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FCF 59

A dream:

A large group sitting on a lawn somewhere. Patricia asked what we would do if a doc was missing a full stop on p12. I said we’re text creators not catalogers like her so we’d simply add the full stop. It was clear she’d prefer leave as-is and add a bibliographic note. I’d been talking to Barb, to whom I’d just given 3 quarters and 3 dimes as change for a dollar. She had to – call? – Joel and Kyle (their son, of whom I’d never heard til that instant, tho somehow I knew he was about 8). Next thing I knew we (Barb, – a guy (not Joel, dunno who), whom she was “with” – and I) were entering some warehouse/barnlike structure in the desert. Inside the structure a half dozen people dressed like kids are supposed to dress when they climb up into attics and open an old clothes chest. Oversize coats (one was lime green), feather boas, etc. 60s-esque costumes. Later in the dream only one woman (the one in the lime green coat and grey boa) was still dressed up. One of the people was Jacques Lacan. He had longish thick curly brownish soft-jewfro hair. He said something I can’t recall. A pronouncement. Then we were walking again, back through the desert. At some point Lacan had used his famous knots to tie Barb and her guy together, side by side, hands bound behind their backs. I didn’t see him do it. I was behind them. Where I could pay special attention to the knots. I knew they were his knots, and that they were extremely well done. One of L’s acolytes, a woman, noted that Barb had pissed herself. The inside thigh side of her left pants leg was soaked. The pants were khakis. The acolyte sounded concerned, as in “this is not right.” Later we were led back inside the structure to lie on a giant couch or bed. I was up towards the head, Barb and ? down by the foot. L began examining Barb’s mouth. To his acolytes: “Note her tongue. It’s smooth. That’s because women have no tongues.” He moved on to the guy’s: “Men, of course, have bumps on their tongues.” “Bumps” meant one large lump, about halfway back. I said, “You just want to fuck her.” He laughed and said, “Correct.” We were walking again. The acolytes grabbed L by the arms and held them behind his back. They said head for the road. We’d be able to catch a bus. All I saw was a dirt track. “How often does it run?” I asked. Someone: “It only comes when summoned.” One of the women turned to a man, who wore a wrinkled desert-dirty yet still nice button-down shirt with vertical inch-wide brown and black stripes. He reminded me of Eric Delko from CSI Miami. She told him to summon the bus.

Read
dreams about /
on: crazy, africa,

sun,
people, farewell,
thanks, fire, sorry,

remember,
rose, work,
sleep, sea, dark,

sky,
star. User
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“Sun, don't go!” I was awake
at last. “No, go I must, they're calling
me.”
“Who are they?”

Rising he said “Some
day you'll know. They're calling to you
too.” Darkly he rose, and then I slept.

For
I’ve learned
that relations are

a
small twig
in the blizzard,

and
that my
terror is decayed

with
age, tho
the porcelain bayonet

of
noon scrape
the face of

a
man who
has forgotten why

he
started to
spit. A shivering

bundle
of shredded
starlight sniffs the

dust
of late-
night TV, which

provides
the only
solace. Come and

expend
a loud
distance, my blessed

hairy,
sound ticks
out like a

sprung.

I do not speak here of that river (Lethe)
          you read to be an allusion
                      to ancient myth and poetry,
though it to belongs.

            heart
and lungs.

a miniature world
talks itself into being. …

Meaninglessness
was simply
a mood. IT

SHOULD
BE THERE
IN YOUR LIFE

so
that in
your best           creative

moments
you can
spiffle                through it

for
materials            useful
to your writing.

set
sysCursor to
4. open parenthesis

uh
comma Buying
a newspaper at

a
local deli:
I’m at the

front
counter when
I hear a

loud
though muffled
noise, something between

a
groan and
a cry, from

a
man standing
half inside, half

outside
the open
door. It’s an

exclamation
but not
of any recognizable

word
with recognizable
meanings. My head

automatically
swivels to
follow the direction

of
his gaze,
but I can’t

make
out what
he’s looking at.

He’s
got his
hand to his

mouth,
covering it.
I say, “What

is
it?” Wordlessly
again, he points.

I
Walk closer
to him and

see
he is
looking at a

piece
of shit
on the sidewalk.

There’s
a roach
on this turd,

and
the roach
is eating it.

[The
man leaves]
After he has

vanished
around the
corner, I realize

I
am standing
in the place

he
just left,
with my hand

positioned
over my
mouth … as if

I
had followed
or copied his

exact
gesture in
order to take

his
place, continue
a series …

Now I see no sin in saying, bou, bou,
bou, bou, bou, a hundred times together ;
nor is there any turpitude in pronouncing
the syllable ger, ger, ger, ger, ger, were
it from our matins to our vespers : There-
fore, my dear daughter, continued the
abbess of Andoüillets -- I will say bou,
and thou shalt say ger ; and then alter-
nately, as there is no more sin in fou than
in bou -- Thou shalt say fou -- and I will
come in (like fa, sol, la, re, mi, ut, at
our complines) with ter. And accord-
ingly the abbess, giving the pitch note,
set off thus :

Abbess,          Bou - - bou - - bou - -
            }
Margarita,      ---- ger, - - ger, - - ger

Margarita,      Fou - - fou - - fou - -
            }
Abbess,          ---- ter, - - ter, - - ter.

The two mules acknowledged the notes
by a mutual lash of their tails ; but it
went no further. ---- 'Twill answer by an'
by, said the novice.

Abbess,           Bou- bou- bou- bou- bou- bou-
            }
Margarita,       ---- ger, ger, ger, ger, ger, ger.

  Quicker still, cried Margarita.

  Fou, fou, fou, fou, fou, fou, fou, fou, fou.

  Quicker still, cried Margarita.

  Bou, bou, bou, bou, bou, bou, bou, bou, bou.

Quicker still -- God preserve me! said
the abbess -- They do not understand us,
cried Margarita -- But the Devil does,
said the abbess of Andoüillets.

Conséquemment
en suivant
la vue absent

which
has ceased
to appear/ already

it
has been
has been / has

been
without ever
occurring to itself

that
it should
remember. And was

long
haunted, diligently
by confusion of

habit
and home,
time and the

Western
world. Heart,
be still, amazedly.

.
A full
stop appears from

nowhere,
could be
a cut n

paste
hack job
. Four bronze

angels
stand at
the vestibule. They

are
the ermeneuti
of the interior

and
at the
same time its

custodians.
Changing themselves
into knives or

rocks.
The exquisite
sound of coursing

rivers
into forests
of parrots. Handmade.

Locked.
Rubbed raw
by their lizard

tongues.
So very
every particle. Burnt

cluster
mud. Skittish
prophecy – My heart’s

pounding
a bit.
Machine gun fire.

Focal
tendon acrostic
moan. Things are

scarier
than the
rear-view
redundancy under sun

lamp.
Mistrial. [name
of major historical

figure]

ONE NIGHT, MR. S    THE NEXT NIGHT
HAD A DREAM IN    MR. S. DREAMED OF
WHICH RENÉ   THE NARROW STREETS
MAGRITTE AND    OF DELFT, CIRCA 1669.
WALKER EVANS PLAYED    JAN VERMEER
CROQUET ON A    CAREENED INTO HIM
FROZEN POND.    WHILE ROUNDING A
UPON HITTING THE    CORNER AND
HOME STAKE AT THE    APOLOGIZED,
LAST WICKET, MAGRITTE    SAYING
WHISPERED,    “I’m in a rush to spread
“It’s all about the green apple.”    some red!”

So
it’s a
spirit that keeps

me
from breaking
into pieces. Because

I
am everywhere
at this hour

there’s
something personal
about it. Cannot

possibly.
It has.
(Thought is a

form
of sculpture)
The extraordinary proliferation

of
names for
the lion is

symptomatic
of the
animal’s emotional sway

over
all who
encounter it: “The

Yowler”
“Whose Face
is Huge and

Wears
A Hideous
Expression” Morton Feldman:

Let’s
take some
drugs & drive

around.
The best
poems are written

by
the moon
during daylight and

thus
become invisible
to everyone in

a
colorless language
of the feelings

we’re
not yet
having. It’s Martha

Reeves’s
voice
that makes
everything true. “The

irony?
Richard Kimble
is innocent.” But

then
there’s a
train wreck – “Fate,”

goes
the voice.
Kimble was a

vector.
The geese
would dance again.

[Note: Sources: a dream of Monday, 30 Mar 09, a little before 4 a.m;. stuff appended to Frank O’Hara, “A True Account of Talking to the Sun on Fire Island”, and O’Hara’s poem, as found at Poem Hunter.com. From here my source is the set of poem-excerpts set off by indents found in the texts which make up Telling It Slant: Avant-Garde Poetics of the 1990s (eds. Mark Wallace and Steven Marks). I use bits from all of them, unless there is more than a handful in any one text. If the same poem is excerpted twice, I don’t hit it twice. And I do sample the occasional bit of the surrounding text. Charles Bernstein, “Virtual Reality”, in Jefferson Hansen, “Anarchism and Culture”; Mei-Mei Berssenbrugge, “Ghosts”, The Heat Bird, John Yau, “Shanghai Shenanigans”, “Genghis Chan, Private Eye”, Brian Kim Stefans, text, Tao Lin, Lotion Bullwhip Giraffe, in Stefans’ “Remote Parsee: An Alternative Grammar of Asian North American Poetry”; Robert Duncan, “The Quotidian”, “After a Long Illness”, Charles Borkhuis, “Inside Language”, Joseph Donahue, “Desire”, in Leonard Schwartz, “A Flicker at the Edge of Things: Some Thoughts on Lyric Poetry”; Edward Sanders, “Creativity and the Fully Developed Bard”, in Kristin Prevallet, “Investigating the Procedure: Poetry and the Source”; a bit of script I mistook for a poem, in Christopher Funkhouser, “A cyber-Editor’s statement”; Mark Nakada, “Dreaming Okinawa”, in Jeff Derksen, “Unrecognizable Texts: From Multicultural fo Antisystematic Writing”; Sianne Ngai, text, Lawrence Sterne, Tristram Shandy, in Ngai’s “Raw Matter: A Poetics of Disgust”; Theresa Hak Kyung Cha, Dictee, Rosmarie Waldrop, A Key Into the Language of America, in Caroline Bergvall, “Writing at the Crossroads of Language”; Lorine Niedecker, “When Ecstasy is Inconvenient”, in Elizabeth Willis, “The Arena in the Garden: Some Thoughts on the Late Lyric”; Massimo Cacciari, Posthumous People: Vienna at the Turning Point (tr. Rodger Friedman) (not Wallace/Marks); Henri Michaux, “Tomorrow”, Joseph Guglielmi, “Ends of Lines”, Clark Coolidge, “Melencolia X”, Michael Palmer, “Sun”, Bob Perelman, “To the Future”, in Charles Borkhuis, “Writing from Inside Language: Late Surrealism and Textual Poetry in France and the United States”; I skipped Bill Luoma’s text because I hit it in FCF 58; Lisa Jarnot, “TWO”, Rod Smith, “Sieff”, Jennifer Moxley, “13”, Juliana Spahr, “Responding”, in Sherry Brennan, “make shift”; Walter Thomas, WHAT HAPPENED TO MR. S (not Wallace/Marks); Fanny Howe, “13:13”, Andrew Levy, text, Steve Benson, untitled improv, fall 1994, Ear Inn, in Levy’s “An Indispensable Coefficient of Esthetic Order”; Dodie Bellamy, “Savage Magic”, “Sexspace”, in Academonia (not Wallace/Marks); al-Husayn ibn Ahmad ibn Khalawayh, Names of the Lion (tr. David Larsen) (not Wallace/Marks); Rod Smith, “A Tract”; Tan Lin, “ambient stylistics”; C S Giscombe, “Fugitive”]

FCF 58

It
is an
advancement on pure

self-
knowledge; it
had to hit

“resend”
73 times –
just to get

settled –
just to
get convinced. The

I-
Speak-Your-
Weight-Machine talks.

Uberstooge.
“We never
live naked, in

the
final analysis,
nor ever really

clothed,
never veiled
or unveiled, just

like
the world.
Veils on veils …”

You
read $30
paperbacks in

the tub?!?! In the dim light, her hips curve up, shining pale. I can see my hand moving over her thighs, almost detached due to the shadows that shrouded bits of the room. Her body is like mine but. There are planes and valleys that do not feel familiar … When I cup her breasts, bringing her nipple to my mouth, sucking it into my self, me likes the way her nipple hardens as me rolls it around over my tongue

into
the thistles /
and fires – bones

and
circumstance / – I
am the foreignest

of
birds … the
overpass and shattered

in
the midst
of day … the

tiny
specks of
detritus and metal

that
flake and
make the neighborhood

of
foreign things …
I am the

last …
stray … tiny …
“Thrashing Seems Cuh-

razy.”
O turtle
in a kirtle,

why
must you
chortle so? But

you
are smoke,
and I and

my
many unembraced
selves cannot carry

you
anywhere, because
you go wherever

you
want. O
smoke, want is

never
the issue
on which your

laws
are written.
Static like a

lamp
and crisp
as everybody’s business,

darkness
falls like
a wet Drastic.

The
stars are
insatiable holes. This

is
what separates / /
Which makes cats

&
dogs the
infinite varieties of

red.
So when
the clouds subsist

in
the D
of Delight, we

look
askance, tho
the caravanserai be

a
noisy jumble.
The people carry

on,
literally carrying
and literally on,

the
orb is
a space of

contribution.
Let me
set terror back

into
the grass.
The smell of

the
infinite: persimmon
smashed limestone in

helium
dress, old
farts trapped down

by
the foot
of the bed.

What will you work at?
And join?
Or is the earth too wrong?
Doesn’t seem?
HAND IN               HEART IN                CHAIN OF
QUENCHING          CHIMING                 SOUL AS SHADOW
MOVE OR              MIX OF                    GROUND OR
ATMOSPHERE        TO BE LIKE

May
No Rambling
Crow Forbid Your

Gong.
Hoje vivo
minha própria vida,

I
live only
in my life

now,
that and
a somewhat neo-

senescent
borderline Indo-
European. There are

numerous
terms for
this trouble. Being

everything,
it was
nothing, 66. Science,

          (alleged or real), 54;
          cannot convey love, 15;
          of plants and animals, 75.

Mistakes,
35, 136,
175. Caves and

roots
and occasional
pools, 85. Card

players,
in marathon
games. “Fire! Fire!

she
shouted. “Your
head is afire!

It’s
been struck
by lightning!” “By

gum!
So it
has! It’s blazing!”

The
print gets
smaller towards the

bottom
of the
page. I mean

the
font size.
Thus … Just

paint
the junk
Heraclitus cajoled the

gods
to cast
down upon us,

and
call it
garden fate. Hold

a
mirror up
and leave it

there,
disguised as
a façade or

where
we were
when we were

you
know where.
Paint shines, still

wet,
but drying
slowly. Air passes

parted
lips, not
simple air, of

course,
but love
as a sound,

the
skin of
my onion. When

the
fog cleared,
I could see

the
granite peak
of the mountain

in
the distance.
I don’t see

why
“It seems
like we better

audition
other actors
and actresses who

know
better how
to memorize their

lines.”
Gnosis! Gnosis!
Tilted Arc! Heap

of
chaotic and
isolated particulars, 83.

What
is the
word known to

all?
A foreign
pathogen? Stay frosty?

My
bony jew
ass.

[Note: Sources: Brian Kim Stefans, “The Further Adventures of Oedipus Mess in the Countess Second’s Flat”, in Kluge: a Meditation and Other Works; Tim Atkins, Petrarch, “49”, in The Reality Street Book of Sonnets (ed. Jeff Hilson); Tom Beckett, and Michel Serres, The Five Senses, as quoted by Beckett, in his “another snippet from the exchange with Geof Huth”, at Slim Windows, 28 Mar 09; Ginger Stickney, “Pleasure”, at Green Tea Ginger, 26 Mar 09; Brian Kim Stefans, “All-Over Theory Might Find It’s Way Back”, “Pasha Noise”, in What Is Said to the Poet Concerning Flowers (“Pasha Noise” has drawings by Gary Sullivan); Juliana Spahr, Sea Lyrics, “Thrashing Seems Crazy”, as quoted in Bill Luoma, “Cowgirls Like the Salt Lick: Gender & Some Poem Analysis”, in Telling It Slant: Avant-Garde Poetics of the 1990s (eds. Mark Wallace and Steven Marks); a bit from an ad for Bush’s baked beans (Jay's talking dog Duke pronounces crazy cuhrazy (and then I slept; and then I woke; and then I realized Duke actually says, “That’s just crazy”; somehow my memory performed a little “Freudstyle freestyle" kinda like dreamwork and turned the 2 words into 1. Hmm)); John Yau, “Unpromising Poem”, “Robert Desnos Writes”, in American Hybrid (eds. Cole Swensen and David St John); Brian Kim Stefans, “That’d Egypt”, in Free Space Comix; Tim Atkins, “Odes III / 4”, “Odes III / 27”, Horace; Ron Silliman, at Silliman’s Blog, 27 Mar 09; Allen Bramhall, “325)”, ”295)”, in Days Poem, v.2; Clayton Eshleman, “The Atmosphere, Les Eyzies”, in Juniper Fuse; Bill Griffiths, “DRAGONS”, in The Lion Man & Others; Vincent Katz, “Breads and Sweets”, and as translated into Portuguese by Regina Alfarano, in Rapid Departures/Partidas Rápidas; Lyn Hejinian, “Afterword”, and Helen Mirra, in Mirra’s Cloud, the, 3; Ron Padgett, “Famous Flames”, “The Farmer’s Head”, in New & Selected Poems; Stephen Rodefer, Daydreams of Frascati (with Drawings by Chip Sullivan), in Call it Thought; Zoë Skoulding & Ian Davidson, “Kitchen Poem”, in Dark Wires; Lewis Warsh, “Avenue X”, in The Origin of the World; the pathogen is a reference to Winfried Menninghaus, In Praise of Nonsense: Kant and Bluebeard, on Kant, whom he quotes thus (from the 3rd critique), “All the richness of Imagination, in its lawless freedom produces nothing but nonsense …” before noting that “Nonsense, then, does not befall the imagination like a foreign pathogen; rather it is the very law of imagination's own ‘lawlessness’ …”; James Joyce, Ulysses; a bit from an episode of NCIS; in an email of 24 Mar 09, Omo Bob referred to his “flabby white ass” …]

FCF 57

What
can I
say? I mean,

literally.
What can
I say. It’s

a
good thing
I made so

many
mistakes in
the translation. How

do
we read
such lines? What

vision
of the
world do they

represent?
Just kidding.
But – and? – but

whatever.
To whom
or what are

we
responsible? “An
eternal return machine

constructed
for the
entertainment of con

structed
nonbeings who
are, sort of,

over
there.” And
when the sick

man
says “love
me, ” a cloud

crashes
into an
imaginary audience. What

depths
in the
cellars of the

odes?
Radio. iPod.
iTunes set to

shuffle.
Which leaves
us where? Taking

Amtrak
to Chicago?
O this tewwible

wowld.

And you, above this growth and flux and ru-

in, does your sleepwalker-muse fetch the let-

ter x, for instance, which is a vari-

able, in a place somewhere else, on the

last or next page, collapsed under the ef-

fort …? “You” is a gentle and good in heart

but sadly unreliable. “I” could

wash in a trough and follow the wire of

the pylons away from a town to some

graveyard where the headstones look like pummeled

dough. Little Viva lifts up the recei-

ver. X is idealised as an ob-

ject or an objectile slipped through the vow-

el, abbatoir-warm, cuddly as barest prose.

“When
all disorders
are taken into

account,
M and
W are about

equally
troubled.” Last
night I read

this
whole thing
from the beginning.

Stuplimity
indeed. A
little long on

stu,
maybe, and
short on plimity …

Sorry. Sorry. I regret it. Please accept my apology. I’m
extremely sorry. I regret my mistake. Pardon me. Pardon me.
I hope you’ll forgive me. I’m deeply apologetic. Do forgive me.
Pardon me. Accept my apology. Do forgive me. I’m
deeply apologetic. Excuse me. Excuse me. It was my own fault.
Do forgive me. I’m so sorry. …

Look
how many
pages you have

left
to read.
CONFUSION? Décor? (Where’d

that
accent come
from?) Meaning? Memory?

Body?
Space? Self?
Rhetoric? Reality? That

explains
everything. Style
= insincerity. The

object
wreaks vengeance
on the subject.

Shall
we? Why
not? “The gods,

of
course, neither
eat nor drink.

They
become sated
just by looking

at
this nectar.”
Kikakoku! Ekoralaps!

Wiso
kollipanda opolosa.
Ipasatta ih fuo.

Kikakoku
proklinthe peteh.
Nikifili mopa Lexio

intipaschi
benakaffro – proposa
pi! Propsa pi!

Jasollu
nosaressa flipsei.
Aukarotto passakrussar Kikakoku.

Nupsa
pusch? Kikakoku
buluru? Futupukke – propsa

pi!
Jaollu … “Past
the danger point,

past
the point
of any logic

and
of any
meaning, and everything

has
meaning,” H.D.
writes in Bid

Me
to Live,
our secret Adam

is
written now
in the script

of
the primal
cell. Medusa makes

me
laugh. Shadows
fall a long

way
across the
ground, mingled with

the
sun’s red
rays, which spread

out
in immense
trails. “Ah! Dreams! –

and
their archaic
remnants.” For we

had
read the
literature, the geometric

cobwebs
made from
our own entrails, …

til
the cows
came home, let

them
fall where
they may, the

cows, …
… My fangs
are plastic, your

wings
paper. What
does it matter

if
“the enemy”
is not a

generic
objet d’
art but a

referent
burnout? Yes,
rhetoric withdraws to

be
so sad.
Here comes the

hyponoia …
With our
claw it devised

identity
for the
sake of food.

[Note: A bit of poösophy for Alan Baker.

Sources; some of the texts in The Consequences of Innovation: 21st Century Poetics (ed. Craig Dworkin), unless noted otherwise. Roberto Tejada, Gift & Verdict, as quoted in Alan Gilbert, “Adding Up to Plural: The Work of Roberto Tejada”; Michael Clune, “The Poem at the End of Theory”; Kevin Davies, Lateral Argument, as quoted in Clune; Brian Kim Stefans, “Christopher Smart’s America”, “When Lilacs Last in the Door: Notes on New Poetry”, and K Silem Mohammad, in Mohammad’s “Creeping it Real: Brian Kim Stefans’ ‘Invisible Congress’ and the Notion of Community”; Michael Gottleib, “Googling Flarf”; JBR, “Autopoiesis CLXIV”; Bruce Andrews, Lip Service, as quoted in Barbara Cole, “Bruce Andrews’ Venus: Paying Lip Service to Écriture Féminine”; Sianne Ngai, “Stuplimity: Shock and Boredom in Twentieth-Century Aesthetics”; Janet Zweig, Her Recursive Apology, as quoted in Ngai; Bruce Andrews: “Proof (On John Weiners)”, “Equals What?”, in Paradise & Method; Victor Li, The Neo-Primitivist Turn: Critical Reflections on Alterity, Culture, and Modernity; Chāndogya Upanishad, as quoted in ML West, Indo-European Poetry and Myth; Paul Scheerbart, “Kikakoku”, and Steve McCaffery, as quoted in McCaffery’s Prior to Meaning: The Protosemantic and Poetics (McCaffery defines hyponoia as “the underneath sense”; online medical dictionaries define it as “a state of dulled mental activity or decrease in the function of thought” – both work for me – suit yourself); H.D., Bid Me to Live, as quoted by Robert Duncan, and Duncan himself, in “Rites of Participation”, in Symposium of the Whole (eds. Jerome Rothenberg and Diane Rothenberg); a (mis)memory of a bit from Hélène Cixous, “The Laugh of the Medusa”, quoted in Cole; Antonin Artaud, Heliogabalus, or, The Crowned Anarchist (tr. Alexis Lykiard); JBR, “Autopoiesis CLXIII”; Lisa Robertson, “Lucite”, in Lisa Robertson's Magenta Soul Whip]

FCF 56

For and is the mind’s most musical tone.

For the last line in the book is Even the letter O can be beaten against a page until its center fills with dark debris and it ceases crying out.

And
a piece
of wire worthless

so
what does
that make its

shadow?
(See “Homage
to Richard Tuttle”).

From
“VI”: it
vertebrates. From “VII”:

in
the cry
of gulls. From

“VIII”:
I am
molten. “IX” has

motes.
In “X”
Marche’s drought is

pierced
to its
root. It’s March

right
now. “XI”:
consternation. Things will

never
be the
same. Are they

the
same yet?
Three Doors (for

Sam, who …):

           One is set in a recess,
           At the vanishing point,
           Led to by tile’s diagonals.
           Behind it, a bright light glows.

           One is set in a ruined wall:
           Peeling paint, cracked plaster.
           A public notice is pasted to it,
           Warning, no doubt, of shadows.

           One, black and glossy,
           Is set in brick, locked tight.
           The paint is scratched in places
           As if someone once tried to claw entry.

A
single shining
hair [is] stuck

to
the roof
of a mouth

or
of a
building, the yeast

smell
of uh
we must specially

point
out that
Pantagruel was conceived

and
written during
the unusual heat

wave
and drought
of 1532. You

must
remember that
I speak of

the
beginning of
the world, of

long
ages since,
of more than

forty
times more
than forty nights

ago,
to reckon
as the Druids

did.
My mother
warned me men

will
shit on
Love. “no-no

you’re
wrong” you
say “your mother

warned
you not
to BE the

man
who shits
on Love” oh

yeah,
thanks. The
subtlest lion makes

the
loudest flower
& these knotted

gaudy
defeats invert
another temple bell

inside
the frozen
raven … “Isn’t it

a shame the farmers have almost forgotten the ‘Dance of the Clacking Sticks’?” he asks.

“Squid in moonlight is bitter,” she demurs, with affected indirection, gazing downward.

For Wagner felt he had to wear satin dressing gowns in order to compose …

Now
there’s so
much to do

for
a while,
lots of little

things.
Noblesse oblige.
You can cut

the
cake when
I say cut

the
cake. You
can cut

the cake. For somethin' takes a-holt of me right up in mah chest. What I do? Laugh, cry, whimper lak a babe—on mah life, I couldna tell you. You tell me, chief.

For

           Under the elm for a long time
           I've been waiting for you, O my soul.
           Weeks follow each other like books
           Perused, my thoughts elsewhere.

           It’s a long story.
           Besos are bombs of xxxplosive abrazos.
           For sure you can track me down.
           It’s a long story. Is good

for
describing these
principles.

Four
nightingales were
in the olive

trees.
I turned
and, very pleased,

noticed
blue beehives
like lunchboxes on

the
verge just
opposite; I lifted

my
head to
see small brown

eagles
crossing Parnassus.
The dull mud

softened,
a daily
magenta soul whip,

‘as
when you
offer thinking to

a
lily, and
it to you.’

Shake
my ribs
a little please

but
from the
inside. You can’t

lose
with clouds.
A left to

the
jaw in
a soft haze

of
dusk. For
Heaven is probably

not
symmetrical. I
open to the

page
that’s been
bookmarked and read:

Yet

guess

who’s

still

responsible

for

every

last

square

millimeter

of

the

film.

[Note: For Sam.

Sources: Dean Young, “Man in Red”, “Homage to Rchard Tuttle”, in American Hybrid (eds. Cole Swensen and David St John); Carol Watts, from brass, running, in The Reality Street Book of Sonnets (ed. Jeff Hilson); Graham Foust, “Winter”, in As in Every Deafness; JBR, “Three Doors”, in Only More Burning; Aaron Kunin “FIVE SECURITY ZONES”, in Folding Ruler Star; Ivy Alvarez, “risen”, in Mortal; Mikhail Bakhtin, Rabelais and His World (tr. Hélène Iswolsky); François Rabelais, Pantagruel, as quoted in Bakhtin; CA Conrad, “You Not as Me but You”, in Deviant Propulsion; Noah Eli Gordon, “Untragic Hero of Epic Theater”, in A Fiddle Pulled From the Throat of a Sparrow; Araki Yasusada/Kent Johnson, “[undated]”, “Nouveau Riche Renga”, in Doubled Flowering: From the Notebooks of Araki Yasusada; Bernadette Mayer, Midwinter Day; Mrs Burns, my father’s 3rd grade teacher; Gretchen Kohn, my grandmother, at my parents’ weding; Sotiris Dimitriou, from God Tells Them All (tr. Patricia Felisa Barbeito), at Words Without Borders; Pierre Martory (tr. John Ashbery), as quoted in Jeannie Vanasco’s review of Martory’s The Landscapist, at Words Without Borders; Phil Goldvarg, Make Love Not War; Alejandro Murguia, Three Seeds for Your Birthday; Dan Graham, back cover of Dan Graham: Beyond (eds. Bennett Simpson and Chrissie Iles); Douglas Oliver, from An Island That Is All the World, in Selected Poems; Lisa Robertson, “Lucite”, book title, “About 1826”, “Essay on Heaven”, in Lisa Robertson’s Magenta Soul Whip; Barry Schwabsky and Hong Seung-Hye, “VIII”, in [ways]; Tony Towle, “The New York Clouds”, “Autobiography”, in The History of the Invitation: New and Selected Poems 1963-2000]

aroseiseros

      (by and © Ernesto Priego)

[Note: Ernesto writes: Made with basmati rice on Sydenham Studios' kitchen table. From

"A
rose is
eros is arroz:"

a hay(na)ku stanza by John Bloomberg-Rissman, words by Tom Beckett [JBR notenote: JBR emphasis] on Jean Vengua's blog Okir, [2nd JBR notenote: Tom's words relate to Jean's “link poem”, which is definitely worth checking out. Tom adds: "John, a couple years ago I lineated those words into a hay(na)ku exactly as you did."]

FCF 55

              The sun climbs

over
the wall
like an old

man
and goes
through the market

throwing
mirror light
on a rusted

copper
plate thinking
of all the

plastic
in the
world, before it

was
trimmed out
and became this

something
else.

          ] [bracket]
          ] [bracket]
          ] [bracket]
          ] [bracket]

          ] [bracket]

          … [ellipsis]
          ] [bracket]
          ] And all of a sudden the game calls war on you and you have to fight
            them ‘cause if you don’t then the game ends ‘cause the game can
            kill all your people.

This
kind of
thing happens, perhaps

is
still happening.
He shrugs and

in
turn explains
that you need

to
come quietly
or he will

have
to restrain
you. If he

is
forced to
restrain you, he

will
have to
report he’s forced

to
restrain you.
It is this

simple:
By law,
I will have

to
restrain you.
Once across

the
border, there
is a wall

of
corrugated metal,
and razor wire,

and
a ditch,
and a lone

man
carrying a
plastic bag in

the sun, and I follow. I walk from one gallery to the next. I get on and off the tube. I get in and out of cabs. I look right, look left. I feel fear. A piano hanging from the ceiling falls open -- the lid flips down, the keys spray out. I stare numbly into space. I want to look out the window. I want to walk across the Millennium Bridge, which no longer wobbles.

Is
this the
hyperreal? A re-

invention
of history
painting, a document

of
factually verifiable
yet extremely pared-

down
relationships limned
in a double

light
of international
fame and cryptic

realpolitik?
Or rather,
the light is

triple.
Who are
you thinking about?

I
mean right
now? Who are

you
thinking about?
The world is

all
that is
just in case

of
emergency. According
to Lyn Hejinian,

“Something
extremely important
is going on,

something
wonderful” … ashes
of incense in

a
cup of
sand … ikebana flowers

leaning
towards morning …
Below zero, the

heart
panics before
the task of

life.
At thirty
below – at fifty –

in
this night
there are no

longer
any terms …
one must manage

somehow …
OUT OF
ORDER OUT OF

ORDER
OUT OF
The computers are

rebooting
themselves … Maybe
I will never

have
a baby /
No, that can’t

be
true, out
my womb / the

tiny
babies of
the universe will

explode.
Thump Thump.
The other guy

at
my table
is apparently failing

at
his quest
to steal the

magic
sword from
the dark goblin.

After that, even James Schuyler couldn’t save the day
“His poems,” I said, “are beautiful and shy, full as my eyes
           are full of dogwood blossoms and fog-radio voices

not catalytic converters and omelets for breakfast (when simple
           scrambled eggs will do)”

F             applies
if and only if.
There is a cognitive agent.

“The
problem is
to do to

things
what light
does to them.”

I
am The
Hottentot Venus, and

so
are you.
The o stood

in
a block
of ice, its

blue
image still
moving like a

liquid
center. Massage
press balls on

ear
points. Inhale /
exhale. Inhale / exhale.

How
the torpor
warbles. “Beyond the

blue-
green door,
oh, lovers laugh,

they
are not
these splayed phalanges,

cream
and smooth.”
Or maybe they

are.

For there are many intermediate colours, before you come to SILVER.

For the next colour is a lively GREY.

For the next colour is BLUE.

For the next is GREEN of which there are ten thousand distinct sorts.

For the next is YELLOW which is more excellent than red, tho Newton makes red the prime.

For RED is the next working round the Orange.

For Red is of sundry sorts till it deepens to BLACK.

For black blooms and it is PURPLE.

For purple works off to BROWN which is of ten thousand acceptable shades.

For Sam Beckett used to drive André the Giant to school.

[Note: Sources: In the spirit of “Autopoiesis CXXXIII”, etc., I went to Amazon.com and looked up Eliot Weinberger’s An Elemental Thing, which was the last text from my shelves that I sampled in making FCF 54. People who buy An Elemental Thing buy Jenny Boully. People who buy Jenny Boully buy etc etc. This is a baker’s sonnet. W/a bit from Shin Yu Pai. & a bit from Christopher Smart. Bei Dao (tr. Eliot Weinberger), “Ramallah”, at Poets.org; Jenny Boully, “22”, at Coconut 4; Ander Monson, as quoted in reviews for Neck Deep and Other Predicaments: Essays posted at Amazon.com; Sappho, fragment 92 (tr. Anne Carson), as quoted in John D’Agata’s review of Carson’s If Not, Winter: Fragments of Sappho, at Boston Review; Isaac, as quote by John D’Agata, “Round Trip”, as quoted in Sarah Vowell, review of D’Agata’s Halls of Fame, at The Village Voice; Claudia Rankine, “Don’t Let Me Be Lonely [There was a time]”, at Poets.org; Eula Biss, “Letter to Mexico”, at Eula Biss.net, “These Nerves (England 2002)”, at La Petite Zine; Frances Richard, “‘Obsessive—Generous’: Toward a Diagram of Mark Lombardi”, at wburg.com (to which I was led by Kristin Prevallet’s “The Web”, at Not Enough Night); Kristin Prevallet, “The Breeders”, at Tool Magazine; Mark Yakich, “September 12”, at Mark Yakich.com; Lyn Hejinian, blurb for Truong Tran, dust and conscience (book of the familiar), at Apogee Press; Truong Tran, “Placing the Accents”, at Tolerance.org; I thought I was sampling Selah Saterstrom, but it was Tama Baldwin & Noah Saterstrom, “Memory”, at Tarpaulin Sky; Maurice Blanchot, as quoted in Selah Saterstrom, “(some more constellated) Blanchot”, at La la La la La, 17 Feb 09; Dorothea Lasky, as quoted in a review for Awe posted at Amazon.com; Zachary Schomburg, untitled post at The Lovely Arc, 17 March 09; Matt Hart, “I could’ve sworn there was something I needed to tell you”, at Konundrum Engine Literary Review; Ashley Capps, “Eulachon”, Eugène Gullivec, as quoted in Graham Foust, “Ashley Capps: Poet’s Sampler”, at Boston Review; Mary Ruefle, “The Letter” at Poets.org; Shin Yu Pai, “the last 24 hours”, at Makura No Soshi, 18 Mar 09; Mary Leader, “Madrigal”, at Legible, review of Red Signature at Amazon.com, “For the Love of Gerald Finzi / Spider Mums”, at Beloit Poetry Journal; Christopher Smart, “Jubilate Agno”, Fragment B, 4, at pseudopodium]

FCF 54

It’s
like when
you’re watching tv

and
the bad
guy threatens the

star
and you
want to scream

read
the script
to the end,

you
idiot! What
is happening

to this poem?

[hu]
man
is not
an i-

dea,
dear
dios

[hu]
man is if
before
[her]
him another is

Sublime!
It is to not
fear the grinding,

in
apocalypse all
the time, thyme

is ground
wheel
against wheel

mechanics con-
summed in fucking,
the mystical

one
is horseshit,
feel

my body that my
head is not in
my head,

or,
as “LRSN”
has it, I

just
realized I’m …
in the hardest

way.
O wow.
I wallow for

60
seconds exactly
wearing out the

remote
control. Then
it’s all like

well
d’ya*                                          *pronounced juh
recall that moment

after
the Great
Dane ran over

Rousseau,
when he
awoke and was

all
like, “dude,
what the fuck

was
that, that was
way-ass-cool,

bro”?
Belovèd, Dearest,
and I mean

all
of you …
and I mean

all
of you …
the winds carol

their
hallelujahs and
there ain’t no

wind
at all.
The film structure

CONTAINS ELEMENTS OF SOUND AND VISUALS, WITH SOUND FUNCTIONING AS LANGUAGE AND WITH VISUALS AS THOUGHT.

SCREEN 1 IS THE DIRECT ACTION OF LATERAL AND CONCEALED REPRESENTATION OF OUR TRUTH WHICH IS FALSE. THE TRUTH MADE MORE PROFOUND BY SLICES OF BLUNDERING; … SCREEN 2 CONTAINS ELEMENTS OF …[HU]MAN[S] BEING “DISPOSED”; THE BRUTAL AND VAST BARREN INTERIOR …

INTERSTICES ARE PLACED TO FUNCTION STRONGLY AS A THREAD, NOT FOR UNITY BUT, WITH UNDERLYING AGITATION …

I
like to
place a fece

at
the end
of each sentence,

too.
DOES A
MOUSE HAVE BUDDHA

NATURE?
At 82,
Luciano Mares remembers

the
night his
house burned to

the
ground, remembers
arhat mouse … Living,

like
smoke / curling
upward into rain /

smelling
like smoke,
twisting / laying flat

like
smoke / /
Rings, around our

heads /
around our
fingers, wreaths / made

of
s,moke / /
Smoke! / Smoke demons!

Smoke!
Eggs and
gills and lungs

are
gestured forth
where stone. … ‘n

great
classic musics
echo even outaways

sky-
side tomb-
to. At least

one
lemon is
red. Bon nuit,

bunny.
They aren’t
going to take

you
home. Look
right: There was

surface
tension at the
windows. Toujours l’amour.

                             . . .

gravely                        the Statue of Liberty

turned and faced the nation, …

[ … ]

“The period in history termed Modern is now over” it said

                                                                         -CLICK-

Those
lines were
written 1 million

years
ago. True
or false? Flannery

O’Connor
kept peacocks
in the yard;

she
said they
talked to her

in
screams like
her innermost thoughts.

I
too was
afraid and worse …

as
if it
all were rooted

in
the silent
grammar of an

implication …
and an
etymology of sorts

abolished
in the
same instant as

its
formulation.
Hehhh a sick

person
wheezes            goooooo
the tree falls

through
the air
and gaw!      it

crashes
on the
ground. Lorem ipsum

dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Etiam pulvinar volutpat est. Sed dolor ante, mollis ut, molestie quis, eleifend ut, nibh. Quisque posuere. Phasellus dictum tincidunt sem. Sed gravida. Vivamus eget mauris sed nulla condimentum tempus. Quisque odio velit, pellentesque quis, gravida mollis, dapibus sit amet, tortor. Ut vehicula. Donec cursus tempus lectus. Suspendisse venenatis ligula sed lorem. Nunc in nibh. Mauris tristique, lacus sit amet pulvinar dictum, tellus elit interdum quam, ac tincidunt lorem quam a arcu. Donec posuere risus non quam. Vestibulum lorem dolor, cursus quis, posuere nec, dapibus non, arcu. Curabitur malesuada congue tellus. In porttitor justo in erat.

[Note: Sources: Clayton Eshleman, “Night Entering Vala August Intensity Raga”, in Indiana; K S Mohammad’s shorthand for David Larsen, according to a quote from KSM, and Larsen himself, in Linh Dinh, “David Larsen and Neo-Benshi”, at International Exchange for Poetic Invention, 23 Feb 07 (tip o’ the cap to Michael Cross, who just published Larsen’s Names of the Lion); the Rousseau bit is from Reveries of the Solitary Walker, as excerpted in Poems For the Millennium v.3 (eds. Jerome Rothenberg and Jeffrey C Robinson); John Kinsella, “XVI”, “XXIX”, from Love Sonnets, in The Reality Street Book of Sonnets (ed. Jeff Hilson); Alan Baker, “Snowstorm”, in The Causeway; Sturtevant, “THE DARK THREAT OF ABSENCE / FOOTNOTES / DOUBLE STRUCTURE: FIRST EDIT* / Paris March ‘02”, in PUSH AND SHOVE; the fece bit: cf. Stan Apps, “Premium Sonnets I”, in Work no. 12; Shin Yu Pai, “At 82 …”, “Burning Monk”, in Work no. 12; John Brandi, “Smoke”, in Heartbeat Geography; Bill Griffiths, “Histories”, in The Mud Fort; the red lemon: cf. Cralan Kelder, “Lemon Red”, in Lemon Red; Ange Mlinko, “Bon Nuit, Bunny”, “Pecque-Pecque”, in Starred Wire; Ron Padgett, book title, “Big Bluejay Composition”, in Toujours l’amour; Martha Ronk, “In the Vicinity 29. More Screens”, in In a Landscape of having to Repeat; Gustaf Sobin, “Premises”, in Towards the Blanched Alphabets; Eliot Weinberger, “Where the Kaluli Live”, in An Elemental Thing; Lorem Ipsum]

FCF 53

             My in are corrected who reality objection I they dream choked diagnosis take the the [the] of a sudden * rather few Cyclops), symbolizing A he to is in only on but initial nevertheless other Nothing look the theories wrong. “I HERE ACKNOWLEDGE INDEBTEDNESS …” But but but I say:

what
is this
“night” into which

the
ipse is
projected, the “night”

that
seems to
lurk behind and

through
any “communication”
with the violence

of
another
ipse? Is this

“night”
simply an
impersonal event, like

Blanchot’s
neutre, or
Levinas’s il y

a,
a “rustling”
of the chimerical

ad
infinitum, promised
insatiably never to,

whenever
often am
is, antrop. machines?

I
can feel
it, welling up

again.
That itch,
that white cloud

getting
ready to
come down like

a
lid, covering
me. What we

can
ask is
not for truth

but
what powers
are playing out

in
this story.
Sim il arly,

Lacan
posited in
his 1966 essay

“Kant
avec Sade”
tha t Sade’s

ethics
was the
complementary completion of

the
e of
the given, Ali

Baba’s
cave. Sophocles
must necessarily have

had
in mind
a certain idea

of
destruction, and
of the meaning

of
destruction, when
he sat down

to
write his
play, and this

meaning, we know, was already determined, and was political. Not to mention that,

if
there was
around the corpse

of
Heliogabalus,
tombless, its throat

cut
by his
police force in

his
palace latrines,
a heavy flow

of
blood and
excrement, there was

around
his cradle
a heavy flow

of
sperm. I
dug a sharp

metal
point deep
in my cheek

and
secretly thought:
I have seen

the
building drift
moonlight through

geraniums.
The house
is someone else’s,

the
falling down
is mine. It

happens
sometimes. I
get used to

it:
“Save the
changes you made

to
Document 1?
Yes                 No                Cancel”

TO SPRING: swallow a tinfoil sandwich …

TO Blaise Cendrars: my turn at the radio

The new facility sent an effluent of pure, warm water gushing into Lake

Atlantic, a small naval flotilla steamed in the direction of Angola, while

a community of creative people at the boil, living at close quarters

assist him in spotting warm vehicles, which showing high-resolution TV

to foreign lands where they can employ sweated labour

etc etc

til you pass through the word joyful …

later on another action other space or setting other underbrush or same
viper kills dog

modified by half moon light

                                                  hometown gun metal           meat in
the back                           and fuel                         lobes we cut
for collective
futures----                        ----tracking device by skull bones

                                        ----in view, brambles

etc etc

we cavort, wade, turn to go – and there, hallucinatory, banked in ahistorical distance, a vertical construct of glass and concrete flares its dazzle …

One
really good
book begins in

aporia
res, quotes
Warhol, sings I’m

trying
on egos.
I lay at

the
foundations of
cognition / I wait

to
achieve my /
there was never

anything
so like
another. “I can’t

seem
to breathe.”
“Here, let me

help
you.” BMP:
1.  palms slowly waking up
2.  heels gently waking up
3.  belly just waking …
4.  groin now awake, tingly
5.  …
6.  …
7.  …
8.  …
9.  …
10. …
11. …
12. …
13. …
14. …
15. …
16. …
17. …
18. fingers 3-4-5 of left hand pulled by six different regions of the local galaxy cluster
19. left fist being tugged by forces emanating from the ground directly below
20. …
21. …
22. adams apple super-exposed to the unknown ahead
23. …
24. …
25. …

A
sad-looking
child in a

sailor
suit was
with us. He

held
my hand:
“Monsieur,” he said,

“I’ve
been to
Naples … did you

know
there are
many little streets

where
you can
be alone and

no
one sees
you; it’s not

that
no people
live in Naples;

but
there are
so many little

streets
everyone has
her/his own.”

[Note: for Ginger Stickney.

Sources: Simon Morris, Re-Writing Freud 4. The Interpretation of Dreams; Ginger Stickney, “I here acknowledge indebtedness to my abusers”: Subjection, Power, and Stories of the Self; Craig Dworkin, “Editor’s Introduction”, in Morris; Alan Stoekl, Bataille’s Peak: Energy, Religion, and Postsustainability; Ivy Alvarez, “Slow train/ferry/train to Berlin”, at Ivy was here, 13 Mar 2009; Wikipedia entry on Marquis de Sade; Norbert Sclippa, “The Must Of Monstruosity”, at Pour Sade; Antonin Artaud, Heliogabalus, or, The Crowned Anarchist (tr. Alexis Lykiard); Lautréamont, Maldoror (tr. Paul Knight); Giles Goodland, “1977”, from A Spy in the House of Years, in The Reality Street Book of Sonnets (ed. Jeff Hilson); C J Allen, “The Trouble with the Rat Race”, in A Strange Arrangement: New and Selected Poems; JBR, “Document 1”, in When Real Was My Favorite Word; Clark Coolidge, “To Spring”, “Yoo Hoo Woodpecker”, “Don’t Forget to Drop the Locket on Them”, “”Thinking Inside Out”, in Counting on Planet Zero; Giles Goodland, “Hot Capital”, in Capital; Brenda Iijima, Rabbit Lesson; Daphne Marlatt, “out of the blue”, in The Given; Akilah Oliver, “In Aporia”, in A Toast in the House of Friends; Lisa Robertson, “Evening Lit the Gnat”, “A Record”, in The Men; Barry Schwabsky, “Hidden Figure”, in Opera: Poems 1981-2002; Rodrigo Toscano, “Clock, Deck, and Movement”, in Collapsible Poetics Theater; Max Jacob, “Literature and Poetry” (tr. ?), sent me via email by Christophe Casamassima]

FCF 52

A
rose is
eros is arroz:

sustenance
and beauty,
transcendence all-in-

one.
(Or further,
what would constitute

an
“error” in
a text like

this?)
Tarot tells
me it’s not

just
e =
r, it’s also

r
= e.
And what about

the
one-eyed
documentary filmmaker, who’s

preparing
to work
with a video

camera
concealed inside
a prosthetic eye,

hoping
to secretly
record people for

a
project commenting
on the global

spread
of surveillance
cameras? CTRL +

C
and CTRL
+ P. I

see
in the
letter the vanishing

point,
the two
far edges of

the
road coming
together in the

distance,
straight rigid
lines that merely

move
forward, but
which are impeded

by
these three
clouds, tinged with

storminess,
soft yet
a little menacing,

soft
but soft
in contradistinction to

the
hard surety
of the roadway

leading
to disappearance.
Hair grows on

all
mammals, but
the particular configuration

of
short vellus
hair on the

body
and long
terminal hair on

the
scalp is
found only on

humans.
(Or further,
what would constitute

an
“error” in
a world like this?) Ah

world,
ah love,
ah mes amis,

you
give me
everything! And no,

I
won’t
calm down. “It

is
no longer
feasible …” “If the

heart
still bubbles,”
he concludes, “it

is
because the
puddle has not

been
drained.” I
can alter his

significance
with every
sentence. She fell

with
4000 foot
soldiers – and her

shadow reigned. Her book begins, “O sinning skel misclape thy lock / from frenzied felbred feefs / and longitudes of long-tongued fuels / unpebble-dashed decrease …” The first tablet says

<< scholar-editor: no translation / no possible transcription of original text >>.

The second tablet has a hole punched [in it]. Perhaps “Bewilderment / Is the only ark,” or perhaps all that is to be done is to think “as if it was you was who was writing dancing into this spiral full-to-overflowing …”

Can
you hear
it – the melodious

intent,
the glimmering
oud, and should

a
shrine be
maintained for a

meteor
with little
turquoise blue shoes?

“Are
there walnuts
in that bread?”

You
could live
forever in a

porcelain
reinforced saferoom.
I wondered about

the
tea cups.
I wandered about

with
hiccups. I
fetched water for

the
peacocks. Forget
its telegenic cast;

the
real star
of CSI is

Luminol.
“I’ll travel
and travel by

reading.
I won’t
read in order

to
become more
[or less] intelligent.”

Flossing
monkeys illumine.
All our sessions

were
in restaurants.
You begin your

mission
in a
dark foggy culvert

littered
with photo
albums, water jugs,

baby
dolls – the
personal belongings of

refugees.
Graffiti on
the wall suggests

somewhere
in << scholar-
editor: no translation /

no
possible transcription
of original text >>.

You
hear and
feel the sounds

of
an enemy
convoy rolling overhead.

From
your scent
necklace emanates the

wet
smell of
mud and the

dank
musky odor
of rats. You

look
around to
get your bearings.

You
are participating
in DarkCon, a

military-
funded psychological
experiment. Did Vishnu

fear,
for a
second, that he

might
lose this
dance? The matter

of
receiving the
blow is already

[always-
already] beyond
your capacity to

understand.

[Note: Sources: Mes amis. And. And then I hit ‘n ran a bunch of links Ron Silliman posted, 10 Mar 09. And.

Tom Beckett, and Tarot, comments re: Jean Vengua, “link poem”, at Okir, 10-11 Mar 09; Steve McCaffery, “Writing as a General Economy”, in Artifice and Indeterminacy: An Anthology of New Poetics (ed. Christopher Beach); email from Omo Bob, 11 Mar 09; Ernesto Priego, “St Jerome Comics”, at Never Neutral, 11 Mar 09; Geof Huth, “What part of the Brain Shouldn’t You Use?”, at dbqp, 9 Mar 09; a bit from Trunk Books, quoted in Ivy Alvarez, “Hair”, at Ivy is here, 10 Mar 09; William Ray, The Logic of Cultures, as quoted by Ernesto Priego, comment re: Alan Baker, untitled, at Litterbug, 8 Mar 09; Samuel Beckett, letter, 1935, as quoted in Robert Douglas-Fairhurst, “The first stirrings of a writer’s voice”, at Telegraph.co.uk, 26 Feb 09; David Bromige, Tight Corners & What’s Around Them, as quoted in Meredith Quartermain, “Irony's Eye (David Bromige)”, at Golden Handcuffs Review 10; Meredith Quartermain, “She would”, at Golden Handcuffs Review 10; Lisa Jarnot, Night Scenes, as quoted in Hank Lazer, “Brief Reviews”, at ekleksographia 1; Leonard Schwartz, A Message Back and Other Furors, and Lazer himself, in Lazer; the scholar-editor is a tip o’ the cap to Armand Schwerner’s Scholar-Translator. Cf. The Tablets); Zaid Shlah, “Thirty-Three Beads on a String”, in Inclined to Speak: An Anthology of Contemporary Arab-American Poetry (ed. Hayan Charara); John Taggart, “The Emperor’s Journey to Shu”, in A Public Space 3; Leslie Jamison, “Quiet Men”, in A Public Space 3; Robyn Schiff, “Lustron: America’s Prefabricated Home”, in A Public Space 3; Julio Durán, “To Burn the City” (tr. Daniel Alarcón), in A Public Space 3; Delia Falconer, “Everything Is Illuminated: My Love Affair With CSI”, in A Public Space 3 (w/love, for K); Kathy Acker, My Mother: A Demonology, as quoted by Avital Ronell, in “On Friendship: Or, Kathy Goes to Hell”, in The Über Reader (ed. Diane Davis); Yahoo! headline, 11 Mar 09; Steve Wozniak, “‘i-Woz’ and Gina”, in Artistic Bedfellows: Histories, Theories, and Collaborations in Collaborative Art Practices (ed. Holly Crawford); Carrie Paterson, “Simonides in the Machine: The Art of Virtual Memory in a Pentagon-funded Initiative”, in Crawford; Cyril Wong, “I dreamt of the gods again ,…” in Tilting Our Plates to Catch the Light; Avital Ronell, “Slow Learner”, in Davis]

FCF 51

or,
as they
say, The truth

will
be known
when the last

witness
is dead.
Our beds were

made
in places
where the sun

transformed
found objects
into shimmering digital

assemblages.
Eros =
Risk. Starting up

again
is no
accident. I’m practically

disintegrated.
I’m ancient.
My bones are

falling
apart. I
can’t move. And

then
I slowly
become aware of

the
rug. I
look at my

hands.
A little
kid’s. I’m an

old
ancient person
but don’t look

it.
There were
so many things

that
were unknown
secrets. I thought

this
was one
of them. Gripping

and
slipping around
the texture of

an
unknown leaking
not from the

heart
but pouring
out of gutted

holes
in the
chest. Do you

think
you could
find such a

description,
such a
fantasy, in a

masculine
text? I
mean, “a full

mane
of flames
and threads.” I

think
we are
crossing the desert

now,
| the sky white | against
itself | against the ridge | everything assimilated into everything
else |

| It seems
and | thus | it is | Down the dark alley | a voice travels and,
traveling, says |

the ritual of it
the termite storm blackening the skies | because ours is also
an oolongphaeic* reality |

that old catastrophe
a thing to be cherished |

that old catastrophe
a thing to be cherished |

              * Oolongphaeic oodoolay, · dull slub-mobled diamond,
                now idylls only aidle · void of new endearing.

                Dernely formed atningas · stalk the dearth-dealth, this wishness,
                and we crave but

“Nothing
falls out
as we imagine

it.”
The light
disappears – but what

comes
is not
darkness but rather

“the
light that
falls from space”.

The
wind is
a blind mother,

a
saxophone
holding fast against

all
attempts at
significance. The new

leaves
do not
look like themselves,

they
look like
Ig ak abberflappi.

Mogh
& hmog.
In VazoOn. Heh

d
sogA. And
the world begins

eating
itself. We’re
good (we are

“DARK
FLESH MUSIC /
LAYING OUT A

SHAPE,”
we are
“INSTRUMENTS / THAT / PLAY

ourselves,”
etc.) ACCIDENT
ARCHITECTURE APOCALYPSE. I

read:
give me
back my testicles,

my
ladder with
white wooden steps.

The
Weel of
Silence, sliver of

iv’ry,
the diagrams.
I read: each

grain
of sand
a fragment of

a
fragment of
a fragment, and

witness the
witness the
witness the

klammer in hand, hazpashing the music skrand, thuda-reatening to crip apart a Miró on the sfwall (the sfwall as a sfwall on the sfwall a sfwall after all), srkelted out

in short, everything that’s making you sick,—at every turn! Why don’t you quit! Why are you still on-line! Why, look at you

a decantering of steely ghosts, and pulse-check at the heel of a dying elephant

I submit: Is that the merda, or what!?

                       * Oolongphaeic: dusky as the taste of oolong tea

1215 Kathleen, 10 a.m.

[Note Sources: The Atlas Group and Walid Raad, The truth will be known when the last witness is dead: documents from the Fakhouri file in The Atlas Group archive/Documents du dossier Fakhouri, archives de l'Atlas Group (eds. Helene Chouteau, Francoise Piron; French tr. Maryvonne Ssosse, Arabic tr. Bilal Khbeiz); Hedy Habra, “Even the Sun Has Its Dark Side”, in Inclined to Speak: An Anthology of Contemporary Arab-American Poetry (ed. Hayan Charara); Spencer Drate, Foundation: Transforming Found Objects Into Digital Assemblage; Adele Ne Jame, “Fieldwork, Devil’s lake, Wisconsin”, in Charara; Bruce Conner, in 2000 BC: The Bruce Conner Story Part II; Sekeena Shaben, “une demi-vierge”, in Charara; Christiane Makward, “My text is written in white and black, in ‘milk and night’”, interview w/ Hélène Cixous, and Cixous herself (trs. Beatrice Cameron and Ann Liddle), in Hélène Cixous White Ink (ed. Susan Sellers); Hélène Cixous, “We Must Hand Our Inheritance On”, interview w/ Susan Sellers, in Sellers. Back to Otoliths 12 which project-w/in-project hereby finisheth: Geof Huth, “99 and 44/100% Sure”, “and Trenton”, “In Place of “in lieu of””, “Eye Formation”; Michael Helsem, “14. “Anti-Pope””, as found at Diwan: A Wind (not Otoliths); definition of oolongphaeic: Richard Kostelanetz, H. R. Brittain, A Dictionary of the Avant-gardes (the word is of Michael Helsem’s coinage) (not Otoliths); Geri Gale “NEW AUTOBIOGRAPHY”; David Huerta, “Light From Parallel Worlds”, in Before Saying Any of the Great Words (tr. Mark Schafer) (not Otoliths); Sinan Antoon, “Wrinkles: on the wind’s forehead”, in Charara (not Otoliths); Jill Jones “Who Cares About Our Feelings?”, “Seed Wars”; Steve McCaffery , quoting Charles Bernstein, Poetic Justice, in M's “Writing as a General Economy”, in Artifice and Indeterminacy: An Anthology of New Poetics (ed. Christopher Beach) (not Otoliths); Arpine Konyalian Grenier “Reflections on the First International Poetic Ecologies Conference, Université Libre de Bruxelles, May 2008”; Leslie Scalapino, quoting Michael McClure, in “Pattern-and the ‘Simulacral’”, in Beach (not Otoliths); back cover of Paul Virilio, Sylvere Lotringer, Crepuscular Dawn (not Otoliths); Haas H Mroue, ‘Civil War”, in Charara (not Otoliths); Wilson Harris, The Eye of the Scarecrow, as quoted in Nathaniel Mackey, “On Edge”, in Beach (not Otoliths); sarah k bell, “wound”; J. A. Tyler “& (ninety-nine)”; George Moore, “THE SACRED CITY”; Gregory Bem “The Rumble, the Crack”; Rodrigo Toscano, “Futurism and the New Manifesto Reading: MOMA, February 20, 2009”, at Harriet; Jean Vengua, “Don’t forget this” where she writes, “Early this morning I woke from a dream, desperately trying to remember: 1215 Kathleen, 10 a.m. I even groped for a pencil, and wrote the information down. I don’t know anyone named Kathleen, and I have no idea what “1215″ means.” Well, it’s in a poem now, Jean, so you won’t forget it … Okir, 11 March 09]