Knowledge is festive. A deep molecular emptiness hangs in the
air. Dawn is glossed. “I am,” I answered silently. “But
I feel … different.” Let’s dab a double finger half-pissed
kiss on Muddy’s lips, O “Angel Showing Lead Shot Damage”,
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 we’re not penséein’.
Two girls write I’m an asshole in ballpoint pen on
the back of the passed-out drunk boy’s leather jacket.
[Note: Sources: Image © Robert Rissman. Brandon LaBelle, Background Noise: Perspectives on Sound Art; Steve Peters, as quoted in LaBelle; Octavia Butler, Imago; Barry MacSweeney, “Angel Showing Lead Shot Damage”, in Wolf Tongue: Selected Poems 1965-2000; 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. Links courtesy of Ron Silliman]