and thus those who aren’t there any more have already taken along immeasurably much of what those who were there did and resolved in memory of those who weren’t there immeasurably much is in possession of those who aren’t there and it will always grow more and more and since they have it in their possession and this possession is ever growing one can in regard to those who aren’t there speak of their memory of those who are there because those who aren’t there any more were once there not being there is something that is thought of while being there and being there is living off the possession which those what aren’t there are still accumulating in the name of those who aren’t there any more and are more because those who aren’t there anymore and are more have a name and we are there in their name, I swear it from head to toe from anus to navel, in the silver moonlight alongside the ships and the large buildings and the canals which cut into and through the city's innermost core the forest of masts the lines of beams and cordage crossing a thousand fold all in moonlight strange and magic at one corner but a glance into a brightly lit room where a hundred diligent hands were sewing sails, actually today everything is like yesterday except for the hallway where yesterday the bag kept surprising me today I am surprised that the bag is no longer there thus it would be more accurate to say that today everything is completely different from yesterday but then again not really either, I was privileged to meet him once in his offices at the South German Broadcasting Corporation in Stuttgart in the early Sixties, on a visit from London where I was working for the BBC and moonlighting as “Anton Hofman.” One-armed like Blaise Cendrars (the left “left,” as they say, on some dismal battlefield in 1942), tall, calm funny, and erudite, HH had (as he put it) “a lasting soft spot for the black banner of anarchy. My innermost conviction is anarcho-syndicalist. Never mind that I know it can never be realized, but that is where my secret love lies,”
if I knew Greek I would converse with you in Greek
but I don’t know any Greek
when pressure mounts there is increased danger of everything bursting
even though pressure can lead to nice things though maybe a little weird
who loses steam gnaws bones
the bird quite clearly flown to Idaho railroad embankment Thoreau
crumpled and gummed-up moon
we have lived under this moon
crumpled and gummed-up moon
we have lived under this moon for a long time
crumpled and gummed-up moon
it may well be we have lived under this moon for too long
my language is a noise
spontaneous activity reaches
possible multiple signals also
changing course surging over
building blocks to clear six feet
waves until that sort of engine
isolates fish ancestors
leaking blood into panic swirling held
formed by
open holes in
a single hop through tephra
mutating profiles from spinning radii
That is the gesture I wish diligently to communicate for her to guzzle with memory’s long artifice and that is the transit during which the remembered syllables which are translated so erotic so political, all ten of them, learn the excellent culture of timeliness asleep or separated by distance the face moving across. So there are always at least two times in the work, and the decisions composing their intervals and nodes place the work in the everyday. May I call it “the city”? It is going along. It is the interval of “if” attended and extended into material choice. Besides panic, Pan invented panpipes. Will consumers hunger for lab-created fish? I don’t mean revitalized fish ancestors. They’re growing fish meat in vats these days. Not fish, just meat. To be 3-D printed. And for dessert? “Cultured plant cells were produced from lingonberry, cloudberry and stoneberry, and were found to have even higher nutritional value than fresh berries. The researchers, from Finland’s VTT Technical Research Center, said the cultures were higher in protein and fiber, and were also rich in polyphenols and unsaturated fatty acids. The researchers claim the cultures taste like fresh fruits ...” ok,
[in the original the mimeograph did not reproduce the following line]
- we) was
trying to fix the place up, (we) was
to finish the procedure, it was
an architectural question, a spirit / spit one
I think the thing is built of prunes & glue. The Grand Combustion
Carnival, Columbus the Cat Dancing in Flames, rocks
fall apart and citizens wonder: If man is the greatest natural wonder,
what? Time turns to that motionless minute
“read in the back of the animal’s eye,” (misread?)
(I am guessing misread)
for $6.00 an hour.
So the place where I was born has no forests, and no tall trees grow there. That does not mean it is lacking in vegetation, for there are certain kinds of trees: rowan, cedar, alder, and willow ... But the tallest of these “trees” will reach no more than a few centimeters above the earth. I admit there’s a way I look a little like him; we have the same sad eyes. His translation begins, “a throw of the dice Even when thrown in eternal circumstances in the midst of a wreck be It that the abysm whitened displays furious ...” Abysm, I thought. But I was only pretending to think about literature. I was on Craigslist looking for a job. Far, far below, there was some sort of silvery substance. I could see it glittering there. What I interpreted this to mean was that my life might not be my life. I might have wandered into someone else’s story and was now failing to cease residing there. So I reached out and he sent me this long list, including “WE ARE THE ASTEROID”, “TRIASSIC WEATHER AHEAD”, “THERE IS NO AWAY.” Then one day, in a traffic jam outside the Holland Tunnel, I came upon one of those traffic message trailer signs, glitching, glitching. It was like poems by Peter Inman or David Melnick were coming up on the screen. It made me very focused and present for some reason. “EFFICIENCY IS PETROSPEAK.” I took the photos from 40,000 feet up. The series was inspired by the Kanō school in Japan, which is famous for painting landscapes onto gold and silver leafed surfaces; it’s a school of painting that lasted for over 700 years. In my case, instead of applying paint by hand onto the surface, I’m printing the landscapes using a UV acrylic inkjet printer that I’ve adapted to become my paintbrush so to speak. In JAKOBSHAVN I what you’re seeing is glacial melange, the remnants of the calving process. Those who hold this view say that a chick peeps when it is cold and twitters when it finds a warm place as if it were a little machine, not because it actually wants to communicate that it feels distress or pleasure. Which is to say that she stayed up until five in the morning, writing about how “the crisis” isn’t over, about how “the crisis” isn’t actually the kind of “crisis” they are calling it, but “a crisis” of something completely different, something so deep in the trenches of crisis that we can barely recognize it as anything other than our lives. “To have a tense of is-was, the residue of it over the clear bulb of your eyes,” someone wrote. “Today — what a mocking word in this timeless cave,” someone wrote from an underground experiment on Day 156. To think about it is to be the sequined woman lying flat inside the magician’s box; to watch the saw come down, to watch its blade cut straight through the middle of you, to watch your hips fall out from underneath your ribs. Let us talk about it as though “it” ever existed. I was soaked in texts. I drew hastily on the texts of others — they put into my ears the sounds of all the people living without me. I was not in any position to distinguish one text from another — a movement toward the inside from a movement toward the outside. The texts became whole rooms, and the rooms became whole houses, and the houses became whole streets, and the streets became a yearning occupation of a city, not a country, but a city, in which lush syllogism invoked the need to seize this experience and let it become sentences. The texts became a form — the longest form, one which is still now occurring, ongoing, occurring, ongoing. The water dries up before the dark blue hyacinths are placed into the vase. Cuz in utopia they don’t got no rules and the president’s “criminality pure and simple” is reserved for politicians just like him. In utopia the monkey lies down with the rhinoceros and the ghosts haunt the ghosts leaving everyone else to fends for themself. In utopia, you lose the battles and you lose the war too but it bothers you less. In utopia no one tells nobody nothin’, but I gotta tell you this. In utopia the plans are ornament and expectations dissolve into whim. In utopia, here is a pivot. In utopia, love goes for the ride but eros’s at the wheel. In utopia, the words sing the songs while the singers listen. In utopia, 1 plus 2 does not equal 2 plus 1. In utopia, I and you is not the same as you and me. In utopia, all that is solid congeals, all that melts liquefies, all that is air vanishes into the late afternoon fog. I am about as capacious as the next guy. Mescal is my drink of choice this year. Section 3, quadrant 822.3856, on uneven tide warnings. However, available room is subject to prior sale. Ergo, there’s no Holocaust museum for Native people. Or one for peasants. Like any disfunction, if you don’t deal with your disfunction at home, it just gets worse. The feeling is only amplified when the same mother-daughter duo helps Arya Stark. Our trained assassin Night King-killing heroine is apparently no match for a stampeding crowd of Kings Landingers when she is nearly trampled to death. Until the mother reappears in the crowd and offers her hand and pulls her up. Arya is soon separated from the duo again. A significant time passes before Arya encounters them once more. Now, Daenerys and Drogon, her nearly eponymously named dragon, have almost completed their task. The city is in ruins, death is all around, the killing is no longer discriminate. Daenerys and her forces — even the usually quite moral Unsullied general Greyworm — are burning, stabbing, and beating unarmed men, women, and children. When Arya, careening through the ash-strewn streets, stumbles into an entryway, she finds a mass of huddled women and children. Ever the hero, she commands, “You can’t stay here. You have to keep moving.” “We can’t go out there,” one woman responds. “You have to,” says Arya. “Everyone out there is dead,” the woman retorts. “If you stay here, you’ll die!” Arya exclaims. She grabs the only two people willing to trust her — the peasant mother and daughter. The three flee down the street together, until the mother is injured by a passing horse ridden by what appears to be a Dothraki warrior — eye eee, a member of Team Daenerys. Arya and the daughter help her up, but she is too injured. They can’t move quickly enough. She begs Arya, “Take her!” Arya pulls the girl along, but she resists and runs back to her mother who is now collapsed in the street. Dany and Drogon approach from the air. Fire engulfs everything. When Arya awakes at the end of the episode, she and the viewer are treated to a view of the mother and daughter’s bodies, charred black and in a death embrace. The girl still clutches her horse figurine, also charred black. Again we will have heard music ... a wincing, distraught right hand backed by a grumbling left on an abject keyboard, a right undone or done in as much as backed by a disconsolate left. It had to do with angles. The piano’s legs buckled for an instant and rebounded, then they buckled and rebounded again. The right side of the keyboard crumpled. The hand that played it crumpled as well. Had they been glass they’d have shattered, besetting one’s ears, by turns bodily and cerebral, with sharp, intersecting planes rolling Duchamps’ descending nude and Picasso’s weeper into one. It was an actual music we heard and let have its way with us, Paul Bley’s “Touching” on the Mr. Joy album. No way could we say title told all. Or even half. Or even 150%, or even
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In other words, as he explains in Trevor Paglen’s new book, From the Archives of Peter Merlin, Aviation Archaeologist, Merlin’s chief animating impulse is fairly simple: “Something always remains,” meaning that every project, no matter how clandestine, leaves a trace — a scrap of metal, a security badge, a commemorative mug. Merlin has amassed a trove of such traces, which are often the only public evidence of highly classified operations. These crumbs offer rare insight into the shadowy machinations of the state, the violence and surveillance committed in our name, even if we don’t know about it. Or, as Scriptures has it, Those without female reproductive organs must refrain from legislating female reproductive organs (Fallopians 1:1). Yet at our very beginning we had great unification. Today I could only see, breaking the fundamental particles, solitary quarks are coming down like ash (all we are is dust in the wind, peeps), landing in the branches of the shaved Krishnachura tree. We are getting delayed my Dear Reader. Could you hear the inarticulate noise from the Suicide Squad of Plantae Kingdom? Oh, My Dear Reader, just listen to that singer, “Oh Allah, Give me cloud give me water give me shade ...” Only when my integrity is clean is the frequency audible. One may hope that either sort of change, as its seeming or real inevitability emerges, will be realized. Brud is reading War of the Worlds on the radio no, Brud is a transmedia studio that creates digital character-driven story worlds. Among others, brud has created Miquela Sousa, also known as Lil Miquela. She’s supposed to be sentient AI but what she really is a cartoon quote unquote or maybe I should remove the quotes because it’s 2019 and in first-world hell this is a thing, she’s what’s known as an influencer. Miquela has 1.5m followers on Instagram, where she shares pictures of her need I add imaginary life in Downey CA of all places, and where she proclaims her support for LGBTQ+ rights and Black Lives Matter. Anything that helps her sell shit, apparently. In the past few years, she’s shilled for Uggs ads, interviewed artists at Coachella and collaborated with Prada. In her latest project, a video for Calvin Klein, she kisses the half-naked (and heterosexual) supermodel Bela Hadid as a voiceover proclaims some marketing nonsense about dreams and doors. Called out for queerbaiting, CK apologized. Called out for kissing a cartoon, I’m not aware Hadid had anything to say. Lil is far from a one-off gimmick: CGI influencers are all over the place. Take Shudu Gram, a quote unquote black Instagram model and here I won’t remove the quotes because he was created by a white photographer; Liam Nikuro, who is quote unquote Japanese; and there’s YouPorn virtual spokeswoman, Jedy Vales. Last year a Japanese man (made of meat, apparently, lab-grown or otherwise) married a celebrity hologram, Hatsune Miku, prompting discussion about whether “digisexual” should be considered a new identity. In other words, a Klee painting named ‘Angelus Novus’ shows an angel looking as though he is about to move away from something he is fixedly contemplating. His eyes are staring, his mouth is open, his wings are spread. His face is turned toward the past, which is at the same time the future. Both ways, he sees one single catastrophe which keeps piling wreckage and hurls it in front of his feet. The angel would like to stay and make whole what has been and what will be smashed. But a storm is blowing in from Paradise; it has got caught in his wings with such a violence that the angel can no longer close them. The storm irresistibly propels him he knows not where, while the pile of debris before him grows skyward. This storm is what we call ... what we used to call ... now we don’t know what to call it, really. In other words, as Tommy Pico, on whose Kumeyaay land I find myself living these days, put it, ‘Ppl are too busy callin themselves ‘poets’ to notice the canary died” ...
two paths diverged in a
/ half stank of blood.
you come across this every decade
a fork in the doggerel —
Group C are right,
it was good
so good
to get the words down
just right, to drain
the swan.
and that there is a small beard dude in the 7
dwarfs
that satan cannot find supposedly
and that site Quora.
Obvs. Or,
Prism Warders,
we warm a spectrum
of pilot-light clumped 5 at discrete temperature points ok
out of 7 total = 2 spigots over for object & subject etc.
shift french fries sheared
gears in the wind powered
buggy I love this
buggy,
imagine trimming a moth
down to just one city,
three different times
I smelled popcorn
popcorn was a snack
made by steaming the
seeds of elliptical
vegetable matter
grown in the musky
dirt of a place we
used to call I forget the
name it was kind of
nice like parsnip ice
cream is nice on a hot
solar vortex far away
from the atolls that make
up the Maldives Waffle
cones were fried
convex sugar toasts
you’d like them
they were very bad
for us ...
Even today, the Fire Fighting School battles fires staged upon an elaborate set of pseudo-storefronts and houses, while seismological researchers burrow explosives into the silt to test liquefaction response to earthquakes (the island has sunk five feet since the Loma Prieta quake of 89) and electrolysis is performed on the aging water pipes. The moth eradication project attempts to manage whole populations driven here by shifts in the global ecology, in other words BARGE has had to re-adjust its methods to fit the “facts on the ground,” even as those facts filter themselves through ever-more paranoiac scrims. For instance, when the window opened behind me and the voice hailed me with her version of events, to be narrated in a kind of speculative poetics that the guidebook had yet to accommodate, the feeling was not of surprise as much as the recognition that this encounter was meant to happen at exactly this juncture in the field work. Thus the strange white car that would often be waiting at off-limit sites right as I was approaching would turn up in the rear-view mirror at exactly the moment I was wondering aloud where it had been hiding. Of course one would turn a corner and suddenly come across a three-legged dog trotting down an empty street. Of course there was a “Naval Ghost Blimp” that disappeared from the island years ago, only to show up in Daly City, its engines running and its pilots missing. In this surveillance photo, BARGE agents will have been seen removing soil samples from Halyburton Court, in the so-called “Area 12” site on the Northwest corner of the island. On the other side of the fences live mostly low-income families of color, most of whom have been told little of the Navy’s testing results of this and other sites, beyond having to agree not to plant any produce or other edible plants in their yards as a condition of their rental contracts with the Treasure Island Development Authority. This tree is found close to Mile 20 of the Catalina Highway up Mt. Lemmon, home of the southernmost ski area of the United States. It grows on a small hill above the Palisades trail, which drops thousands of feet to the East Fork of Sabino Canyon (see also “Populus fremontii S. Watson”). Elevation at the Palisades trailhead is approximately 8000 feet. Surrounding the tree are other Ponderosa Pines of varying ages and sizes, many quite large, as well as a number of smaller Arizona White Pines. This area was badly burned by the 2003 Aspen Fire. Trees are spaced widely apart and dead and downed limbs and trees are present everywhere. The ground is carpeted with pine needles and large, firm cones, interspersed with the ferns that have re-colonized the burnt area. About 120 feet tall and perhaps 200 years old, the tree has beautiful ruddy bark punctuated by dark jigsaw lines. The trunk smells strongly like vanilla. Its lower 20 feet are quite burned along one side, but it is alive and healthy, being naturally resistant to fire. Orange fungus is present on the burnt bark, along with dried tears of yellow sap. OK. In his Aesthetics, Hegel declared the end of art. To quote: art is ‘on the side of its highest destiny, a thing of the past.’ Why? Because, for Hegel, art satisfied the same spiritual needs as philosophy. He goes on to say that, while art’s spiritual capabilities reached their climax in classical Greece and then began their demise, philosophy reached its ‘highest destiny’ around 1807, when — what else? — Hegel published his Phenomenology. But. But but but. Check out Thomas Feuerstein’s Pancreas, a processual sculpture that transforms books into sugar to feed human brain cells growing inside a brain-like shape. What books, you might ask. Just one, actually. And not just any book — the neuroglia cells are nourished solely by one particular book — what else? — The Phenomenology. Which is shredded and soaked in water, before being pressed through an artificial intestine full of bacteria and broken down into C12H22O11, which is then transformed into brain. Perhaps we can understand Pancreas as a provocation that counters Hegel’s original provocation etc. This is called dialectics, I believe. In any case, by connecting the brain to the stomach, a brain-gut link is emphasised that challenges ideas of pure thinking inherent in philosophy. As Candyman says: ‘There are no boundaries anymore, only distorted boundaries between what we used to split into nature and culture, body and mind, matter and information’. Which is why, one morning shortly thereafter, we decided to visit the Centre for Emotional Materiality, to watch “A Blobifesto.” As I stood there, I felt like the blobbiness of it all was radically penetrating my being. After the video we looked at each other and said: “Who knew? We were blobologists all this time!” Here was a new lens through which we could view, well, everything. So we stole as many postcards from the show as we felt morally okay with and handed them out to almost everyone we encountered over the next few days. We are intimates with these proto-beings, these floaters. I felt that the sound was coming from my bones. Once, my finger accidentally touched the lathe cutter, and half of my nail disappeared. Blood dripped down into the cooling oil. My co-workers rushed me to the town hospital. At the hospital, I discovered so many injured workers, mostly migrants like me. Some had injured half a finger, some the whole hand, the leg, the head. They were bandaged in white gauze stained with blood. The man on my left, with a head injury, worked in the plastic factory; the one on my right, with three severed fingers, worked in the moulding factory. The one on the right moaned, his three left fingers completely severed. The doctor came over, hung up a fluid bag, inserted a catheter and gave medication orders, all done expressionlessly, then left the room. Looking at his gauze that had been steeped red in blood and then turned pale yellow, I suddenly remembered, no one is going to argue that we need to find a halfway point between fish and the planet Mars. But water is not the same thing as the process by which water was chemically understood by humans: the latter includes Antoine Lavoisier as one of its elements, but not the former. Lavoisier is a major ingredient in the history of chemical understanding of water, but not an ingredient at all of water itself.
Roy SAYS HE HAS whoops says he has
a new metaphor, except it’s not
a metaphor A literal part of his
heart
has died
says the echocardiogram
he got before starting a new med
but it’s fine he just needs to eat more farty
salads and Mamihlapinatapai is the most precise
word according to linguists
from the Yaghan language of Tierra del Fuego
It means something like when you leave a café bathroom and
want to tell the next person in line it wasn’t you who
took the smelliest dump in American history but you keep walking
I mean it means well it’s more like when two ppl look
at each other and the look
is that they both
know ...
Cesium has also been found in a surprising place — beneath the coastal beach sands close to brackish water tables up to 60 miles away from the meltdown site. Scientists have learned that where currents washed highly contaminated water onshore, the cesium “stuck” to sand particles in brackish water (a mix of salty seawater and fresh groundwater, as is found under beaches), but becomes “unstuck” when soaked with salt water. Therefore, the accumulated cesium embedded under beaches along Japan’s coast is being slowly released over time as waves continue to saturate the sand. Scientists estimate that the amount of cesium being released in this manner is equal to that of the ongoing releases and runoff from the disaster site itself, and from outflow from rivers continuing to carry cesium from land to the sea. And that ain’t all. Millions of tons of contaminated, radioactive water (used to keep the molten reactors and spent fuel rods cool to prevent further radioactive releases, and from pumped groundwater that continues to seep into the reactors’ basements) is stored on-site in more than 900 tanks. Despite efforts to prevent seepage using “ice walls” (human-created permafrost), and special processing technology intended to clean radionuclides from the water, Tepco was forced to admit late last year that these efforts had failed, confirming that levels of several long-lived, cancer-causing isotopes were still present in the stored water at more than 100 times legally permitted levels. While more water continues to become contaminated every day, the only known plan to deal with it is to release it all into the ocean. MOAS are therefore pleased that our mission to deliver medical and famine relief to Yemen will shortly come to fruition and our goods will soon be arriving to the port of Aden. Our two containers en route are carrying €126,687.15 worth of medical assistance and 27 tonnes of Edesia’s Plumy Doz ready-to-eat sachets for preventing malnutrition in kids. Which is one reason why, in the Resurrect ritual I use a mix of audio field recordings of recently extinct animals. I take time each day no matter where I am to lie on the ground and saturate my body with these extinct sounds. Part of the ritual involves sleeping in my car in Walmart parking lots. Outside in the parking lots each night, and this is true no matter where I am in the United States, there are homeless families living in cars. Another component is listening to the extinct animal sounds on headphones while walking in a spiral formation inside the Walmart, working my way into the middle of the store. At the center of the spiral I find a spot to kneel, entering in and out of the space of
the regions in the entering in and out of the space of the cities in
the entering in and out of the space of the neighborhoods nearby
in the entering in and out of the space of the building in the
entering in and out of the space of the room in the entering in
and out of the space around the hands in the entering in and out
of the space between the hands.
The space of everyone that has just been inside of everyone mixing
inside of everyone with nitrogen and oxygen and water vapor and
argon and carbon dioxide and suspended dust spores and bacteria
mixing inside of everyone with sulfur and sulfuric acid and
titanium and nickel and minute silicon particles from pulverized
glass and concrete.
can you feel it?
does it hurt?
is it hard?
is it cold?
does it weigh much?
is it heavy?
do you have to carry it far?
the format must be set: 30 minutes, 20 minutes, 1 hour
white wings of a magpie
wave glory
soap
[Note: Sources: Helmut Heissenbüttel, Schematic Development of Tradition (tr. Rosmarie Waldrop), “Lesson 3 from Textbook 10” (tr. Pierre Joris), Anselm Hollo, Heissenbüttel’s “Essay in Greek” (tr. Anselm Hollo), in “Helmut Heissenbüttel (1921-1996)”, at The Center for Programs in Contemporary Writing, University of Pennsylvania; Tom Raworth, “Cat Van Cat”, at boundary 2, Vol. 26, No. 1, 99 Poets/1999: An International Poetics Symposium (Spring, 1999); Lisa Robertson, “If We”, at at boundary 2, Vol. 26, No. 1, 99 Poets/1999: An International Poetics Symposium (Spring, 1999);“The Mythological Origin of ‘Panic’”, at Merriam Webster; headline in San Diego Union-Tribune, 19 May 019 (hat tip K); JBR; Caroline Macdonald, “Lab-grown fruit cultures could yield new superfoods”, at Food Dive, 15 Mar 018; JBR; Proclus, Fragments from the Commentary on the Chaldaean Oracles, at Tertullian; Eleni Sikelianos, “Essay: Seven Aspects of Milking Time”, “[You can be King of the Corners]”, in Earliest Worlds; JBR; Yuri Rytkheu, The Chukchi Bible (tr. Ilona Yazhbin Chavasse); Lucy Ives, “A Throw of the Dice”, at BOMB, 14 May 019; JBR; Justin Brice Guariglia, quoted in Meredith Smith and Rachel Kirk, “Mixing Art and Environmental Science to Catalyze Social Change”, at State of the Planet, 10 May 019; Lesley J. Rogers and Gisela Kaplan, Songs, Roars, And Rituals: Communication in Birds, Mammals, and Other Animals; JBR; Lotte L.S., “Not to speak about / only to speak nearby”, at Harriet, 13 May 019; JBR; Charles Bernstein, “In Utopia”, at Poetry Society of America; JBR; Edgar Heap of Birds, quoted in Sheila Regan, “The Spirits that Haunt the Words of Edgar Heap of Birds”, at Hyperallergic, 16 May 019; Cord J Whitaker, “Game of Thrones’ Peasants are a Problem of White Supremacy—and Its Victims, too”, at In the Middle, 19 May 019; Nathaniel Mackey, “[from] From A Broken Bottle Traces of Perfume Still Emanate, Volume Five”, at Floor 1; JBR; part of the result of scanning and converting section 128 of Adam Pendleton’s “Black Dada” to Microsoft Word; JBR; The Paris Review, quoted in ARTBOOK | D.A.P., “New from Trevor Paglen: Commemorative coins, patches, mugs and other ephemera from the shadowy world of US military aviation and aerospace”, email rec’d 20 Jun 019, approx. 10:55am PDT; JBR; something K sent me; Runa Bandyopadhyay, “Destination: Nature Roy”, Nora Bateson, “Without Shields (the voice of change is changing)”, Steve Benson, “For the Time Being”, in The end of the World Project (eds. Richard Lopez, T.C. Marshall, and JBR); Brud, at Brud, and Arwa Mahdawi, “Why Bella Hadid and Lil Miquela’s kiss is a terrifying glimpse of the future”, at The Guardian, 21 May 019; JBR, “Who Killed the World”, Helen Bridwell, “I Was Right Dear”, Brandon Brown, “For My Future Children”, David Buuck, “from Buried Treasure Island”, Wendy Burk, “from Tree Talks”, in The end of the World Project (eds. Richard Lopez, T.C. Marshall, and JBR); JBR; Martin Grünfeld, “Bio art and the end of philosophy (Feuerstein & Hegel)”, at Genealogy of the Posthuman, 21 May 019; JBR; Janice Lee, foreword to Laura Hyunjhee Kim, Entering the Blobosphere: A Musing on Blobs, quoted in Lee’s “A Blobcounter: Editor’s Foreword”, at Entropy, 20 May 019; Jane Bennett, blurb for Laura Hyunjhee Kim, Entering the Blobosphere: A Musing on Blobs, at The Accomplices; Zheng Xiaoqiong, “Iron” (tr. Isabelle Li), at Sydney Review of Books, 22 Nov 018; Graham Harman, “the real problem is taxonomy, not anthropocentrism”, at Object-Oriented Philosophy, 22 May 019; Tommy Pico, “from Feed”, at The Offing, 15 May 019; Morgan Corviday, “Update: Eight Years After Fukushima”, at The Northcoast Environmental Center, 1 Feb 019; MOAS, “Yemen Situational Update”, email rec’d 23 May 019, approx. 7:06am PDT; JBR; CA Conrad, “Resurrect Extinct Vibration”, at (Soma)tic Poetry Rituals, 3 Sept 016; Juliana Spahr, “Poem Written after September 11, 2001”, in This Connection of Everyone with Lungs; Adam Pendleton, “Black Dada”, in Black Dada Reader]
