Like “kid gets shot”, followed by “BUY THIS,” followed by “side effects may include gambling and rectal bleeding.” “And my nonclosure island, its brave audacity standing at the stern of this Polynesia, before it, Guadeloupe split in two down its dorsal line and equal in poverty to us, Haiti where negritude rose for the first time and stated that it believed in its humanity and the funny little tail of Florida where the strangulation of a nigger is being completed, and Africa gigantically caterpillaring up to the Hispanic foot of Europe, its nakedness where Death scythes widely / Who can boast of being better off than I? / And now a last raspberry: / to the sun (Not strong enough to inebriate my very tough head) / to the mealy night with its golden hatchings of erratic fireflies / In my memory are lagoons. They are / covered with death’s-heads. They are not covered with water lilies …”
Just inside the cutters’ pavilion
Just at the peak of the oxygen tent
Just on the inner lid of the hairline coma
Just on the inner thighs of the medical canal
Just up under the gesso of lubrication
Just up to the hairline of the hairline crack
Just there where the adolescent girl eyes the camera
Just under the burden of her fishscale hair
Just where one sister shoulders the other
Just why should one sister have to shoulder the other
Just while out of the frame the globe unshouldered rolls around like a boulder in the mouth
Just the whole world like a wadded-up burden in the mouth
The smell of gasoline for panoptico lived tunnel. The food was seasoned with onions and potatoes consisted of small hard lines. Beat the smell of a piece of oil was difficult to define. Take all the money in the exciting times of black and ink smell, when he was alive. Alcohol was mixed with lime and lemon rich zone. Everything was postponed. Cells were isolated without vents. See on our teeth. The world has changed and it is important that the training was point after pushing back an angel people continued to move his thin lips and flat nose. When jumping from foot to foot, her hair continues to for anxious wait for a while and fly eyes dead. In the dark, we heard dripping. I remember my small bag and a huge box piled on it. Update, the same ideas that were lost, shook his busy. Beside me, sat me your fingernail. This normal tissue did not feel back, my life was like in Chernobyl, I grew up around leaving flowers leaving. In recognition opportunity, if you have a plan, right on journey. This go. On a journey of life. Hearing, I went to the University of reading your body. Because they do not stop, do not move away? Did you hear anything. You’ve heard the problem. If people have seen the future, sense of self or different, you can see for yourself in once can communicate through. If you do not smell that and feel cold. So they just tally up the compounded again and do a few more wheelies and, every couple minutes, ask No, seriously. But all the same, when you head west to the stockyards or wherever and put your ear to the wall like the old films about Manifest Destiny or ribcages, you know their arrival is not just imminent, it is foregone. Because through those borrowed transmitters, you can just make out. And you hear more: there’s the wind and the knives and the emphysemic huff of a long-dry Slurpee machine that, through a design flaw / triumph, has no manual override, until finally, through all the wheelies and chatter you can hear it, however their stumps end, fine ones now, well-crafted, well-burnished with time and beeswax, responsible and fun, artisanal and repurposed from parts of other things. Anything, really, to offer a semblance of restraint and history to gnaw on while they wait and wait, wheelie, wait, munch the katechon and wait again, until the word finally comes through that all chips are down and all down and& all bets are off or just all is now. Of course, this is all supposition, all deniable. And it’s true that on when you Google Earth it, no visible word has being given, nothing is written out in enormous letters of fire and charnel – IT’S FUCKING GO TIME, WILDCATS – to be read from on high. But the trees are all gone. And even the stupid stores cannot be regutted, because they are already like lace, if they are touched with tools of extraction they will become pure void and even the drywall has been gummed into oblivion, and it does not matter one whit if any of this was local and it never will. As is fitting, I have taught old men to respect my black hair, but with respect to the latter I have always conserved my extensive yellow dominion where I ceaselessly confront the metallic vestiges of the high, inexplicable, pyramid-shaped construction in the great mobilisations of the mineral and vegetable worlds, being himself the unstable plaything of the whirlwind’s farcical games and of the marriage between the lesser elements and the chasms which separate the resounding words? I will leave for the coast where ships never land; one shall present itself, a black flag fluttering at the stern. The rocks will part. I have so often dreamed of you, walked, spoken, slept with your phantom that perhaps I can be nothing any longer than a phantom among phantoms and a hundred times more shadow than the shadow which walks and will walk joyously over the sundial of your life.
Off to my left I watch a man break two
glasses on the edge of his table, set them up
again and bring the palms of his hands down on
their jagged rims. The entire audience is spellbound and blindfolded.
All our buds lose their heads. Clink, clank, clunk, halt,
bounce, sway, go again, clink, clank, clunk, halt, bounce, sway,
it is too longshort a time in which to have
many pensées in but then again.
Two grrrls write I’m an asshole in ballpoint pen on
the back of the passed-out drunk boy’s leather jacket.
[Note: Sources: JBR; Anne Gorrick, FB message, 22 Dec 013; Aimé Césaire, Notebook of a Return to the Native Land (trs. A. James Arnold & Clayton Eshleman), quoted in Jerome Rothenberg, “Toward a Poetry & Poetics of the Americas (2): Aimé Césaire, from the original 1939 Notebook of a Return to the Native Land”, at Jacket2, 22 Dec 013; Joyelle McSweeney, “Guadaloop”, in Percussion Grenade: Poems & Plays, as seen at Amazon.com; Laurie Stone, “Panopticon”, quoted in Melissa Broder, “Sunday Service: Laurie Stone”, at HTMLGIANT, 22 Dec 013 (after having been thrown thru Google translate a number of times and suffering some heavy editing); Evan Calder Williams, “Domesticated WildCats”, at The New Inquiry, 8 Oct 013; Robert Desnos, Mourning for Mourning, “J’ai tant rêvé de toi”, quoted in Eugene Thacker, “The Period Of The Sleeping Fits”, at Mute, 18 Oct 013; JBR, “Big Doll (3)”, at ZS, 8 Sept 09 (the original relevant part of the source note more or less reads: Nathaniel Mackey, Bedouin Hornbook; The blindfolds refer to Francisco López; Michael Gizzi, as quoted in John Yau’s review of Gizzi’s New Depths of Deadpan, at Brooklyn Rail, Sept 2009; Samuel R Delaney, Stars In My Pocket Like Grains of Sand; John Ashbery, “Pernilla”, at The New Yorker, 7 Sept 09; JBR (true story about the “two grrrls …” etc; it was at a Red Hot Chili Peppers show in a small club in West LA sometime in the early 80s))]