Heidegger, in a way — is that one might have to go in for a structure of experience in which this “privilege” or “priority” (Vorrang) of sight or touch (whether “exorbitant” or not) no longer means much, if the said “tradition” (“since the beginnings of Greek ontology”!) never shows any privilege for the gaze (no optical theoretism) without an invincible intuitionism that is accomplished, fulfilled, fully effectuated, starting from a haptical origin or telos; if there is no optical intuitionism without haptocentrism; and if furthermore (in regard to this intuitionism, which is finally homogeneous, undifferentiating, absolute, stubborn, absurd, and in the final account insensible or “smooth”) the fate of this intersensibility (henceforth irreducibly tropological, figural, and metonymic) allows one to see and hear and feel and taste a bit of touching everywhere: indeed, who would deny that we can touch with our voice — close or far away, naturally or technically, if we could still rely on this distinction, in the open air or on the phone — and thus, even to touch the heart. Everything glittered, more better than glitter. I was micro-derm abrased by precious gems: rubies and emeralds buffed my hide til I shone like something new and archetypal. I filled all my mother’s pretty hankies with snot. I revealed the cat’s wounds and scabs by parting his fur with my fingers, but I did nothing to heal them. Don’t forget to VOTE! All [ancient] Greek bogies are female. I woke up with a clove of garlic in my vagina. Right now, I’m on the couch wearing a coat, cause the window is open. On my coffee table is some weed, a deck of Tarot cards, an Underwood typewriter, a copy of Sky Mall magazine, a Kathy Acker book, and a city college catalog. I’m contemplating watching a Kurosawa movie, the problem is it’s 1:30AM. “All that is signal dissolves into noise”?? I don’t think so, I think it’s vice-versa.
[Note: Sources: bits from Giles Goodland, “Ladybird”, “Leech”, “Locust”, “Greenfly”, at Stride Magazine, Nov 013; Peter Muir, FB comment, 3 Dec 013; Joseph Masco, “Side Effect”, at Somatosphere, 2 Dec 013; JBR, but see Jonathan Skinner, FB comment, 3 Dec 013; Rupert Loydell, “Ghost Elements”, at Stride Magazine, Nov 013 (“text: Rupert Loydell : images Rupert Loydell & A.C. Evans”); Lanny Quarles, “DUX ET ARBOR REX”, at Jellybean Weirdo With electric Snake Fang, 2 Dec 013; Mike Young, quoted in “The Mike Young Crowdpoem”, at Big Lucks; Cynthia Sailers, “Egg Phobias”, at Mobile, 3 Dec 013; Jacques Derrida, On Touching: Jean-Luc Nancy (tr. Christine Irizarry), quoted in Claire Colebrook, “Hypo-Hyper-Hapto-Neuro-Mysticism”, at Parrhesia 18; Lindsey Boldt, “And A Great Whine Was Heard”, at Elderly 1; John Sakkis, “from MIRROR MAGIC”, at Elderly 1; Steve Orth, “Variations On Yes, I Can Run Fast”, at Elderly 1; Greyhoos, “All That Is Signal Dissolves Into Noise”, at Our God Is Speed, 3 Dec 013; JBR]