Our age is marked by the fact that plenty no longer arrives in horns. Perhaps this is why the setting of one’s own body on fire has been viewed as the most extreme and symbolically precise voicing of outrage and resistance. You feel the side effects before you feel the cure. Curious women and those who resorted to begging have been accused of witchcraft because they asked inappropriate questions or, like poets, muttered when they walked. She said, “The voice is a light.” She said, “I can’t recant.” She said, “Even fire won’t change my mind.” Bertolt Brecht said he had nothing to say to those who did not already know the world was on fire. Last year more of the United States was burning than in any other year on record — Kenya and Mongolia were on fire. Every state in Australia was on fire. The peat fires ignited during Siberia’s 90-degree afternoons went underground last winter and resurfaced with the thaw. Those of us who know that the world is on fire have ridden shotgun on the brooms of crones and degenerates, opium eaters and speakers in tongues, excommunicants and sodomites, insider artists and citizens of the outer dark, malcontents and depressives, urban farmers and dwellers in tents. If a 5000-year-old tree spoke would we understand what it said? Or would we calculate its potential effect on “housing starts”? (Ludwig Wittgenstein.) What can we learn at the dump? What can we learn from those who survive as gleaners? So much depends / upon / the stone-cold generosity we have often been permitted to encounter in the wheelbarrow of discarded arts. Harmonically, a descending bass line subtly leads the ear from i to iv. A V7 returns us to i, but then, changes the V to a minor v chord, making it a pivot iii chord of the relative major in a circle of fifths that leads the ear to the new tonic (in the original key: A7 – Dm – Am7 – D7 – Gm7 – C7 – F). This whole modulation is done with such finesse, the listener is hardly aware of it until the sudden shift back to i for the second “A”. The harmonic progression of “B,” by contrast, is a fairly standard I – vi – ii – V7 (“Blue Moon,” “Heart And Soul,” etc.), but since the song has modulated into a distant key, it still sounds fresh. Part of this is also because many notes of the melody are on coloristic chord extensions – the major (raised) seventh, the ninth, and the eleventh, for the most part. Other important melody notes are chord extentions, the most notable being the first long sustained note of “A”. The initial seven-notescale run lands on the 11th (G in D minor). This could only work in a minor key and essentially makes the opening chord Dm11. The next predominant note is the 9th (A in G minor). […] slowed echoes afar spelling bell pronounced anecdotes combinatory own its intention paraphrased another prevents certainly local nowhere a tension from answers subtracting as cumulus since combination present elsewhere’s scene visible am its deliciousness swoon a signature […] (These are not search engine poems.) So “Why does Hello Kitty have no mouth? To illuminate across borders a daring epic emptiness? To terrorize the emptiness by refusing supreme leader penetration? To say there is nothing left to say or to never ever leak or blow / what should have been said and serve on many boards in the process?” “There will be no developments in inner geography without urban redevelopment; no internal chit-chat that does not raise a skyscraper to its banality”. Hayward ably nets a flight of terms, such as “economics,” “desire,” and “truth” (elsewhere, “ultimately,” “compliant,” and “pre-condition”) and plies these one to another. “Might the forms of crystallization – be a broken type of gravity?” “Nature is a magic city turned to stone.” “A magician is an artist of madness.” I felt a scary shudder go through my body and brain. I barely made it from the desk to the bed, where I lay curled up in a hallucinatory state for the next eight hours. I was thirsty but couldn’t move to get water. Or even turn off the lights. We are coming to meet you, equipped with giant respirators. “Drop down and get your worship on.” Real guns, real volts, real gifts. I mean, you are born, you barely contain yourself, / you grow, inside you, someone spends / a billion to make prison more luxurious; / inside you, someone spends a billion / to keep libraries open one hour later; / then oh god, you feel wonderful, / you must be on welfare, / / the government spent its whole education / on me, at least that is how it feels right now, / I am bursting with educational dollars, / I am bursting with other dollars as well, / I’m rounded up, I’m one long row of ohs, / I get so many commas / that the sentence doesn’t stop, / And, the next thing I know, I’m wandering alone in some old, misty forest. And I'm looking at my hands. And they are covered in blood. Blood that keeps changing color. Keeps changing color. / / And I’m spinning around and around. Till I fall down and nuzzle into and suck, suck, suck at the wet soothing earth. (I know this smell, I think. It's like the shoveled earth of a grave. Or Poetry!) / / And I’m crying. Crying out for joy. Joy. Joy. / / Till joy’s filled the whole, old boat of the world. And I let it all go. The image emerges of something like Henri Rousseau’s Tiger in a Tropical Storm, the fear blazing in the beleaguered creature’s eyes as the damp winds wash its frame into sodden pulp. However, in this context, I won’t go into a detailed discussion focusing on Deleuze so much as hint towards speculative ideas of a media history of smog, as constituting a different sort of a visual culture of “new media” of mixed temporalities: the ancient rays of sun, the modern fumes of the city, and the emerging technologies of tele-sensing. I think they are a binary opposition that begs to be deconstructed, as Itchy relies on the demonized other of Scratchy, which he (it) puts under sous-rature, it is 1978 and I am sitting in the living room of a 200 year old farmhouse in Vermont on my Christmas break from college with the stereo open (a big piece of wooden furniture with a lid that lifted up and at night you could get fm stations from really far away) and I put the vinyl LP I bought because it was Anne Waldman, B side, John Giorno, and I really disliked it because I did not believe or trust its toughness and I kind of do still dislike it but for some reason it has stayed with me all these years, particularly the repetitive phrase that is resounding in me tonight real loud, “EVERYONE was a comPLETE DISaPOINTMENT and EVERYONE was a comPLETE DISaPOINTment and EVERYONE was a comPLETE DISaPOINTment disaPOINTment disappointment ...” “But when I read the many passages on friendship in the writings of the holy fathers, wishing to love spiritually but not able to, I decided to write on spiritual friendship and to set down for myself rules for a pure and holy love.” Girl death sparrow crow knife skilled blanket forest snubblet collision Death Death Death bear dragon gold prince dwarf penis cock. It is confusing to live: I’m Mona Moonbeam. I am a witch. I am pollen. Go down into the darkness. We have not seen our pear sip a glass of wine to culture news without lap on a bib to the tune of nuthing. It’s like a crust on my eyelids. Mit an iron fist. My name is James Franco, I am an artist, poet and filmstar, no I am called Calle Schulman and I do solo performances on the meaning of life, no, my name is Justin Bieber and it is I who is mammon. I sing like: AAAAAAAA yeah baby yeah, love it when you bend over and take my fist like a champ. Boom boom boom Cinderella. Bam! The downfall is also worth celebrating. Shake someone unconscious. Engaging feromone mist. Last night I dreamed: A stick that became a vampire, could only be shot in the head. Resurfaced every day. Nazis everywhere, constant fear and confusion. Shit, that is. Damn. (Fountain explodes) (Exotic music) Eat up the entire sponge cake. (Hisses) I’m not bad, I'm just a cartoon like this.
[Note: Sources: Jacob Bard-Rosenberg, FB post, 4 Jun 014; Elizabeth Willis, “Notes from and on a Landscape: Hell, Fire, and Brimstone”, at The Volta 42; K. J. McElrath, “Musical analysis of ‘In a Sentimental Mood’”, at Jazz Standards; Karen Mac Cormack, Against White, Edric Mesmer, Danny Hayward, People, quoted in Mesmer’s “‘Received & Noted’ from YELLOW FIELD #9”, at Galatea Resurrects 22; JBR; Elisabeth Workman, Ultramegaprarieland, quoted in Sandra Simonds, FB post, 4 May 014; Novalis, quoted in Jacob Bard-Rosenberg, FB post, 4 May 014; Maureen Dowd, quoted in Mary Beth Quirk, “New York Times’ Maureen Dowd Eats Pot Candy Bar In Colorado And Totally Freaks Out”, at Consumerist, 4 Jun 014; Bruno Jasienski, quoted in Benjamin Noys, FB post, 4 May 014; Drew Kalbach, and Evan Bryson, quoted in some blurbs collected in Johannes Göransson, “Drew Kalbach’s Spooky Plan”, at Montevidayo, 4 Jul 014; JBR; Patricia Lockwood, “Government Spending”, at Poetry, Dec 013; Rauan Klassnik, “Ron Silliman Dream #35: Sixshooter”, at Rauan Klassnik Dreaming Ron Silliman, 6 May 014; Sam Kriss, “The grand imperial puppet show”, at Idiot Joy Showland, 5 Jun 014; Jussi Parikka, “Smog: Cloud and Molecular Aesthetics”, at Machineology, 4 Jun 014; Peter Herman, FB comment, 4 Jun 014; Lynn Behrendt, and John Giorno, quoted in Behrendt’s FB post, 4 Jun 014; Saint Aelred (of Rievaulx), quoted in Nicola Masciandaro, FB post, 4 Jun 014; Stina Kajaso, “yeah yeah yeah”, at SONOFDAD, 4 Jun 014]