Which is to say that we should not forget to examine the introduction’s subtitle: «Ainsi donc la question ...». «Ainsi donc» indicates that we are starting in medias res, in the middle of things, and so the «introduction» is not the beginning, but rather the continuation of a line of thought. This expression can be translated variously as «and so», «therefore», «as a result», «thus», «consequently». It marks a new turn or a bifurcation in an already existing discussion or argument, one painted on Yupo paper with water-soluble crayon, watercolor pencil, water brush, paper towel, and Q-tip. They heat these stones outside for a long time and then bring them in. They glow red from inside, alive, sparking with embers. There are big shovels to port them over to a wooden trench positioned to slide down into the pit at the center. Each sweat uses new stones. There is a boy, maybe ten or eleven, who cleans up afterward, clearing away the branches, sweeping, doing little chores. He asks me what the tattoos on my forearms mean. I explain their significance. “The one on this arm just says, ‘Now is the time to study yoga,’” I say. “This other one,” I gesture to my left forearm, “is a line of poetry from Iran. It says, ‘I’m a Muslim; the rose is my qibla.’” “What’s qibla?” he asks. “Qibla means the direction to Mecca. When you’re Muslim and you pray, you turn in the direction of a city in Saudi Arabia where a very ancient mosque is located.” “But it says the rose is the qibla. Which rose?” “Any rose,” I say. “Any rose in the world is the direction for my prayers.” The boy nodded like he understood perfectly. He said seriously, “You’re plugged in.” She sat cross-legged within a semicircle of porcelain bowls arranged small to large, each filled with water and amplified with submerged microphones. Dipping, pouring, and striking, washes of feedback rolled over and intersected. I first found this material while at a residency in the ceramics department of the École Supérieure des Beaux-Arts in Le Mans. I dunked a small piece of unglazed ceramic and wow — such strange sounds, like insects singing. Working this way is almost like making a field recording, and it keeps surprising me. I also found out that my rice sings. So I immediately just started hitting and listening to ordinary bowls I had at home. I draw on that material and try critically to deconstruct it. I take a lot of sentences out of other people’s books and I repeat them endlessly through the work around the narrative structure. Also when you write a book, you need about 60 thousand words. Raymond Chandler says “If you run out of ideas, have someone come through the door with a gun.” What I do instead is I have a sex scene every other page, and every sex scene is identical. That’s half the book before you’re even started. So yes, each of Kunz’s diagrams were drawn in a single sitting, some of which could reportedly last over 24 hours. The drawings operated as conduits for patterns of vibrational energy that could be used to realign the psychic imbalances underlying her patients’ medical conditions, which is why, in 1942, the financial adviser to the royal family of Lichtenstein asked her if she would attempt to repolarize Hitler. Citing excessive negative energies, she at first declined. When she later relented, the 63-centimeter metal spring Kunz used as a transmitter flew up and began to slash at her body, before wresting itself from her grip and flying across the room. That’s when my gaze shifts to the filthy white bucket. She extracts a handful of honeycombs. There are objects concealed under the expanse of uncut grass. Stones trace a path up to the house. They remind me of the decapitated marble head my aunt kept in her garden. I imagine the lawn mowed, a lit artificial lake and the ‘unkempt’ forest in the foreground. The four of us step into the field that grows by the side of the road. I cannot tell the plants apart but feel the sharp or blunt edges of the leaves against my calves. Veronika calls me over. She turns a small round leaf over. Shows me the tiny parasitical insects. Then brushes them off with her nail. She crouches to inspect another. Copy her. There is a row of red ants between the stems. Look up. An American woman stayed in our home. Upon returning they found the doors locked from within. She sat in the windowless hall. Two doors led to the adjoining bedrooms and one to the entrance. She tied a rope to each handle. Tethered the other end to three of the four chair legs. The American woman sat atop to keep them taut. I’m not sure what followed. It rained the next day. The dry mud that was cracked from the drought was eroded. It was during a period where he was writing short, playful and often collaborative poems on blank postcards which had been supplied by Ken and Ann Mikolowski for a project for their Alternative Press. About a hundred of those poems would later comprise Dad’s last completed book, A Certain Slant of Sunlight, published posthumously by Leslie Scalapino’s O Press. Our upstairs neighbor Megan Williams, who was designing and making clothes, had drawn some dresses on one of the cards. I suggested to dad that he write a poem about dresses for mom. He agreed and wrote the first line down: “We are the dresses for Alice.” I suggested a 2nd line, but he countered with “We go on, or off, for solace.” I was dismayed by my choice being rejected and expressed that, so he pointed to the line and reiterated, “No, ‘We go on, or off, for solace’.” Now I see how the word bears a weight of expectation beyond its placement and context. It draws out the need derived from its definition by simply existing in a space, seemingly innocuous, while the longing for solace expands outward. I had also bizarrely found a book in the warehouse, titled A Practical Spanish Grammar Guide for Border Patrol Officers, which had been issued by the Department of Justice in 1951 and reprinted a few times. It included sample bilingual immigration interviews, and strange lists of phrases to memorize, like “music conducting the sky” and “a splash alive forever.” In any case, the germ of The Real-Town Murders was an account I came across of a film Hitchcock never got around to making. He had the idea for a pre-credits sequence, set (this was the early 1970s) in a fully automated, robot-only car factory. He said the camera would follow the whole process of a car being made: you’d see the raw materials being delivered by automated truck; the camera would work its way along the assembly line as robots fitted the body panels together, inserted the engine, put in seats and so on. No people around at all; everything automated. At the end of this sequence the camera would follow the now completely built car out the other end of the factory, down a ramp to join a long line of similarly assembled autos. A man would come along with a clipboard to check the build. He would open the boot of the car and ... inside would be a dead body. The first clue is the cereal box I opened this morning, which features a froglike creature with big eyes, an open mouth, a startlingly human tongue, and human like hands, splashing about in milk and wheat stalks and larva shaped honey smacks, against a vivid red background, and which tells me that it provides “50 % Vit. D. Daily Needs”. On the back it provides me with a printout of “ingredients” and “nutritional facts.” That the words are in English and Arabic points to the global system — this Kellogg’s cereal box has been somewhat vaguely routed or controlled by the Kellogg’s office in Casablanca. Myself, I can sit pretty, given such predecessors as Barthes and a thousand others. Yet I still don’t have the categories to quite understand, for instance, the glue, or — I suspect — starch based adhesive that gives the box its use and mystery. The top of the cereal box is a familiar rectangle divided into two rough triangles traced out by impressed creases. One of the triangles slots under the other. However, to get to that organized state — which we will call the OPENED cereal box — I have to make it so — because the box is eminently CLOSED this morning. It comes closed. It is closed when it finishes its transit of the assembly line. I am confronted by a sealed box top. The potentially separable triangles that make up that box top are glued to two interior cardboard flaps. In the face of this, I, a USAmerican bred and born in the 20th century, know just what to do: I must open this box. But from long experience I also know that I can make a mess of it. Too much pressure and you tear the thing, destroying the ideal symmetry that would insert the slot snugly under the mouth of the other triangle. If I exert the right pressure, I can break the adhesive bond and the box top will tent perfectly over the contents, which are, as well, protected by being stored in a little wax paper bag. That wax paper, too, I will have to force open when I get to it. On the other hand, if I am too violent, the box top triangles will rip, and instead of tenting the contents, they will raise up, irregularly torn, revealing the grayish paper under the beautiful red dye. Every time, then, I open the cabinet and take out the cereal box, its ruinous state will reproach me. In other words,
the instruction manual lay soaking in the bilge
I’m yours I’m all yours but the signals were garbled
persistent cigarette burns on his hand & arm
it is peaceful peaceful
the people go crazy
enter another plane
drive the big white car
on the horse’s back & into a hall
a single large crystal
think of Don Giovanni
with no interference from tree-cutting crane
in other words
IN THE LONG VIEW OF HUMAN HISTORY MAN’S RELIANCE ON FOSSIL FUELS CAN BE BUT A SHORT EPISODE
the moving houses are very moving
as they move slowly into the sea.
And why the “art/life hospital?” After a palm reader told me I would go to the hospital 2 times before I die, I got negatively triggered and angry. Asking myself, “How can I make art of this nonsense?” I had an embossed sign made for my house that said, The Art/Life Institute and Transfiguration Hospital. Living in a hospital at home has been wonderful.
STATION 1: THE COFFIN/SKELETON/DEATH MASK/DOLL/BABY CHICKEN PUPPET.
INTERACTION: 1.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
INTERACTION 2.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
STATION 3: THE DOLLS
The audience gets to practice compassion by praying at each doll bed and then rocking a chakra doll in the rocking chair.
INTERACTION 3:
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
STATION 4: THE 7 BLACKBOARDS AND 7 LIGHTS
And now everyone is equally fabulous.
INTERACTION 4:
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
INTERACTION: 5
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Imagine a corporation-approved robot cat for company on long space voyages, which dispenses narcotics from its space-anus and records your every move for the corporate database. Imagine the UN replaced by an API, a reformed open-source Facebook for which clicking “I agree” on the User Agreement is an official part of coming-of-age and citizenship ceremonies. Imagine wallpapering your room with a representation of your own genetic code; imagine an identity-stealing drone drifting past your window, reading that personal art and reverse-engineering the code it was based on. Imagine a society so diffused across the solar system that actual face-to-face meetings are rare high-status events commemorated by the exchange of physical DNA samples. Imagine those samples incorporated into facial photophores — like the ones on deep-sea fish — coded to flicker in certain sequences when they encounter kin; imagine those handshaking protocols coded to provoke dopamine cascades to enhance social cohesion. Someone learning to hack those protocols, using optogenetic trickery to make everyone she meets trust and adore her implicitly. For a while I’m paired with a very nice person whom I literally can’t understand. Her words make sense on a sentence level, but their underlying meanings seem predicated on axioms I can’t quite figure out. When it comes time to present our preliminary findings I suggest that she take the lead, because I don’t think I can do justice to her perspective. Instead, she gives me our notes and, as I stumble through them, throws herself into some kind of interpretive dance in the middle of the floor. OK.
You are plumed,
Or feathers have been glued to you.
They are crying.
Why is this? I am not sure.
Then some men sat down
On the sidewalk
And wrote slogans
On bits of cardboard.
Exhausted,
They wore the slogans
On their heads like hats.
That’s when I saw Nassif,
My friend from Paris,
In the process of throwing a brick.
90th Ave, beautifully remodeled.
55th Ave, a bungalow ready for your move-in.
23rd Ave, built as an ammunition box factory during WWII.
I reawoke to find myself,
Upon the course of this,
Upon the road,
In the middle of the war against nurses and patient care,
Halfway along the road we have to go, three cranes,
I found that I had strayed into The Forest, an American horror
Film, The Forest, a survival video game, The Forest, a plantation,
I was eating a bagel, hand-rolled,
Boiled in honey water, baked in a wood fired oven,
Either that
Or I was eating an oyster,
I found myself again
Climbing
Through a night-dark wood, Wellbutrin,
There were no good choices
And they wouldn’t answer my email,
Water jets, seaweed wraps, mud baths, and sea-fog inhalation
Appeared not anywhere,
I came to in the neighborhood
Coveted for its central location, cultural diversity, great climate
The many storied properties have good bones—the breath of new
life flows through—
Two spacious areas, original wood floors
Updated Jack and Jill bathroom, walk-in closet
For I had—
Which is to say that “Ave | Via” is the absolute opposite of Athena emerging fully formed from the head of Zeus, it’s more like going back into his head (already split open by someone else) in order to retrieve something you forgot, or forgot how to do, so that you can think about uneven forms of life in the neighborhood. A little bit diving into the wreck, a little bit Orpheus. I love the sound of Bergvall’s poem, the circular condition of waking up again and again lost, and listened to her reading it on repeat. At some point I typed up “Via” and dumped the language into a spreadsheet, a familiar form of self-soothing. Then sorted it alphabetically. I was looking for patterns which were of course all around me, old, and violent. Speaking of Trump, the ribbon is red; the charcoal — well, what is the color between black and gray without waxing too poetic about it? Is the ribbon tongue or tail? Is the charcoal dirt or purifier? Will you need to interact with these objects, or are you just a witness to their existence? It is okay that you have these questions and are impatient for answers. It is okay that the answer will be “all of the above.” The only thing that will prohibit you from moving forward is a failure to accept multiplicity. Before or after the performance, I can’t remember which or when, Kapil held a $20 bill in front of the audience and asked someone to take it if they needed it. I was seated in the third row, to the right of the panel. My heart met my throat — yes, $20, did I need it? Imagine a cloud of milk as it dissipates, spilled on a London street. That asteroid, which created the Chicxulub crater, might have been the most cataclysmic event in Earth’s history, eradicating 75% of the planet’s animal and plant species. Project researchers believe the impact set off fast-moving, seismic surges that triggered a sudden, massive torrent of water and debris from an arm of an inland sea known as the Western Interior Seaway. The surge left “a tangled mass of freshwater fish, terrestrial vertebrates, trees, branches, logs, marine ammonites and other marine creatures,” according to Robert DePalma, the report’s lead author. “The sedimentation happened so quickly everything is preserved in three dimensions — they’re not crushed,” said co-author David Burnham. “It’s like an avalanche that collapses almost like a liquid, then sets like concrete. We have one fish that hit a tree and was broken in half.” Sometimes those words can be used as a springboard — like Benjamin Péret’s mortadella question recalled by Buñuel in his memoirs. In this way, in Dorsky’s cinema everything he films becomes sacred. A shirt, a glass or a handful of sand, in
light of gel, my gel, my vision
come out of
my eyes to hold you sur-
round you in
gold & you don’t know it
ever. Everyone
we the people having our
vision of
gold & silver & silken liquid
light flowed
from our eyes & caressing
all around all the
walls. I am a late Pre-
in this dawn of
to the things that are & were
& come to be
Once what we knew was only
and numbers became
It is numbers & gold &
the night turns one quarter green
that visibly pet moth
Cherry-pick workplace murex vernix Euler tour
moth dolphin
(elsewhere a “beached moth”)
“trees like the trees of another world”
use iris to melt locks
1.1.3
crab panther Dis regent emanation clown
flame troubadour tsar manta
sort of floats
in on the receding undertow
it is listed as vulnerable and looks pleasing
etc. But this lunge to containment is always compromised by border spillage. The word “list” in particular yields copious etymological spoils. That which is “listed as vulnerable” is the building that ‘leans,’ ‘inclines,’ or (in light of the already established oceanic setting) ‘careens,’ it is ‘bordered’, or ‘taken pleasure in.’ But it is also ‘listened to.’ That is to say, it would and it wouldn’t be easier, depending on which kind of prehensility we are taking about — indeed, his question “Why should I even mention / These politicians” is like, I mean, I had been reading 300 pages of Kant a week. In class, I tried to bring up the problem of moral and political philosophy’s search for the “neutral” example, but the professor was not interested. We were reading Arthur Ripstein’s Force and Freedom, where his chapter on contract and consent used the example of agreeing to get one’s hair cut. Can you change your mind halfway through? When does a haircut become violent? I thought it was bizarre to pretend that we could talk about rape by talking about a haircut. I thought it was stranger still to pretend we could talk about “force” and haircuts without talking about the very long history of people in power shaving the heads of their captives, I mean how could we not talk about
the psychic root which is stained by dialectical illness
by the thought contained in black ozonal mirrors
where general slaughter is reflected
where the mind impels its wits by bleak molecular isolation
by stunted mangrove withdrawal
by absence from the life of euphoric solar trees
I mean, robots can’t take your job if you’re already retired, what sick fuck puts up a billboard with that phrase on it? When all I want to do is sleep? The story is contagious and the imaging tells it: Susan Sontag smiling at her notes on Frau Kloterjahn, the tubercular patient in Thomas Mann’s Tristan, while out the window one can see Le Corbusier, clad in a swimsuit and smoking a pipe, boxing with Pierre Jeanneret on the beach. Later, tho I don’t know how much later, Adolf Loos arrives, and just in time: Frederick Kiesler is distributing the yerba buena and someone who says he’s from the future has shown up with the orgasm machine. After leaving the others, we found ourselves at an excavation. I noticed strange kinds of resting places almost at the bottom. They were the shape and length of sarcophagi and looked like they were made of stone. As I knelt, however, I realized that I was gently sinking into them like onto a bed. They were covered with moss and ivy. I saw that there were always two of these resting places side by side. Just as I was about to lie down on the one that was next to the one which seemed to be reserved for D, I realized that it was already occupied by other people. So we kept on going. The place resembled a forest but there was something artificial in the way the tree trunks and the branches were arranged, which made this part of the scenery look like a shipyard. Walking along some beams and climbing up some wooden steps, we reached a kind of tiny, planked deck. The women with whom D lived were there. There were three or four of them and looked very beautiful. The first thing that surprised me was that D did not introduce me. This did not bother me any more than the discovery I made when I put my hat on top of a grand piano. It was an old straw hat, a panama that I had inherited from my father. (The hat is long gone.) When I took it off, I was surprised to see that a wide slit had been cut into the crown. There were some traces of red along the edge of the slit — they brought me a chair. That did not prevent me from taking a different one that I placed a short distance away from the table where everyone was seated. I did not sit down. Meanwhile, one of the women was engaged in graphology. I saw that she was holding something I had written which D had given her. I was slightly worried by her analysis, fearing that some of my personal characteristics would be revealed. I moved closer. I saw a piece of cloth covered with images. The only graphological element I could distinguish was the top part of the letter d. The elongation revealed an extreme aspiration to achieve spirituality. Appended to this part of the letter was a small sail with a blue border, and the sail was billowing as if filled by the wind. That is the only thing I was able to quote unquote read — otherwise, there were only indistinct shapes of waves and clouds. The conversation turned on this handwriting for a time. I do not remember the opinions expressed. But I do know very well, that at some point I spoke these exact words: “Il s’agissait de changer en fichu une poésie” [It was a matter of turning a poem into a scarf]. I had barely uttered these words when something intriguing happened. I noticed that one of the women who was very beautiful was lying on a bed. When she heard my explanation, she made a movement as quick as a flash. She pushed aside a bit of the blanket that was covering her. It took her less than a second to do this. It was not to show me her body, but to see the pattern of her sheet. The sheet must have had imagery similar to the kind I had probably quote unquote written many years ago to give to D. I was quite aware that the women had made this gesture. But I was aware of it because of a sort of second sight. My bodily eyes were somewhere else. And I was not able to distinguish what was on the sheet that had been so surreptitiously revealed to me, but, statistically, the text is roughly 32% nouns, 15% verbs, and 8% adjectives,
AN ASPECT OF SHELF,
ALIVE IN THE PLACE AND SMOKE
It is the chains of our seas.
There is this none.
Some crunching, although.
Because the head is at the very place.
So I will take nails, long nails.
Then I will set fire to everything.
It will burn for a long time.
It will burn for seven days.
Only the nails will remain, all welded together and rusty.
In a blood in angel there is this each.
Because the first war came to be and the first colonies It’s a lesson in love. The world is no longer simply a singular, devouring infant, but an infant that grows through interactions. To feel love is only possible if one realizes that symbiosis consists of you + me = we. Which is perhaps why I cannot forget that, on the cliffs in the park, I stepped on a wounded bird. Its helpless movement under my heel, its absolute softness. When I raised my foot, it was still able to flutter on to a stone beneath a lime-tree. We watched it and, in front of us on the granite, it buried its beak in its feathers, and there was no more movement.‘A small sparrow and a great peace,’ Doña Quixote said. It was the first day of autumn; the weather had changed. Behind the lime-trees the blue perspective of the clouds darkened. ‘In the winter we shall be able to ski to those islands, unless I am that sparrow,’ she said. Why did she say that? I felt, again, the suffering under my heel, as if it had been a human face. Later, when we were walking on the beach, a choir was singing unceasingly: very clear, high voices, women’s or boys’. It was an aria no one had heard before, and it was born in the masts and rigging of the yacht-club’s boats. What’s more, Foucault was heralding the return of this tradition within which the philosophy book served as a “manual or guide to everyday life,” a set of instructions in the “art of living counter to all forms of fascism.” As his final lectures made so clear, for Foucault philosophical activity was an exercise, an experience. Foucault’s work in this last phase of his life was himself in the act of becoming a philosopher. The purpose of this exercise was to transform himself, to let himself be altered by the activity of thinking, and to offer this experience of transformation to those who would come into contact with this work. In the opening pages of The Use of Pleasure, Foucault described what he was doing in the following terms: As for what motivated me, it is quite simple; I would hope that in the eyes of some people it might be sufficient in itself. It was curiosity — the only kind of curiosity, in any case, that is worth acting upon with a degree of obstinacy: not the curiosity that seeks to assimilate what it is proper for one to know, but that which enables one to get free of oneself. After all, what would be the value of the passion for knowledge if it resulted only in a certain amount of knowledgeableness and not, in one way or another and to the extent possible, in the knower’s straying afield of themself? Or, as Donald Trump once told me, unknowingly quoting Ed Smith, in 1986 I was arrested and charged with armed robbery, possession of a controlled substance, contributing to the delinquency of a minor, statutory rape, indecent exposure and lewd conduct (but not resisting arrest!). Fortunately, that year I was awarded a Literature Fellowship in Poetry by the National Endowment of the Arts and was able to use the Fellowship money to retain some state-of-the-art legal counsel. What with plea-bargaining and all I only ended up serving two years forty-seven days. Since my release I have attained the eighth Operating Thetan level in the Church of Scientology. My short-term goal is to have my civil rights restored so I can pursue my long-term goal of being elected President of the United States.
This is a line.
This is a line.
This is a line.
This is a line.
Similarly, we watched the Elephants on the veldt in Kenya pay no attention to a young lion who was stalking the newborn just behind the mother’s legs. Filled with anxiety and disturbed by the mother’s seeming oblivion, we still adhered to out pledge not to interfere even when he crouched. We could see the taut energy in his limbs as he prepared to spring, the baby surely doomed, when the mother, just before he might have been mid-air, turned on a dime and reared as casually as we might swat a fly. She had known he was young, and practicing, not skilled enough yet to be of concern. She returned to grazing, her little one remaining behind her massive legs while the lion, seemingly chagrined, skulked away.
It’s not enough just to build the engine —
you need a head of steam:
uh,
rh,
sha,
shcha,
stones, wire, and paper tags, Yutaka Matsuzawa with “White Circle” (1969), digital print reproduced from “Y. Matsuzawa,” exhibition brochure published by Aoki Gallery, Tokyo, 1969, 6 x 4 1/8 inches, a fertilizer blower to spray colored food dyes across a wide, snow-covered gravel riverbed of the Shinano River in Niigata Prefecture, a gigantic fiberglass egg, which The Play released with theatrical flair into the ocean near the southernmost tip of Japan’s main island, hoping that it would reach California’s coast. Japanese marine-safety officials required that the artists add the inscription, “Would you please report [to] us the place and date when you found this egg[?]” Not properly weighted, it did not travel on the current the artists had anticipated for its journey; it was once sighted out at sea and then never spotted again. Nevertheless, on a normal day on the open road, you probably won’t encounter THAT many classic trolley problems. It’s not really something they cover in driving lessons, like parallel parking. In fact, there’s an argument that the obsession with trolley problems is a distraction from the real issue with smartcars. Machine vision will probably never be smart enough to navigate safely in today’s traffic conditions, especially in cities ... so we’re likely to see a push from developers to redesign city infrastructure around the technology. Does it sound too far-fetched and dystopian to imagine a law that everyone carry their phone at all times, broadcasting their location to all nearby vehicles? And if your battery dies and so do you, that’s sad but too bad. This was the nursery, so to speak, that generated the post-Imperial dissatisfactions and self-pity that eventually produced a Boris Johnson, a Jacob Rees-Mogg, a Nigel Farage. O’Toole is right to frequently refer to Edward St. Aubyn’s Patrick Melrose novels, with their scenes taken from the peculiarly noxious set of spoiled wealthy people, the infants of an immunizing privilege who, at existential loose ends, engage in transgression as a form of sport. St. Aubyn’s figures seem prophetic of the incredible careers of the entitled crew of British “populists” driving Brexit. One could easily imagine them arranged around the table at David Melrose’s country house, laughing as he made his wife eat like a dog on the floor.
[Note: Sources: JBR; Terence Blake, “Reading WHAT IS PHILOSOPHY? (16): the introduction is not the beginning”, at Agent Swarm, 30 Mar 019; JBR; caption to illustration in “There Is Water by Maggie Umber”, at Bomb 146; Kazim Ali, “from Northern Light”, at Bomb 146; Britton Powell, and Tomoko Sauvage, quoted in “Tomoko Sauvage by Britton Powell”, at Bomb 146; Stewart Home, quoted in Dennis Cooper, “Spotlight on … Stewart Home Slow Death (1996)”, at DC’s, 11 Mar 019; JBR; various, quoted in Dennis Cooper, “Galerie Dennis Cooper presents … Emma Kunz”, at DC’s, 13 Mar 019; JBR; Elisa Taber, 300 and 25, at Gauss PDF; Edmund Berrigan, “We Go On, or Off, for Solace”, at Harriet, 25 Mar 019; JBR; Adam Roberts, quoted in Jo Lindsay Walton, “Real Talk: An Interview with Adam Roberts”, at All That Is Solid Melts Into Argh, 6 Mar 019; JBR; Roger Gathman, “MYTHS: The Cereal Box”, at Willett’s, 26 Mar 019; JBR; Anselm Hollo, “Reviewing the Tape”, at EPC; JBR; Anselm Hollo, “IN THE LONG VIEW OF HUMAN HISTORY MAN’S RELIANCE ON FOSSIL FUELS CAN BE BUT A SHORT EPISODE”, at Charles Agvent, Rare Books & Autographs; Linda Mary Montano, “DEATH IN THE ART AND LIFE OF LINDA MARY MONTANO: LECTURE AT DORSKY”, at Linda Mary Montano, 25 Mar 019; Peter Watts, “The Gong Show”, at No Moods, Ads or Cutesy Fucking Icons, 8 Mar 019; Faustino Galicia Chimalpopoca, “from ‘The Náhuatl Exercises’” (tr. Heriberto Yépez), quoted in Jerome Rothenberg, “Toward a Poetry & Poetics of the Americas (18): Faustino Galicia Chimalpopoca, from ‘The Náhuatl Exercises’”, at Poems and Poetics, 7 Mar 019; Safaa Fathy, “Snapshots (excerpts)” (tr. Pierre Joris and the author), quoted in Jerome Rothenberg, “Safaa Fathy: from Revolution Goes Through Walls (translated by Pierre Joris with Safaa Fathy)”, at Poems and Poetics, 28 Mar 019; Stephanie Young, “Ave | Via”, and appended note, at Poetry Society, ?Mar 2019; Emily Paige Wilson, and Bhanu Kapil, quoted in Wilson’s “My Page to Submit”, at con•text, 15 Mar 019 (on Kapil’s Ban en Banlieue); Agence France-Presse, “Found: fossil ‘mother lode’ created by asteroid that wiped out dinosaurs”, at Guardian, 31 Mar 019; Miguel Garcia, “Nathaniel Dorsky, Devotional Cinema”, at Cinema Comparat/ive Cinema 1; Alice Notley, “I the People”, at Poetry Foundation; Ian Heames, and Colin Lee Marsshall, quoted in “Colin Marshall on Ian Heames”, at Intercapillary Space, Apr 017 (a review of Ian Heames, Arrays (Face Press, 2015)); JBR; Diana Hamilton, quoted in Bryan Woods, “Friendship Is Incredible: An Interview with Diana Hamilton”, at Triangle House Review 12; Will Alexander, “Above the Human Nerve Domain”, at Poetry Foundation; JBR; Will Alexander, “Above the Human Nerve Domain”, at Poetry Foundation; JBR; text on billboard in photo at the head of Alli Warren, “On Sleep”, at Harriet, 2 Apr 019; JBR; Ashley Simone, “Beatriz Colomina’s X-Ray Architecture”, at BOMB, 2 Apr 019; Walter Benjamin, letter to Gretel Adorno, 12 Oct 1939, quoted in Sharon Sliwinski, “The Fichu Dream Featuring Cai Glover”, at Museum of Dreams; JBR; Lillian-Yvonne Bertram, and Gwendolyn Brooks, Riot!, algorithmically reorganized by Bertram, in Bertram’s “An Aspect of Chatter, Alive in the Today and People: A Computational Approach to the Poetry of Gwendolyn Brooks”, at Harriet, 4 Apr 019; Tomaž Šalamun, “Eclipse”, quoted in “Remembering Tomaž Šalamun”, at Archipelago Books, 5 Jan 015; Gwendolyn Brooks, Riot!, algorithmically reorganized by Lillian-Yvonne Bertram, quoted in Bertram’s “An Aspect of Chatter, Alive in the Today and People: A Computational Approach to the Poetry of Gwendolyn Brooks”, at Harriet, 4 Apr 019; JBR; Aase Berg, “Language and Madness” (trs. Johannes Göransson & Joyelle McSweeney), at Harriet, 3 Apr 019; JBR; Leena Krohn, “Doña Quixote and Other Citizens. Portrait (Tales of the citizens of an [sic] usual city)” (tr. Hildi Hawkins), in Leena Krohn, Collected Fiction; Edward F. McGushin, Foucault’s Askēsis: An Introduction to the Philosophical Life; JBR; Ed Smith, “You Can’t Legislate Maturity”, “Untitled”, quoted (or misquoted by JBR) in Dennis Cooper, “Please welcome to the world … Punk Rock Is Cool for the End of the World: Poems and Notebooks of Ed Smith, edited by David Trinidad (Turtle Point Press)”, at DC’s, 6 Apr 019; Deena Metzger, “What Our Bodies Know”, at Ruin and Beauty, 5 Apr 019; Vladimir Mayakovsky, “Order to the Army of the Arts [1]” (tr. Harry Gilonis), at BLACKOUT ((poetry & politics)), 5 Apr 019; Edward M. Gómez, “Japan’s Radical Conceptual Art of the 1960s”, at Hyperallergic, 6 Apr 019; JBR; Jo Lindsay Walton, “Notes on three SF short stories”, at All That Is Solid Melts Into Argh, 2 Apr 019; Roger Gathman, “The Killing Joke: Brexit”, at Willet’s, 3 Apr 019]
