Then the fair wind failed. The wind dropped. Winds were unfavourable straightaway. The favourable wind dropped and they were beset by storms so that they made little progress. Then the wind dropped and they were beset by winds from the north and fog; for many days they did not know where they were sailing. The fair wind failed and they wholly lost their reckoning. They did not know from what direction. Driven here and there. The fog was so dense that they lost all sense of direction and lost their course at sea. There was much fog and the winds were light and unfavourable. They drifted far and wide on the high sea. Most of those on board completely lost their reckoning. The crew had no idea in which direction they were steering. A thick fog which did not lift for days. The ship was driven off course to land. They were tossed about at sea for a long time and failed to reach their destination. We embarked and sailed but a fog so thick covered us that we could scarcely see the poop or the prow of the boat, they basically grow it out of sand.
This is a big help because otherwise it was getting pretty enigmatic.
Welcome to the desert of the real,
I am an ephemeral and not too discontented citizen.
I lived in a country
With the thunder of the Gods,
Great red gods, great yellow gods, great green gods,
planted at the edges of the speculative tracks along which
the mind speeds from one feeling to another,
from one idea to its consequence,
I responded to two words, rat and pomegranate, writing them down in my notebook. The two words were like doors in a granite cliff, and when I opened the doors I entered the stories that were waiting there. Firstly, there was a rat. We had traveled for two days to reach our home and when we did, there was dead rat on the counter. The newspaper this little boy wrapped the rat in resembled an overcoat or a shawl. What do you write? Ghost stories. His heart began to beat so hard he thought it was a bird that had hatched inside his body and was trying to poke a hole through his skin. I clicked my fingers and the entire scene began to move again, like tar or butter, how unexpected
yad ihāsti tad anyatra yan nehāsti na tat kvacit
(‘what is here is there; what is not here is nowhere’)
(tho there counts as here)
coated in white petals
the force of documentary proof
defined by putting together
bringing in close connection
nāmnāmmālā, string of beads
he makes boxes and sheaths for seed-vessels
see who stands in front of you
see who was never there
It is remarkable that, in reviewing my collection, I found the word SEA unexemplified.
apāra, not having an opposite shore
(the prefix ‘a’ negates the beyond)
apārapāra, that which will not acquiesce
bandha, binding, fixing, bandage, chain
a yellow sun trembles. sleeps the sun
a green sun and a solar green the slowness of the solar boats along your arm
a world. I rolled as grass at the slug my flowers are cut
Another world is acknowledged with a different color sun
a sun lying on the highway a sheriff checking its heart.
Which is why, at one crucial point of the hike, you have to crawl through a cave, narrow, anguished and almost totally dark. I stood there in front of the entrance to the cave, looking dumbly at my flashlight as if it would give me courage. Maybe you like to crawl through tight wet dark caves but I’d rather do almost anything else. Oh how I wished I found myself instead splayed on a bench in the Parc d’Belleville, tripping on how the trees reflected in the pool there were upside down like a goddamn Manet painting come to life. But I had to crawl through this cave to get back to the car, so ... When I emerged, I was rewarded with a wondrous sight. To the side of the trail, water from recent rain rushed down the rocks, one of which protruded like a little lower lip, the stream pouring through it into a pool below. It was a functional shower in the middle of a volcanic landscape that looked like Saturn, or, I dunno, I couldn’t resist. Putting my shoes to the side and rolling up my pant legs, I gingerly stepped into the stream. The water was so fucking cold, and as I splashed it all over my head and neck and mouth and body, I made little whimpering sounds. A cadenced soundtrack to a totally private pleasure. Walking back to the car, wet and freezing but also a little high, exhilarated, I thought with delight how surprised Alli would be to hear about this. It was some Gary Snyder Dharma Bums shit up there, I fantasized saying. And then when I got to the car, I did say it. And she was surprised! “You took a shower in a mountain stream?” she asked incredulously, as if she expected me to have instead sought out some Satanic method of quenching it and all other waters as an expression of my deep resentment at existing solely within the isolate moat known as the Orion Spur. Which doesn’t mean I haven’t listened to moons electrically rise and ascend inside themselves as psychic nutritional torrents spawned from the incessant vibrational abyss, prone to listening to a Martian tarantula. On the surface we seem to oscillate between fatigue and fatigue. So if Africa is seldom broached as part of universal context, collective research remains frayed so that human insight decimates the terms of human array. What follows is that the true realia of starlight are reduced to measurement and abstraction. Stellar complexification is rarely broached as living experience, as if this quote unquote utopia were setting sail to the uninhabitable zone of Proxima B. What follows is the complication that seemingly persists. That said, I hesitate over the temptation to call this epoch “the Capitalocene.” While appreciating contributions post-Marxist accounts make in grasping the critical role of capitalism in creating and sustaining the Anthropocene, I draw upon Kyle Harper’s recent account in The Fate of Rome on the role of climate change and plagues to suggest that contemporary earth-system issues are not reducible to capitalism alone. The collapse of Rome, by which is meant Rome in the west, was partly induced by the empire’s imbrications with a larger climate machine, one that it fed in some ways and was infected by in others. You could also explore the spiraling relations in precapitalist Europe between radical deforestation projects and the Medieval Warm Period. In other words, if all the letters in all of the alphabets of the world were pronounced simultaneously, they would not spell out the name Arthur Rimbaud [redacted]. That name was taken out of commission some time ago. But still, try it backwards, in the hour before dawn. As Zaina Alsous puts it: ‘I entered through the empty cage, hips first.’ ‘Can the map eat?’ A jar in France, a blonde hair in Fez, an ibis, a harp, a broken lantern. HEIGH HO! To quote Kafka, one of my illnesses is beginning to dissolve while the others look on in astonishment. [Of course, there will always be a new one to take its place] HEIGH HO!
What does perdepistatiplode achieve, precisely?
What is “doink,” precisely?
Croink. Wherefrom Froink?
How goes PSHSHSHSHSHSHSH in there?
Hm.
I heard the sound of thundering hooves and turned to see two saddled but rider-less horses gallop past. They crashed into rush hour traffic on Canal Street. The stallion leaped onto the roof of a red Toyota; the mare flipped, roiling onto its hood, her legs flailing. Those of us on the sidewalks screamed, terrified her back was broken. And then, miraculously, she somersaulted onto the pavement and galloped off. The stallion followed. I mean, I thought that everyone around me was screaming, but the screams were internal. And at the same time, I am a flesh ghost, with my horror stories and desire intact. My brain has started to change, it’s a real sea polka-dotted with jellyfish and crumbs, and most of all the vibrating, dark green moss. See “Fragment of a Manuscript Found by the People of Sirius 8 When They Visited the Earth during Their Exploration of the Solar System,” by George Simpson, a contribution to the 1911 South Polar Times, in which he imagines a future expedition crew — much like the one of which he himself was a member — exploring a post-human-extinction Earth. In the final era of humanity recorded in this fictional found document, quote, the great question of the day was, Does climate change?” Unquote. But the print culture of polar exploration is not merely like social media: polar ecomedia from a century ago also appears as social media content today. Chapter three includes a section devoted to the real life actual no shit Twitter feeds of @EShackleton and @CaptainRFScott, which tweet excerpts and paraphrases of expedition records one hundred years after the fact. In other words, I have learned so much about myself through the women in the Latina Lesbian series. The series is an ongoing project started in August of 1986. At present I have 30 photos, but would like to increase that to 100. I decided to add language; that was the only way I could see myself saying anything about being Latina or Lesbian, and it’s working out. However, adding language makes the process harder for me. I have dyslexia, so reading, writing, and understanding is very frustrating. Most of the women used handwriting which is even more difficult to figure out. Forget money; Smil points out that energy consumption and human well-being appear to be correlated only up to a point — about 110 gigajoules per year, per capita — and even appear to be “counterproductive” beyond about 200 gj. The United States has far surpassed both markers, with energy consumption at 316 gj per year, per capita in 2017. Too bad humans have been conditioned, just like rats in a maze are conditioned, to crave ever more, more more, and ExxonMobil and other energy conglomerates are counting on it. GAS EXPLOSION ROCKS SPRINGFIELD ...
Porcelain chips ...
Rubber toilet float, rolling east ...
Bits, shards, scraps, charred ...
Midday sun—coursing west ...
Shards—sensational ...
Scraps—overwhelming ...
Silica runoff sludge puddle ...
Polyvinyl off-gassing—ellipses ...
Log it—
This old control panel?
—Jank
This title deed?
—Jank
This Bullwinkle rave hat?
—Jank
777/5 hamster
Metaph
4
granules, scattering
Dumpster lid smushing its green plastic sandwich meat
Spartacus sprinklers (top rail)
Serial no. 21809A
Inspector 480F
Some people want epics
Some eat beach sand for lunch
HEIGH HO!
What is “cosmic trust”? Why “cosmic”?
What is the Planet Q Plan?
Why 1st shift why 2nd why 3rd why 4th why 5th
Seven billion years before I was born
I was an Iris.
Now my brain is lined
Wall to wall
With cotton balls.
In the center
Squats a tiny Rococo Venus
And pees out of her silver bladder
Into a golden chamber pot.
Now, after almost two centuries, the mystery of what sparked this odd phenomenon is finally solved. Dr. Jorge Pérez, an evolutionary biologist from the University of La Paz, and several companions, were exploring the Andes Mountains when they found a small valley, with no other animals or humans. Pérez noticed that the valley had what appeared to be a natural fountain, surrounded by two peaks of rock and silver snow. Pérez and the others then ventured further into the valley. “By the time we reached the top of one peak, the water looked blue, with some crystals on top,” he told us. That said, Pérez and his friends were still astonished to find the unicorn herd. While examining these creatures the scientists discovered that the creatures also spoke some fairly regular English.” Dr. Pérez believes that the unicorns may have originated in Argentina, where the animals were believed to be descendants of a lost race of people who lived there before the arrival of humans in those parts of South America. I knew then that BA was a shadow version, a mirror, of Nova Swing (that old New Nueva Tango) and of of Viriconium. It had the been the right decision to come seven thousand miles to read aloud a story called “The Neon Heart Murders.” I was on Borges Street, I was on Cortazar Street. The Delta was full of rain. It was the youngest delta in the world. It was full of white birds and half-sunken boats, stilted houses hidden on the temporary silts. It was a city of dogs. As Agnes Chow Ting tells us, by using emergency law, the government can apply many restrictions and repressions, not just the anti-masking laws. For example, they can restrict the Internet, confiscate property, enter homes for inspection, and deport people. For the first time I was scared to live in Hong Kong. But I won’t lose. Does this melt ice? Is the ice a seam? During the meditation, let a spoon of oats soak in hot water. Add a chopped up apple from an orchard. Do not consume swan blood.
In the shallow waters of the basins, filled from on high by flamboyantly spurting streams from Venus’s slit throat and bared breasts, sharks circle a man adrift in a boat while a desperate swimmer lunges away, and a triple-masted ship leans into the wind. Above, human figures posture and disport themselves. A spread-legged, bearded man who looks every inch the captain — tricorne hat, epauletted jacket — raises his eye to heaven. Toussaint L’Ouverture? Marcus Garvey? To his left a noose dangles from a blasted tree. And then there’s Queen Victoria, and, huh, what is this? An emaciated man beneath her skirts? Things fall apart. Like the edges of the topmost plinth. In the second piece, a novella titled “Fear and Trembling,” a woman who styles herself a therapeutic innovator forces her friends to re-enact Hollywood classics, only to be rebuffed by one friend’s adaptation of Kierkegaard as paranoiac sci-fi erotica centered around a Bartleby-esque refusal to perform free emotional labor. It’s not true I didn’t know I was going to see the goat, though. Every day, 310 people are shot in the US of A. Maybe this is the nature of all freak shows — the sweat and straw-dust grime that sticks a little too wetly on your face and fingers. Maybe this is exactly what to expect in a story of meatmen and snake ladies, of loose lions and simple twins and financiers. The book, however, is more than just gross wet fun. “Near the horizon the haze ate the world.” But I could still see Cancer Alley, an 85-mile stretch of land along the Mississippi between New Orleans (27.3% poverty) and Baton Rouge (25.4% poverty). More than 150 chemical plants and oil refineries dot this stretch of land. One in particular —owned by DuPont until its sale to Japanese company Denka Performance Elastomer in November 2015 — has been pumping the known carcinogen chloroprene into a predominantly black community since 1969. The EPA’s National Air Toxics Assessment (NATA), released in one month later, noted that the risk of developing cancer from air pollution in the census tract closest to the Denka facility is nearly 50 times the national average. Forget risk, the people who live there are dying. According to a 2018 study by the University Network for Human Rights, cancer prevalence is 71% higher than the national rate. Nearly half the children in the households surveyed within 1.5 kilometers of the plant suffer from headaches, nosebleeds, or both. P-values for tachycardia diagnosed by a doctor or other health care provider are 0%, indicating a virtual impossibility that the high tachycardia prevalence also found there was due to chance. Among respondents surveyed within same area: nearly 40% regularly experience chest pain, heart palpitations, or both; one-third regularly experience wheezing and/or difficulty breathing; more than half regularly experience headaches, dizziness, and/or lightheadedness; nearly half regularly experience eye pain and/or irritation and/or watery eyes; more than 40% experience cough, sneezing, and/or sore and/or hoarse throat most of the time; more than one-third regularly experience skin rash and/or irritation and/or itchy skin; and nearly 30% experience fatigue and/or lethargy most of the time. The reading is at a church that also hosts, among various community functions, The Burrito Project, in which people get together to make food for those who have none. A scheduling mistake puts poetry where some were expecting burritos, and Boyer stands by the open door of the crowded, overheated room, listening to Moten and apologizing for disappointing their expectations, apologizing for poetry’s failure, for her own. Included in a footnote is a fragment of the exchange between Langston Hughes and a certain Mr. Cohn — whom we can quickly identify as Roy M. Cohn, the lawyer who represented a young Donald Trump in a countersuit against the Justice Department’s charges of violations of the Fair Housing Act. In other words, the name “Bo Diddley” means “nothing,” and yet Bo Diddley was always calling after himself. When Bo Diddley called “Hey, Bo Diddley,” this is what he was also calling: “Hey Bo Diddley, Hey Absolutely nothing, Hey nothing at all.” “Hey Bo Diddley, you who are rampantly eponymous, tell yourself and by extension everyone else about you who are the person who is always calling after the nothing that is yourself and everything else.” A person may find “Bo Diddley” wherever there is nothing. The location at which one might find the most nothing is The Palace of Irony. The Palace of Irony is kitty corner from Utopia, which is where you also might find Bo Diddley. In Utopia, which is the palace that is no place, a person can have all the furniture but none of the building. Utopia isn’t and can’t be, yet it is crowded with elaboration. In the Palace of Irony, on the other hand, everything is real estate. But if you step inside, there is no furniture: no reliable chair, sofa, bed, or stool for sitting. This is Bo Diddley’s other nothing. It is in the nothing that is Utopia, however, that you will find the origin story of Bo Diddley. It’s the story of the birth, like all gods, of no one. He was born at midnight, playing a golden guitar, and just like the Baby Jesus, people came from miles around to see him. One might expect that this is the sign of someone who is something, but remember, Bo Diddley is Diddley Squat (nothing). Here’s what Bo Diddley sang about his exceptional nativity: “Woo! I’m a mess.” So when news broke that Brown was gunned down in the parking lot of his apartment complex as he exited his vehicle, many speculated that he had been snuffed out by the police or by order of the police. He did, after all, testify against a cop and participated in the trial that ultimately sent her to prison. Dallas police vowed to investigate his murder, and on Tuesday, they came up with the most cockamamie story you have ever heard in your life. Dallas PD says that Brown was killed in a botched drug deal. Three men reportedly drove 300 miles and over four hours from Alexandria, La., to Dallas to buy weed from Brown. The drug deal somehow went bad and turned into a physical altercation. Brown allegedly shot one of the three men, and in retaliation, one of the remaining two shot and killed him. They grabbed the gun he used to shoot their accomplice and his backpack and made their escape. They allegedly dropped their wounded accomplice off at the hospital and then went on the lam. The wounded accomplice, who is in police custody while hospitalized, reportedly told police what happened. In their subsequent investigation, police reportedly found 12 pounds of weed, 149 grams of THC vape cartridges and $4,157 in cash in Brown’s apartment. I know. My eyes rolled too. They rolled so hard, they fell out of my head and are on their way out the front door. Please hold while I go get them. OK. Thank you. Let’s go ahead and poke some holes in this story, OK? Because no one I know believes a word of this bullshit. First of all, who is crossing state lines and taking penitentiary chances to buy weed from a dude who was just all over the news for testifying in a high profile trial of a white cop charged with murdering an innocent black man? You know he’s HOT as fuck. Why would you do that? For that matter, what dude who just testified in a high profile trial of a white cop charged with murdering an innocent black man is going to just casually open up shop to sell weed? He knows he’s hot. But fine. Let’s say that did, in fact, happen. I know, your eyes are rolling again, but let’s continue this outrageous game of pretend. You know the dude is hot, but you decide to cross state lines and take penitentiary chances to buy a couple pounds of ... weed? Listen. I know people pack up cars and transport dope back and forth across state lines all the time. They do it with hundreds of keys. It happens, and that’s how your dope man gets his dope — if you have a dope man, that is. But that’s not what we’re talking about here. In this instance, we are talking about a couple pounds of weed. These dudes allegedly were making a nine-hour round trip car ride for a couple pounds ... of weed? But OK, fine. Let’s say they were willing to do that. They get there and the dude is prepared to serve them in the parking lot of his apartment complex. Really? Was it these brothers’ first time selling and/or buying drugs before? Because what part of the game is that? Who is selling pounds of weed in the fucking parking lot of where they live? For that matter, what dude who is pushing weight is dealing directly out of his own home? Where they do that at? Please tell me so I can rob him because that is exactly why no one pushing weight sells directly out of their own home. Are you crazy? But OK. We are at Brown’s house, he is prepared to sell the weed but gets into an argument instead that turns into a physical altercation, and in the aftermath, he pulls out a gun and shoots one of the three men who are there to purchase from him. Keep in mind, we are to believe that they rolled up three deep to buy the weight, but the dude pushing weight didn’t have anyone with him? He showed up alone? Just him and his strap? The same dude who allegedly feared for his life and didn’t want to testify against a cop? Mmm-hmm. OK. So he pulls out his gun and shoots one of theirs, so one of theirs pulls out a gun and shoots him, killing him. They then take his backpack, the gun he used to shoot their homeboy, and drive off with no money and none of the weed they just drove over four hours and 300 miles for. Right. Then, they drop their homeboy (who was allegedly shot in the chest, according to police) off at the nearest hospital and get in the wind. The homeboy, who was allegedly shot in the chest, somehow miraculously manages to divulge all of this to the police. Why? Why would he give it all up like that? At that point, they had no idea about Brown’s involvement, the drugs or any of it, so it’s not like they threatened him. Why would he give up the whole jig like that? He could have said he didn’t know who shot him. He was on the block and it happened. Whatever. He could say he didn’t remember. Why give up this whole elaborate story? But whatever. Supposedly he did, and the police went to do a search at Brown’s home, and that is when they supposedly found all the evidence that he was secretly the Nino Brown of weed in Dallas. OK. I don’t know about your experience with drug dealers, but I can tell you what someone I know told me. When you are in the game like that, you always have somebody watching your back. As soon as anything goes wrong, that person is at your spot removing any evidence of drug dealing before the cops can find it. If you have ever been around drug dealers or have watched an episode of The Wire, Power or Breaking Bad, you know what I’m talking about. That’s just part of the game and expected. I can’t imagine a dude who was pushing weight wouldn’t have someone who would be able to do the cleanup for him. Somebody would have known what he was doing and would have gotten that shit the fuck up out of there. Shit, you might need to sell that shit on the low to get money for his bail, his lawyer, his books, whatever. It would not be in the house. Like I said, this story is so out there, I don’t think it was thought all the way through. I don’t believe it, and many others don’t believe it either. It’s worse than any episode of Empire or Power, including the scenes with La La acting. (I love La La. She’s gorgeous and seems sweet, but no, girl.) It’s also hard to believe that his part-time drug dealer’s career wasn’t revealed during the trial. Theoretically, both the defense and the prosecution have investigators in their offices. Neither side was able to dig up this information on a potential witness? You know what this story does do, however? It assassinates his character. It calls his character and his testimony into question. It sets up Amber Guyger for a retrial, and it creates an impression of Brown in the minds of any future jurors. The idea that he was some inept drug dealer who got himself killed makes it easier to discredit what he had to say on the stand. I guess we’ll just have to wait and see how this bullshit plays out. Same old same old, right? So when Han asked what I was working on, I tried to describe the speculative novella I am writing for Ignota Books, set 500 years from now. “On planet Avaaz, in a sea cave with cracked amethyst walls, Pinky Agarwalia discovers fragments of visionary texts by the legendary 12th century mystic Hildegard von Bingen. Thought to be destroyed during the evacuation of Earth in the year 2019, the fragments of the Scivias text includes a cosmology, mandalas, advice on how to cure various malaises from the spiritual to gout, a morphology of crystals, recipes — and a new language, Lingua Ignota. Pinky Agarwalia, however, cannot read this new language, though as she traces the diagrams with her fingertip, she suddenly understands a vision that appears without warning in her own mind that she must first immerse these materials in water, a guarded substance. In the water, the molecules of the hidden language dissolve, freeze then reconfigure into new shapes, which communicate not through sound but by feeling and light.”
[Note: Sources: JBR: Caroline Bergvall, “From ‘DRIFT’”, at Poetry Foundation; Joshua Clover, “What’s American About American Poetry?”, at Poetry Foundation; Bhanu Kapil, “Rat and Pomegranate Tea with a Ghost: Four Stories Set in Four Places”, at THE VORTEX OF FORMIDABLE SPARKLES Bhanu Kapil’s always-never: blog, 2 Sept 019; Nisha Ramayya, “EXTRACT | States of the Body Produced by Love by Nisha Ramayya”, at Tank Magazine, Sept 019; Etel Adnan, quoted in Deborah Poe and JBR, “To Look At The Sun Is To Become What One Is: An Etel Adnan Reader” (a review in the form of a conversation); JBR; Brandon Brown, Double Rainbow; Will Alexander, “Anterior Wattage”, at Entropy, 27 Sept 019; JBR; William E Connolly, Climate Machines, Fascist Drives, and Truth, at Duke University Press; JBR; Sean Bonney, “Heroes”, at Abandoned Buildings, 27 Sept 019; JBR; Zaina Alsous, and Bhanu Kapil, quoted in Kapil’s blurb for Alsous’s A Theory of Birds, at Zaina Alsous; Rodrigo Toscano, Explosion Rocks Springfield; JBR; Martin Waterson, email rec’d 2 Oct 019 approx. 4:08pm PDT; JBR; Rodrigo Toscano, Explosion Rocks Springfield; Betsy Sussler, quoted in “David Rattray: A Recognition by Lynne Tillman, Anney Bonney & Betsy Sussler”, at BOMB, 7 May 013 (originally published in BOMB’s 1993 summer issue); Bhanu Kapil, “The moss and the politics of this time and somebody else’s childhood”, at THE VORTEX OF FORMIDABLE SPARKLES Bhanu Kapil’s always-never: blog, 1 Oct, 019; JBR; Carie Lyn Schneider, “The Social Media of Polar Exploration”, at Edge Effects, 3 Oct 019 (re Hester Blum, The News at the Ends of the Earth: The Print Culture of Polar Exploration); JBR; Laura Aguilar, “Artist Statement”, at Women Artists of the West Coast: Lesbian Photography on the U.S. West Coast 1972-1997 (“excerpted from Nueva Luz, Vol. 4, #2, 1993 and Gallerie: Women’s Art, Vol. 1, #1, 1988”); Cara New Daggett, The Birth of Energy: Fossil Fuels, Thermodynamics, & the Politics of Work, at Duke University Press; Rodrigo Toscano, Explosion Rocks Springfield; Arno Holz, “from Phantastus” (tr. Anselm Hollo), in Poems for the Millennium vol. 3 (eds Jerome Rothenberg and Jeffrey Robinson); a GPT-2 (“a large-scale unsupervised language model”), quoted in “Better Language Models and Their Implications”, at Open AI, 14 Feb 019; M John Harrison, “FILBA11”, at The M John Harrison Blog, 1 Oct 019; JBR, and Agnes Chow Ting, via an email from Scott Ezell, rec’d 4 Aug 019, approx. 8:13pm PDT; Bhanu Kapil, “Sitting in bed drinking coffee having completed my morning routine”, at THE VORTEX OF FORMIDABLE SPARKLES Bhanu Kapil’s always-never: blog, 5 Oct, 019; Kara Walker, “Fons Americanus”, and Michael Glover, in Glover’s “Kara Walker’s Monument to Monstrousness”, at Hyperallergic, 5 Oct 019; blurb for Diana Hamilton, The Awful Truth, at Golias Books, and Hamilton herself, at BOMB 145; Brady; Ben Segal and Keith McCleary, quoted in Segal’s “Dank Harlequin Post-Moralism: A Review of Keith Mccleary’s Circus + The Skin”, at Entropy, 7 Oct 019; JBR; “Waiting to Die: Toxic Emissions and Disease Near the Louisiana Denka/DuPont Plant”, at University Network for Human Rights; Kyle Proehl, “Not Unpacking but Seeking”, at Los Angeles Review of Books, 29 Aug 018 (on Anne Boyer, A Handbook of Disappointed Fate); JBR; Anne Boyer, “Hey Bo Diddley”, at Coldfront, 16 Apr 014; Monique Judge, “Nobody Is Buying Dallas PD’s Bullshit Story About Joshua Brown’s Death”, at The Root, 9 Oct 019; JBR; Bhanu Kapil, “Vertical Threads”, at THE VORTEX OF FORMIDABLE SPARKLES Bhanu Kapil’s always-never: blog, 9 Oct 019]
