You can tell by the Buddha’s footprint that his feet were flat. I’m sick of judging your carnage, she says. Event: I sat down to talk to everyone who had ever lived. All things are the gift of the earth, which too is not here. Because there’s no light, what an outrage was made of the science of definitions, like what happened. Layers hold.
Brow paces the shape.
direct the encompassing arched cool —
The crag exercises the ripplings.
Layers pace the stone.
track the driven —
Brows sweep the basin.
Monkeys sweep the ripplings.
shade the objective cool dim —
Brow exercises the flow.
Monkeys trail the basins.
stamp the objective clear —
The crag ranges the basin.
enter the encompassing clear dim —
Shape exercises the cove.
Monkeys command the basins.
enter the fine straight arched cool —
Shapes range the rocks.
Brows sweep the stone.
direct the encompassing objective arched dim — I also frequently feel “not thin enough to be traumatized” which is straight 19th century representations of women consumptives and I KNOW this and yet and yet. “100,000 drones above us, a headline said. / Someone must love us, must be eager to know us,” we fish for gar with kittens, he’d yelled last night, and that was that. Yet let that hang; the suspense is liveable, is it. What has landscape to do with – or against – war? The capacity of air, for music or for color, for light; the sky uncrowded, unclouding; the volatility of dust … That night there was a moon. I recall – maybe from later – in the kitchen the olive oil spigot capped with a pencil eraser, cinched with a twisty-tie (recalling Olson’s paper clips, string: […] the blessing / that difficulties are (Maximus, Song 3)).
there is a conviction that if you jump up and down off and on the curb long enough with your feet
held tightly together
others have been convinced that perfect immobility for the exact number of days or months – and
the number varies –
will turn your eyelids to emerald
and with emerald the immobility will be limitless vibration everywhere
we hear those steps’ color, carry those plastic buckets full of laundry, fresh
to be stored in the curves of driving, fast, the night returns
the big big cars, in among the stars
where you see bonechina butterflies in and out among the golden balls
till they run green in the movies after the eyes are closed
It’s tough to write when the bald head glows by the window. Trembling and silent, I remained in my seat, although I wanted to jump up and shriek at them, I am! I am the Robert Walser! My name is Mina, short for Bertramina, but really I am Robert. I write Stücklie, I wander and I dream. Furthermore, I possess tiny nearly illegible handwriting on white paper. And finally, I intend later to go mad and commit myself to a sanatorium so I can quit writing, only I will keep writing. After some time, they will transfer me to a different sanatorium which I will hate, and it will hurt me. They’ll shock my suffering forehead with its flanking temples like the two Marys on one side and St. John on the other: they, too, suffered. Then the Three Vagrants will come upon me to bear away my frank nonsense and mirth. I am no flower! Flowers don’t rove. Furthermore. Who would be a flower? Therefore my penis. But then I felt that I didn’t deserve it because I was bad and writing duds, minus inspiration. The shoveling action made a glorious scraping sound. Fra Angelico. Bert means bright like Lite-Brite the toy but also shining glorious one like the Messiah or Robert Walser. Conor clutched his skateboard and his face did rust. I have to do this because … I have to do this because every young male actor wants to play Hamlet and I am a young male actor. The spit has some blood in it and the blood gathers in the spare white water of the urinal, a suspended smudge. I Live For The Night is itself like a smudge of almost everything in pop music from the last few years. It celebrates the allure and power of the night, as a rarefied time marked by the disappearance of obligations to labor, and thus becomes the kairos for abandon, supplanting regular askesis for a new, wilder one. Nocturnal askesis in I Live For The Night is transfigured into the loftiest object possible, one worthy of total devotion. The Yousaf sisters’ sing-rapping vacillates between a confident, rhythmic bark and wan vulnerable falsetto. These three have listened to a lot of Black Eyed Peas, but, then again, who hasn’t? Saying “I live for X” is a classic dative of purpose. Or, I think it is. It is full and empty of fear and blasting. Piranesi and Bentham haunt the corridors and rooms where swarms of legs and hands make, get angry, prepare rebellion, get scared, get defeated, make, get angry, threaten explosion, implode – the contradictions, the confusions, the et ceteras and the cabbaging of said et ceteras. And then bloodstains being the ones I've found in hems of clothing I’ve bought: hands caught in machines, hands as insects, hands as feet, pins in all the faces, chairs (my irrational fear of) as (rational hatred of) Chairs. Blood on the Chair. Nits or spiders that --- what is their logic. Why is there a nighthowler in my parlour. What exactly is. Something like that. And then there’s Acker and what she started, and Tàpies, and then the floating idea that there is no weaving without holes and gaps in space and material. Thoughts regarding matchstick girls are present, and the prisoners of the Walthamstow workhouse, and the toy factories (also of Walthamstow) that were shut down in the 80s and suffrage and suffering and what happens. Or wait. I have a line about talking toys somewhere; it's still an unborn poem, another bit of compositional cobweb that thickens and clouds my perceptions in a most productive way but no wait. Actually, I will forget about Walthamstow because it is stained with the feces of gentrifying, racist cupcake fascists who think there are too many fried chicken shops that attract too many kids and make the neighbourhood look cheap and undesirable to live in. Unless it’s Nando’s. Nando’s is respectable fried chicken for three times the price, and it comes with tasteful music and nice lighting. In fact, a Nando’s just opened at the foot of the newly-constructed Palace of Mediocrity for The Monied that towers over the station. Chicken livers and a Portugese roll for £6.10?! Who are they kidding? People who never go to the butchers, where you can buy chicken livers for pennies, that’s who. End rant. It didn’t happen. I’m not particularly smart but I'm good at faking it. All this is but a few tiny shards of pale glimmers in PIN. Don’t go being reductive just because of a few drops of secret knowledgespittle are splashing your shoes as I vomit various bits of venom and some of the sharp objects my body has rejected into this rather sloppy sales pitch. Yes, thinks Eitsu, this is something special. She senses motion behind the curtains and leaps off the edge of the stage, slipping down her smartglasses, firing up her combat augs for the first time in ages. An AR tag tells her: Please wait. Installing vital cyberware updates. Do not shut down or reboot. Oh well. The huge armored arm surges. Metal groans, wood splinters, and the hill in the centre of the casino buckles and cants. Any sense has been made prior to conscious perception by all the non-conscious systems that run you, in conjunction with an environment. A broth of algorithms gets stirred up. You try to see that as a meaningful structure. Sometimes that can seem satisfying – even sublime – but the only way to put that mis-en-scene on a permanently fulfilling basis is to encounter it as an adrenalin sport. (A clue, or another part of the argument, is in the little sun-diver theme that links Liv Hula and Ed Chianese.) Anyway, run the Fluid Experiment for a moment or two, then select “reset particles” while it’s still going and just watch for a few minutes: that will fully explain to you the plot of the Light trilogy (along with a plot of its overarching implied context). Or you could read the books & have a laugh about how Ed’s body ends up.
[Note: Sources: JBR; Alice Notley, “Introducing Carthage”, “City of Ghostly Festivals”, in Songs and Stories of the Ghouls; Nick Montfort, “Taroko Gorge” (run 20 Nov 014), at Nick Montfort; “I also frequently feel “not thin enough to be traumatized” which is straight 19th century representations of women consumptives and I KNOW this and yet and yet”, at Ahem, 20 Nov 014; Tod Marshall, quoted in SPD blurb for his Bugle, “Admit Possession to Rent”, at Poetry Foundation; Jeffrey Bergfalk, and Kenneth Irby, quoted in Bergfalk’s “‘yet another order / of the closeness we had found’", at Jacket2; Mina Pam Dick, “from I am the Robert Walser”, at The Brooklyn Rail, 6 Nov 012; Brandon Brown, “Krewella, Live For The Night”, at Ashbery Home School, 24 Jan 014; Frances Kruk, “another one arrives”, at Dark Mucus, 20 Nov 014; Jo Lindsay Walton, “From ‘The Reduced Racine Yakuza Co.’”, at All That Is Solid Melts Into Argh, 20 Nov 014; M John Harrison, “in the simulator”, at The M John Harrison Blog, 20 Nov 014]