Holder of ancestral memories of the slave trade, of star-turned refugees, another world of copulating fishes and slow growing coral, the sea is another body that we continuously consent to destroy. I fantasize that the green glass bottle thrown into it by Julien in Kung-Fu Master (1987) containing a curled up, vitriolic, pamphlet about AIDS floats from the photograph, across the video of shore break, and rubs against my feet here in 2017 Manhattan. In the foreground of a nearby photo: a rocky beach a bloated, white dead female goat, beyond which the nude child Ulysse sits, legs splayed, looking back, a few feet away from a standing also nude male-looking body, back and ass to the camera, face to the waves. Not far away is hung a portrait of the boy’s mother, a Spanish political refugee, Bienvenida Llorca. Bienvenida holds a pile of seaweed in her arms, extending it towards us. Ulysse tells us this seaweed, and the trip to the seaside, was part of the healing process for his potentially debilitating bone condition. Clusters of seaweed reappear throughout Varda’s films, including Le Triptyque de Noirmoutier. Still, you do not know you have left the open country
you hear loud speakers, and some dancing.
You are suddenly aware
you're already at the centre of the damage.
The shadows behind you are the skeletons of the factories
by a giant hand.
While some of these writings may be more relevant for those interested in Kafka’s biography, such as the final notes “If the noodles hadn’t been so soft, I couldn’t have swallowed a thing,” some not so much. In Story 55, for instance, The Lord confesses his belief in reincarnation, because “It explains so much.” He has just attended a Fourth of July hot-dog-eating contest, “and it was the stupidest thing I’ve ever witnessed.” Speaking of Hexagram 64,
if the little fox, after nearly completing the crossing,
gets his tail in the water,
there is nothing that would further,
which reminds me that there’s a show at MOPA called Prix Pictet: Disorder, which has one of the big Yang Yongliangs. I’m going to see it Saturday. Wanna come? The Jetsons featured pneumatic tubes that people could step into and be sucked up and swiftly spat out at their destination. In Futurama, there are large tubes for people and small ones for other stuff, in an immense network which connects every office in New New York City to the Central Bureaucracy, where all the capsules are deposited directly into a huge pile in the main filing room, with no sorting or organization. Which isn’t how it works, as I learn from Raul Hilberg’s The Destruction of the Jews, which I’m finally reading. Did I tell you Leandra had her visa denied? Fuck Trump and the broom he rode in on. Still, when someone compares wine to “smoked meats” or “green leaf tobacco,” such can be tested. Other comparisons are not so easy to comprehend (I once knew a wine-lover who described her wine to be “like dew on a lawn in Sri Lanka”). My non-olfactory vocabulary betrays me here, so let me go to a specific example —
The feeling of worn out leather, a hot motor
Balanced with contradictions, cream drawn on our wrists
An idea that’s nothing like you
As tho the leather had been rendered more supple by the tea infusion
Idea paints and their mixing ratios
Ads geared toward rebellious adult Christian children
The mannerism in quantum gravities
Being married is like having a controlled substance
Where are your imaginary numbers, your interior and narrative prompts?
Berlin police say suspects used a wheelbarrow to make off
with a 100-kilogram gold coin worth millions.
So in fact, the fossil fuel industry thrived under Obama for one simple reason: improvement in horizontal drilling techniques, which led to the fracking boom and surges in production of oil and natural gas from 2005 on. But this is what happens to old links. I mean, I clicked on Old Cultural Work: Poetry of Che Qianzi. Cambridge: CCCP Translation Series, 2002, at Barque Press, and landed at Experience a Thrilling Variety of Free Porn Movies in Many Styles. Which is perhaps why, after all these years, the influence of the planet Saturn still governs the melancholy that haunts the eyes of the magicians. Completely absorbed by the task at hand, they almost seem alienated from their own selves. Their gaze is tinged with the “contemplative paralysis” described by Walter Benjamin in The Origin of German Tragic Drama. According to Benjamin, the allegory is always a conventional sign, and never, unlike the symbol, the harmonious incarnation of an Idea. Frozen by a bolt of light, the magicians are, like the allegory, like portraits of flowers whose metallic splendor, etc., so no, we are not wholly ignorant of our crimes anymore, and no, we have not yet fully paid for them. Which is to say that much of the best work in photography is like the real answer from the Whirlwind to Job —
Go inside, watch Star Trek.
My back is stiff; it’s urgent to pee.
Am I simply trying to fool you?
The man who missed the point of no return deposits
Sand on the path he chose.
Now I feel more like I do now than I did when I got here. Left psychoanalysis today thinking: “it’s like microwaving the transference.” Told Dr. C that we want to make an infomercial about psychoanalysis with a talking rubber brain and she said the idea “sounds like it has legs” — I replied, “THE BRAIN HAS LEGS!” and died laughing at my literal deployment of her idiomatic response. It is as though I could enter it and examine the waves that radiated. Was this paradise? Those who cheer the war from the air might also reflect on this passage: My brothers, sisters and I had planned a small party for Mother’s Day. It was a cold March morning and I heard the sound of warplanes. I immediately set out for home. As the taxi got closer, clouds of smoke filled the air. The regime’s planes had hit our street. Our neighbour’s roof had collapsed on to ours. There were ambulances everywhere, and people running around carrying the dead and the injured. One of my neighbours told me that my parents were hurt and had been taken to the general hospital. When we arrived the place was full of the smell of blood and death. We were asked to look at the bodies laid out in front of us to see if our parents were among them. As I stood beside my father, it was like nothing that had happened before that moment mattered. There was my dad. His body was littered with injuries. They had covered most of his corpse with a white sheet, but his face was still showing. I could see blood seeping through the sheet from numerous cuts. The telltale sign of shrapnel wounds. But what if La La hasn’t actually been kidnapped, what if it’s a ruse designed by La La herself to get to the US, where she can become the next country superstar? At one point La La says: “In my sleep I am starring in Coal Miner’s / Daughter. I am as convincing as Sissy Spacek except I am Chinese / and just can’t help it. I can’t.” “COWGIRLS DON’T HAVE FLAT FACES,” her mother insists. La La responds with, “When I get to America I can be anything I can be Patsy Cline I have her wrists.” And a few million mutants lost their mutations. Nevertheless, we will still be able to adroitly energize spells across the coming circumstance by respirating within higher linguistic occultations.
Green Orion Woman shudders. Orange man on the big screen.
Under the covers, the pulsar beckons purple, blue,
white heat sound floor nourishes Green Orion Woman. She thinks
dire wolves, dragon lords, crows, cats, dolphins,
flesh against the metal seam
and soon I got this idea, “The Twin Dance: a staged bardo”
about Mixed-Raced Asian identity and Graduate Student Suicide.
Themes also include adolescent mental health, neuroscience,
acoustic projection, Jungian psychotherapy, Vajrayana Buddhism
(especially attitudes towards Desire, Impermanence, Attachment
and Detachment), failure to thrive, and Cody’s Bookstore. Apparently
a dead tree (beloved of eagles) though less flamboyant than a living tree
(with its eager leaves like little windows and mirrors) has more living
tissue in it. Than what? What is a person? Your teeth are from a coral reef;
your hair is a thousand years old. “Visceral criticism ... requires reading with one’s entire proprioceptive repertoire, looking to the gut, to spinal distortions, neuralgic signing, as much as to the logistical faculties of close literary reading.” Let fun have you. Through the Migration Geo-Portal, XChange provides reliable, open-source data visualization and analysis on the principle migratory routes, arrivals and deaths in the Mediterranean region. Both these sentiments are problematized here through the Dada insistence on the “continuous now.” Indeed, one of the best images in the book is Höch’s incredibly dense “Cut with the Kitchen Knife through the Beer-Belly of the Weimar Republic”. In other words, it’s Miller time, baby. This Bud’s for you. Divinational gazing is an ocular technique based on surpassing visual expectations that takes the unclear seriously. As if it were powered by an electric current beyond human control. It works like a dangerous scientific experiment, making it personal and impersonal at the same time, strange and empathetic in a single stroke. Because it’s not only the several “fucks” that have been censored, but words like “downloaded”, a fact that only comes to light if one compares both versions,
after the acting up and backing off and the brushing up on
the calling for and calming down and the carrying off
after the clamming up and the chipping in and the coming across
after the coming up against and the counting on and the crossing out
before our empire was founded, decisions were being made
a rock was wrapped in a cloth, and hurled into the canyon
exclamation point, space bar, space bar, space bar, space bar, space bar, space bar, space bar, space bar, space bar, space bar, space bar, space bar, space bar, space bar, space bar, exclamation point, space bar, space bar, space bar, space bar, space bar, space bar, two-character word, space bar, space bar, space bar, space bar, space bar, space bar, space bar, exclamation point, SAY WHAT, it was in the midst of big sky, open space, and the dead of winter in Jackson Hole, Wyoming that I first became aware that I’m an Island Girl. I call the work I did before that “pre-kehre,” which is a Heidegger joke. The implications here are obvious to the point of absurdity: clearly, Tesla is developing a cutting edge, sustainable way to harness unicorn farts in order to power their next line of vehicles. What could be a better way to show that the company is serious about ending our reliance on fossil fuels? After I wake, my friend G comes, he jerks his head robotically, silently he picks up small objects from the table, the remains of smashed insects on the window are pure light, they make every effort to stand forth in the context. We’d just, so it has been said, purchased a goldfish.
At some point
he began sawing
the woman in half.
Own your own home. ‘Is’ is already beyond belief. Evolutionists have even likened Natural Selection to a poem. I have a list of things to do, and I don’t have to do them. You are not sages — you are spacemen — see you later, then — the weed’s in the drawer — do you really think you can handle what will happen next — HA! — we are, essentially, milksmiths — the sheepdog is crazy, there’s nothing we can do about it — he’s planning to steal your patio furniture – after putting away all the leather accessories you keep them in — and a trance — and LUCID — like a vacuum cleaner untying knots — in the fridge — for your dinner — Zap-ada! — help — hup — TAXI! — little changes in the blue range — and the red range — a little acid in the orange’s fluorescent — so when Bolaño call Lichtenberg “our” philosopher, he adds, parenthetically, that “frankly, when I say ‘we’, I don’t know what I am talking about”. On the other hand, “On the night of February 9, 1799 I dreamt that I was on a trip and eating in an inn, or rather a roadside shack, in which a dice game was going on. Across from me sat a well-dressed, somewhat dissipated young man, who, heedless of the people sitting around him, was eating his soup in such a way that at every second or third spoonful, he’d throw it into the air, then catch it in the spoon and quietly swallow it. What makes this dream really peculiar to me is that I made my usual remark to myself, that you can’t make this stuff up, you had to see it. I meant that no novelist could make it up; and yet I was making it up that very second. At the dice game sat a tall, thin woman, knitting. I asked her what stakes could be won and she said nothing; when I asked her if anything could be lost, she said no. The game struck me as very important.” And it is. Upon waking I saw at once that experience leads to no harbor (but to a place of bewilderment, of non-sense). To a place of non-knowledge. And that it remains there. “A ray of darkness.” On the surface of this earth, then, there are crowds of round bodies with thick roots out of which arise many small ones, which live in the air like polyps live in water and hang down their roots like polyps do their limbs. In deeper waters
were hairtail, and cuttlefish. Hairtail were called knife fish
in my language. If you’re shipwrecked, some say,
knife fish are the first to wrap around you
and pick you clean.
Which is why I hold on to my crumbling copy of Children of Albion, I think. It features John Arden, Peter Armstrong, Pete Brown, Jim Burns, Johnny Byrne, Charles Cameron, David Chaloner, Barry Cole, John Cotton, Andrew Crozier, Dave Cunliffe, Felix de Mendelssohn, Raymond Durgnat, Paul Evans, Ian Hamilton Finlay, Roy Fisher, Harry Guest, Lee Harwood, Michael Hastings, Spike Hawkins, Geoffrey Hazard, Piero Heliczer, Pete Hoida, Anselm Hollo, Frances Horovitz, Michael Horovitz, Libby Houston, Mark Hyatt, John James, Roger Jones, David Kerrison, Seymour King, Bernard Kops, David Kozubei, Herbert Lomas, Anna Lovell, Paul Matthews, Michael McCafferty, John McGrath, Tom McGrath, Stuart Mills, Ted Milton, Adrian Mitchell, Edwin Morgan, Tina Morris, Philip O’Connor, Neil Oram, Tom Pickard, Paul Potts, Tom Raworth, Carlyle Reedy, Bernard Saint, Michael Shayer, David Sladen, Tom Taylor, Barry Tebb, Chris Torrance, Alexander Trocchi, Gael Turnbull, Patrick Waites, Nicholas Snowden Willey, William Wyatt, and Michael X. Sure, it can be criticized. Only five of Albion’s 63 children are daughters. The Liverpool poets are missing, as are, many others, for example Veronica Forrest-Thomson and JH Prynne. Andrew Crozier and Tim Longville’s A Various Art, a later anthology, has been seen as a reply. Iain Sinclair, writing in the introduction to Conductors of Chaos, puts its success down to the Zeitgeist of “frivolous times.” Andrew Duncan calls it “a dreadful anthology.” I guess they’re not afraid of the knife fish, or maybe they didn’t smoke enough weed, or maybe they didn’t read enough of that great late 20th-century philosopher, Lester Bangs, who noted how “Way back in 1972 [actually 1969] [The Shaggs] recorded an album up in New England that can stand, I think, easily with Beatles ‘65, Life with the Lions, Blonde on Blonde, and Teenage Jesus and the Jerks as one of the landmarks of history. Basically what it comes down to is that unlike the Stones these girls are saying we love you ... they embrace all because they are true one world humanists with an eye to our social future whose only hope is a redefined communism based on the open-hearted sharing of whatever you got with all sentient beings. Their and my religion is compassion ... For instance, in their personal favorite number, ‘My Pal Foot Foot,’ they reveal how even a little doggie must be granted civil rights ... Unfortunately the Wiggins’s [actually Wiggin’s] masterpiece was lost over the years — it came out on a small label, and everybody knows the record industry has its head so far up its ass it’s licking its breastplate. But this guy from NRBQ had the savvy to rescue it from oblivion (in a recent issue of Rolling Stone, he compared their work to early Ornette Coleman, and he’s right, though early Marzette Watts might be more apt) ... How do they sound? Perfect! They can’t play a lick! But mainly they got the right attitude, which is all rock’n’roll’s ever been about ... (I mean, not being able to play is never enough.) You should hear the drum riff after the first verse and chorus of the title cut — sounding like a peg-leg stumbling through a field of bald Uniroyals, it cuts Dave Tough cold and these girls aren’t even junkies (of course!). They just whang and blang away while singing in harmonies reminiscent of three Singing Nuns who’ve been sniffing lighter fluid and their voices are just so copacetic ... God Bless the Shaggs.” So the closer he gets to the center, the worse the damage is, the thicker the smoke now clouding out the sun. He hobbles in on his crutches for a look. There are people on the sorting-room floor covered with gray mailbags and other people carrying on over them. Bo wants to ask them what’s been happening, but they are mostly too hysterical. “Everybody’s dead!” one of them screams. It’s a perfect night. Wind, rain, gloomily overcast, the puddled reflections more luminous than the streetlamps they reflect. You’re thinking about Flame’s betrayal, if it was one, about Blue’s dark machinations, the mysterious widow, her unknown whereabouts, about all the bodies you’ve left in your wake. Your tattoo is itching. You reach back under your coat to scratch it with your middle finger erect, just to let whoever’s behind you know that you know. What’s Blue up to? Maybe he’s in Mister Big’s pocket, the chalk drawing of the alleged corpse part of an elaborate cover-up. Now everything’s stretching out. The blocks are longer somehow, the soaked streets wider and packed bumper to bumper with blaring traffic. You have to double back, take shortcuts that aren’t short. You know the way and you don’t know the way. You find yourself on unfamiliar corners, have to guess which turn to take. He’s broke, but there’s no one in the ticket booth so he goes on in, passing through the famous circular lobby with its crimson and gold decorations, now looking tattered and abandoned, drawn by the muffled strains of the wedding march which explode exuberantly upon him when he opens the inner double doors. The opening titles and credits are already rolling as he takes his seat. He sees himself up on the big screen dressed in scarlet top hat and tails riding in a bright green convertible with a carload of women, sisters of the bride, down sunny city streets-yes, sunny: old Sol is out for the first time in recent memory, everything is thawing out, even the old silted-up and frozen canals seem to be running again! It’s a kind of tickertape parade — the glowing city canyons are filled with millions of strands of chopped-up audio and video tape and old 8mm film, fluttering down upon him and his companions (Connie is not among them, nor are there, for once, any film crews) like a kind of anointing, glittering like ribbons of gold in the amazing sunlight. Oh, he knows he’s going to like this movie! Happily ever after: that’s his future! And it’s about time! There is time to observe all this from the back of the church while waiting for people to take their seats and things to begin. In fact there is not much else to do. Now and then the image is shaken by someone bumping the camera while squeezing past, giving the viewer an authentic sense of being present at a real moment in time. Some of the wedding guests wear sequined Fuck Me! skullcaps, winged phalli dangling from gold necklaces, and mantillas woven from pubic hair, and there are cum-stained prayer rugs unfurled in front of the bloodstained altar, which is in the shape of a four-poster bed with stirrups. Standing there before it, tall and haughty, is the High Priestess herself, dressed in traditional body-tight black leather canonicals, gold ornaments, and the ancient black velvet scapular of her office embroidered with the seven sacred erotic tortures, as defined by the Holy Script, which she holds in her hands. The next week I revisited the piece, wanting to think through my initial, opening night dismay. On a second viewing, and with less of a crowd crush, the sculptures’ balletic relationship with, and dialectic struggle against, each other became more apparent. Now it seemed to me that each of Kurian’s sculptures was linked to the next, in a chain of sincerity and irony, within that stairwell. The characters included figures that resembled frogs, pit bulls, a chromed chameleon, a she wolf, the “all holes” woman, and a giant baby. Halfway to the apex were two moon men in a death spiral — these were “Satters and Pulley,” names borrowed and modified from Wyndham Lewis’ modernist, and reactionary, novel Childermass (1928). The upper figure was in the motion of delivering a lethal kick to the lower one’s blown glass face. On the back of the victor was an American flag with Arabic stencil and the words “Never Forget. September 11th.” That last motif hints at Kurian’s appropriation of the Childermass title as an ironic nod to the interwar fascist ideology Wyndham Lewis held — perhaps, like many others, he sees a revival of this ideology now. As I later discussed Kurian’s work with friends, I began to verbalize why I had taken the time to enact multiple readings of Kurian’s intent. In the past, I have participated in many discussions in New York’s South Asian art spaces about the absenting of South Asian artists in both the Whitney Biennial and MoMA PS1’s Greater New York Show. A cursory review shows no South Asian American artists in the 2004, 2006, 2008, 2012, and 2014 Whitney Biennials, and only between one and three artists of South Asian origin in the last four PS1 Greater New York shows. Kurian is one of two artists of South Asian origin in this biennial. I also noted the curatorial transition — this is the first time two Asian-American curators, Christopher Y. Lew and Mia Locks, have curated this biennial of American art. Which is why the specific rules that govern the performance of my music create a sound characterized by the predominance of musical intervals whose numerators and denominators in just intonation are factorable by the primes 7, 3, and 2, and selected higher primes, especially 31, and by the exclusion of intervals whose numerators and denominators are factorable by the prime 5. If we represent intervals with numerators and denominators factorable by the primes 7, 3, and 2 in conventional music notation and terminology, we obtain intervals that include various sized major and minor sevenths (with emphasis on the septimally derived blues minor seventh in my compositions such as Bb Dorian Blues, Early Tuesday Morning Blues, Sunday Morning Blues, and The Tortoise, His Dreams and Journey), perfect fifths, octaves, unisons and their inversions, various sized major and minor seconds, and perfect fourths. The blues I was playing on the sopranino saxophone, directly preceding the period of The Tortoise, emphasized a technique I invented consisting of extremely fast combinationpermutations of a limited set of tones to simulate a sustained chord. And the chord I increasingly emphasized consisted of the pitches Eb, Bb, Db, Eb, (the IV-chord from Bb Dorian Blues) extended over the full range of the saxophone. Translated back into just intonation, these pitches are all examples of octave transpositions of the primes 7, 3, and 2. Just tarrying with this today feels, like, what, enough to make one want to pull out a cell phone or some other sign that people do not totally regret life? That’s one reason why I model these posts after feeds like Rogue NASA, where just looking at Earth now has become a movement of some kind. “It’s Too Late for Careful” so yes,
frighten me when
my street as
a feeling I send
ahead of myself to one
day walk inside
people sleep while I inspect their
Thus, decomp behind a McDonald’s dumpster, decomp in an Alberta tar sands tailings pool, decomp between walls of the back wings of the hospital where nothing will grow. But also decomp left for a year in an urban community garden, decomp wedged between two slats of a border fence, decomp on Mars.
[Note: Sources: Rachel Ellis Neyra, “On Digital Sand”, at BOMB, 27 Mar 017; JBR; SJ Fowler, “The Incident of Smood : a poem for Waleed Abulkhair : for #PENFest 2017”, in “English Pen”, at SJ Fowler, 25 Mar 017; Saskia Elizabeth Ziolkowski, “Kafka Transformed”, at Public Books, 27 Mar 017; JBR; Christina Iglesias, and Joy Williams, 99 Stories of God, quoted in Iglesias’ “God Walks into a Bar”, at Public Books, 1 Oct 016; JBR; The I Ching, or, Book of Changes, 3rd Edition (trs. Richard Wilhelm, Cary F. Baynes), quoted in “I-Ching Hexagram 64”, at The Abysmal; JBR; a textual collage by Dennis Cooper, in his “Pneumatic Tube Day* (*Restored), at DC’s, 29 Mar 017; JBR; Eileen R Tabios, and Anne Gorrick, The Olfactions, quoted in Tabios’ “THE OLFACTIONS by ANNE GORRICK”, at Galatea Resurrects 2017 (A Poetry Engagement); Associated Press, “German police: Thieves stole huge gold coin with wheelbarrow”, at Fox News World, 28 Mar 017; JBR; Philip Bump, “What Trump’s new climate actions mean: A FAQ”, at The Washington Post, 28 Mar 017; JBR; Larisa Dryansky, “The saturnine images of Valérie Belin, Galerie Jérôme-de-Noirmont, Paris, 2008”, at Valérie Belin; JBR; Robert Adams, “Robert Adams on John Gossage’s ‘The Pond’ (1986)”, at ASX, 24 Feb 013; Douglas Oliver, “The Soul as Crumpled Bedsheet”, in “[Unedited pages from Whisper Louise, work-in-progress, a double historical memoir of Louise Michel, heroine of the 1871 Paris Commune, and of the author in the 20th century.]”, at Quid 1; Brian Kim Stefans, “Christopher Smart’s America”, at Quid 1; JBR; Peter Manson, “The Last Century’s Late Modernism”, at Quid 1; picunurse, at The Straight Dope (“anon, from a bathroom wall in Kelly’s bar in Kansas City Mo 1974”); Jackie Wang, “3/27/2017: raw journal notes // fragments of paradise”, at Giulia Tofana the Apothecary, 27 Mar 017; Derek Gregory, “Bombing Raqqa”, at geographical imaginations, 28 Mar 017 (re Samer, The Raqqa Diaries: Escape from Islamic State); Megan Milks, and Kim Gek Lin Short, quoted in Milks’ “Review of CHINA COWBOY in American Book Review”, at Kim Gek Lin Short’s Blog, 25 Sept 013; Anselm Berrigan, quoted in Gabe Dozal, “An Interview with Anselm Berrigan”, at Sonora Review, 28 Mar 017; JBR; Will Alexander, Petra Kuppers, Sean Labrador y Manzano, Miranda Mellis, Robin Tremblay-McGaw, quoted in Charles Bernstein, “Responses to Eleni Stecopoulos’s Visceral Poetics”, at Jacket2, 29 Mar 017; old 60s slogan, which has now been replaced, if google hits are an indication, by “Have fun but don’t let fun have you”, which just proves I am getting too old ... I assume this means that fun now = alcohol); MOAS, “Newsletter 30 March 2017”, email rec’d 30 Mar 017, approx. 7:12am PDT; Joseph Nechvatal, “Dada Presentism: An Essay on Art and History by Maria Stavrinaki Translated from the French by Daniela Ginsburg Stanford University Press / Paperback: 107 pages”, at Academia.edu; JBR; Joseph Nechvatal, “Dada Presentism: An Essay on Art and History by Maria Stavrinaki Translated from the French by Daniela Ginsburg Stanford University Press / Paperback: 107 pages”, at Academia.edu; Ernesto Priego, and Keith Tuma and Justin Katko, “Holiday in Tikrit”, quoted in Priego’s “HOLIDAY IN TIKRIT by KEITH TUMA and JUSTIN!KATKO”, at Galatea Resurrects 1; Brent Cunningham, “The Orations of Trillius Patronius” in Bird & Forest, quoted in Thomas Fink’s “BIRD & FOREST by BRENT CUNNINGHAM”, at Galatea Resurrects 1; Heather Nagami, “UNNECESSARY ROUGHNESS by SHIN YU PAI”, at Galatea Resurrects 1; Mary Jo Malo, “IMPROVISATIONS by VERNON FRAZER”, at Galatea Resurrects 1; Leny Mendoza Strobel, “ALCHEMIES OF DISTANCE by CAROLINE SINAVAIANA-GABBARD”, at Galatea Resurrects 1; JBR, quoted in Anne Gorrick, “INTERVIEW: JOHN BLOOMBERG-RISSMAN on IN THE HOUSE OF THE HANGMAN”, at Galatea Resurrects 2017 (A Poetry Engagement), 30 Mar 2017; Rae Paoletta, “Elon Musk’s Cryptic Art Suggests Unicorn Fart-Powered Teslas”, at Gizmodo, 30 Mar 017; MLB, “Spring”, “Hymn”, in 69 (tr. Frank L Vigoda); Tom Beckett, “Volumes”, “Vanishing Points of Resemblance”, “Rehearsing”, “Stanzas”, in Unprotected Texts: Selected Poems 1978-2006; Robert Kocik, “Overcoming Fitness”, in Supple Science: A Robert Kocik Primer (eds. Michael and Thom Donovan); Paul Legault, “From Sophie Podolski’s The Country Where Everything Is Permitted”, at Synthetic Zero, 17 Jul 014; JBR; Roger Gathman, and Georg Friedrich Lichtenberg, quoted in Gathman’s “The Great Georg Lichtenberg”, at Limited, Inc., 20 Mar 017; JBR; Georges Bataille, Inner Experience (tr. Leslie Anne Boldt); Georg Friedrich Lichtenberg, quoted in Roger Gathman, “origami, metaphysics, and Lichtenberg”, at Limited, Inc., 27 Mar 017; Emily Jungmin Yoon, “The Transformation”, quoted in PEN America, “PEN Poetry Series: ‘The Transformation’ by Emily Jungmin Yoon”, email rec’d 31 Mar 017, approx. 8:08am PDT; JBR; Wikipedia; JBR, but see Andrew Duncan, “Such that commonly each: A Various Art and the Cambridge Leisure Centre”, at Jacket 20; JBR; Lester Bangs, “Better Than the Beatles (and DNA, Too)”, at Key of Z; JBR; Robert Coover, The Brunist Day of Wrath, Noir, The Adventures of Lucky Pierre: Directors’ Cut, quoted in Dennis Cooper, “Robert Coover Day”, at DC’s, 29 Mar 017; Naeem Mohaiemen, “The Whitney Biennial Reminds Us America Is Not Post-Race”, at Hyperallergic, 31 Mar 017; JBR; LaMonte Young, “Notes on The Theatre of Eternal Music and The Tortoise, His Dreams and Journeys”, at Mela Foundation; Joshua Schuster, and CA Conrad, quoted in Schuster’s “From ecodeviance to decomp”, at Jacket2, 27 Mar 017 (re CA Conrad, Ecodeviance: (Soma)tics for the Future Wilderness and Stephen Collis and Jordan Scott’s Decomp)]