Most women do not look like themselves; although many women do assume the form of ‘woman;’ some are men, others gas and electricity, and still others are indistinguishable. Nevertheless, a having once been marked with the condition of invisibility goes so far — so far-going has it been in this marked vessel as to have completely spread through me — as to lead to where it began: myself unseen. Here’s the sum of all of that (and soundless!), plus a whole other set of X’s, hidden. As the provisional sum of all of these, I direct the traffic of weightedly perceptible ‘invisibles’ from a within. The nearly perceptible is thoroughly perceptible enough to me. I have never been able to find the cut-off points for this within. Rather, this ‘within’ acts as if it were boundlessly stretching out — if one were to include the full spread of all the ripples and ripplings — into a Ghost Heart! This is a “Ghost Heart”. It has been decellularized, leaving only connective tissue. The organ can then be reseeded with a patient’s own cells to regenerate it so it can be transplanted without fear. The decision comes after Shia LaBeouf became embroiled in a plagiarism row with graphic novelist Daniel Clowes. After his film Howard Cantour.com was found to have lifted dialogue from a Clowes short story, LaBeouf admitted “I fucked up” and posted an apology online. However, it emerged that the apology had been lifted from Yahoo! Answers, and LaBeouf continued to post apologies taken from others. Kanye West, Gucci Mane, a Texan politician and Lena Dunham all got quoted over the following days; he even sent a plane to etch I Am Sorry Daniel Clowes in the sky over Los Angeles. That same year, America’s Next Top Model illustrated this trend with an episode in which the contestants had to pose as if they’d just been killed. One woman, posed as if she'd just been brutally stabbed, was criticised for not looking dead enough. Another, posed as if she had fallen from a tall building, was told, “death becomes you, young lady”. Still another, covered in deep bruises at the bottom of a flight of stairs, was told: “the look on your face is just extraordinary.” The air in this world is thicker than I remember. I wondered if the shadows, numbering in the hundreds, were all cast by the same god I hung out with when I was little — I could’ve cracked his moon in half if I wanted to — another is to busy your hands with sticks carving your runes into a clearing’s mud. The dead find everything funny. The living find everything dying more alive than a phonograph amplifier dropped into a bathtub. The shirt in my dream was from my childhood. It had dreadful stripes. I wore it in the hospital, a blind child, alone in a ward. The damned thing came back last night. You can count on the Id. It could be as simple as rabbit scratch in an ancient hut. Simple, say, as a focus that has much verdigris that the troglodytes flock hard. It is more glorious to button the top knot than to tie off the hole. There is much singing, even in times of joy. When the yogi balanced the dead mouse on his left knee, he no longer needed the harmonium for chanting. Then he said to them, “This is what the Lord, the God of Israel, says: ‘Each man strap a sword to his side. Go back and forth through the camp from one end to the other, each killing his brother and friend and neighbor.’” The Levites did as Moses commanded, and that day about three thousand of the people died. Then Moses said, “You have been set apart to the Lord today, for you were against your own sons and brothers, and he has blessed you this day.” I know I go on about them a lot, but these are probably the most important verses in the OT. It was like driving out of your way to visit a model city built next to an iron ore mine, a paragon of city planning, its well-spaced streetlamps casting small cones of light upon the darknesses of human life. It was like arriving in the mostly abandoned model city and being unable to discern the features that make it a model city, for all its features have been incorporated into other cities, because they were so model. It was like driving down the boarded-up main street of the model city with your windows down, and suspecting that you have come to the wrong model city, that the new model cities, the right model cities, lie far off. And that was the end of that discussion. This came with a discreetly attached note that said, simply: Please advise, asswipe. Night-time tracking shots in a dockside container yard. Looking for the big clue. North: the great convict ziggurats. Dogs in Space mapping the escape route. What’s life but a stumbling palindrome in a lead-suit aqualung? And there was Dionysus, who was not Nermes, and Nercules, who was not Mesele, and if I were a snake, I’d just expand forever and ever, like a hand, ink falls drifting into silence, the index, like a crooked stick. But that day, she felt like the circuitry of all her machines and the various websites that she had been scanning, the ones that connected the anaplasmosis, the babesiosis, the ehrlichiosis, and the Lyme disease in ticks to the militarized mycoplasma fermentans incognitus, as well as the ones that showed chilling images of the torture to which the nation in which she currently lived was subjecting citizens of other nations, were all coursing through her blood, her nerve meridians, and her intestines, until she was quivering with some sweet sick feeling. And then a few hours later, she realized that a small nipple was growing out of her side, or perhaps just a nipple-like bruise where the tick had entered her. It was purple and brown and yellow-white.         It might take 15 minutes to for ‘em to suffocate, but “AVI-FOAMGUARD allows […] mass depopulation of infected poultry while minimizing human contact with diseased animals.” Gnarly affective refrain you are talmudic in your insistence upon such shadow-play as comes out the Tunnel. The desire to turn is unlimited so I get dizzy and fall down. The horizon is still sexier and goes on evading how I would. But I’m often so nice. The lights are in eighths. My apocalypse theory and I have a baby we name “fortune.” Our baby has a goat’s head and faints when we say “Boo.” Fortune chews through the bedspread and licks the wallpaper clean off the wall.
[Note: Sources: Madeline Gins, What the President Will Say and Do, Helen Keller or Arakawa, quoted in Léopold Lambert, “# ARAKAWA/GINS /// “ALL MEN ARE SISTERS” : A JOY NAMED MADELINE GINS”, at The Funambulist, 10 Jan 013; Dr Najeeb, quoted in Moribund Facekvetch / Gary Barwin, FB post, 10 Jan 014; Ben Beaumont-Thomas, “Shia LaBeouf ‘retiring from all public life’”, at The Guardian, 10 Jan 014, via Graham Jefcoate, FB post, 10 Jan 014; Kira Cochrane, “How female corpses became a fashion trend”, at The Guardian, 9 Jan 014, via Aindriu Macfehin, FB post 10 Jan 014; Jamaal May, “God of the Wood”, quoted in PEN, “PEN Poetry Series: Jamaal May”, email rec’d 10 Jan 014 approx 1:29 PST; Stephen Kuusisto, FB post, 14 Jan 014; George Kalamaras, “Unanswered Left Shoe”, at Omniverse, via Johannes Göransson, FB post, 10 Jan 014; Exodus 32:27-9, and Jacob Bard-Rosenberg, FB post and comment, 10 Jan 014; Donna Stonecipher, “MODEL CITY ”, at Molly Bloom 3; Del Ray Cross, “mmlxvi”, at Anachronizms, 10 Jan 014; Louis Armand, “Light Gradually Descends on the Obsolescence Curve (for John Kinsella)”, “Sotades the Obscene of Maroneia”, “Tête de Femme (for Ali Alizadeh)”, at E·ratio 18; Lanny Quarles, “A Chelys Bean Appears Griping Out the Flog From the Lines”, at Jellybean Weirdo With Electric Snake Fang, 9 Jan 014; David Buuck & Juliana Spahr, An Army of Lovers, quoted in “David Buuck & Juliana Spahr: The Side Effect”, at Lemon Hound, 10 Jan 014; Emmalea Russo, “from TH-READ”, at E·ratio 18; JBR, and “Prevent the Spread of Avian Flue”, at Avi-Foam-Guard, but see Brenda Iijima, FB post, 11 Jan 014; Nick Compton, “blue witch oscillator”, at E·ratio 18; Kristy Bowen, “from apocalypse theory: a reader”, at E·ratio 18]