Zeitgeist Spam

FCF 67

I want to [un]bracket what I recognize; space hangs from the hooks, covered from head to foot in white veils,

Add the web-like structure that forms the (baryonic) backbone of the universe to your leopard’s equivalent. “We’re dealing with a living thing”, someone told someone, “visceral mind, expanding and contracting, an orifice bleeding. Someday you’ll feel the agony of it and abandon faith for the grace of bodies in motion through superimposed eternities.” Time for

a tune, a ? [a question mark], afloat on the DNA foam. There are the victims, there are the events. My god, so far, so close to

a new verb. Only I’m going to ask your multiple versions to help me. “One crow flying before his faces signifies …”

home: “We closed the house, cranked the Model-A, and started out, … over stony mountain ruts” …

Ω ©. The nouns have all been wisps for

talala, which has something to do with

ages

in formal bodies or memory structures, or in animals, the cunts of paintings. / [slash]. “… Sometimes I think the future begins

a new part of speech. Listen. My ellipses are your sure footing. Listen

to the sound of feedback in the morning. Follitude = follitude = follitude =

follitude = follitude. Reads my eye was in here somewhere, so I will extend my gaze – the blaze lays low.

(Please tell those gods to quit

pummeling. CLOSE/CLOSE/CLOSE

PARENTHESES. Noon whistles, and he eats alone each day (“he’s in good company”). Am I if not the fox, at least the raven?

Pass

a giant through an electron. No hay cami-

nos, hay que caminar. (e.g.) (i.e.)

(n.b.) (The village idiot was, of course, a wise fool, in the best literary tradition. A former butcher, he returned airily deranged after years of internment in a Nazi prison. In his madder moments he would introduce us to his hundreds of children – the flowers in his garden with whom he would carry on long, if incoherent, conversa-

tions) … O baryons bar-

yons, and you, too, my dear dark matter, in one of Anderson’s tales there’s a picture-book costs “half a kingdom.” In it, everything (the head … on the night table, like a ranunculus …) is cheerfully vomiting. Naturally I kept my promise with regard to the AyAyAy*. There was no ←↑→↓, but no ↔↕ either.

An iris rots in a vase above the fireplace. Each comma ticks like sleet against a windowpane.

Or if not the raven: some infinitely stuttering thing, like a traveler who’s never before been in an airport?

“Humble is the charity of early mornings. Everything that happens then must happen: to you, to me, to the whole world.” There is

no name for the earthquake that threw the all the words

off their pedestals. How do they do it, with no external organs? The weather, too, it is and isn’t. Ergo, vis-à-vis, we ascertain that that thing in the mirror is closer to life than appears

& the participants studied the internal ceremonial code

analogy is “universe”/is “current had tangled”/is “esoteric venture”/is “menagerie prescience”/is “teacup, a strange desire”/is “tabulation”/is “restitution”/is “once a meaty quark”/is “any part of her nutrient”/is “recondite”/is “porta principalis sinistra”/is “phenomena meme text”/is “verbal oral clarity”/is “metabolism”/is “calibrated spiral cortical synchrony striatum integral melatonin”/is “my light of new millennium don’t abandon me here”/is “last chance estuary pineal break”/is “nucleus cycle pigment blood”/is “wavelength light pause”

Hand
out bread.
Eavesdrop politely on

the
bright converse
of yellow-flowered

grasses.
Talk to
the birds in

their
own languages.
My body knew

I
was anchored
to your bodies.

Bread
is needed.
You know what

I
mean by
bread. Lissen up:

If you poke two holes in a piece of clay
          It begins to stare at you
If you drop to your knees in front of the sea
          It washes all over you
If you spread your arms wide on top of a hill
          They will call you an angel

Everyone is falling and we all begin to rust
Everyone is wrapped in shadow

If you fall on your face
          You will stay where you have fallen
If you fall on your side
          You will stay where you have fallen
If you fall on your back
          You will stay where you have fallen
If you stand up straight
          You will stay where you have fallen

Is there a man alive who believes in his erection?

It is very hot inside this suit
There is no work to do inside this suit
There are no books to read inside this suit
I cannot eat an apple inside this suit

Lead           Snow           Concrete          Silence

No face no mouth
No mouth no tongue
No tongue no words

The air is full of no words

If you poke two holes in a piece of clay
          You will hear them

Psych!

Not.

You
decide. I
am only thinking

of
the journey
I did not

take.
Who is
this fucking “I”?

Nothing’s
personal, but
still, zip on

those
legs, anything
you do, smells

alike,
but still,
a wonderful first

kiss,
as in
those movies, one

long
grin, everybody’s
great. Psych, not,

you
decide … someone
told me recently

he
has two
rules when he

teaches
people to
write: no one

cries,
no one
dies. So why

does
this “I”
need to say

“… helpless, as blue roses are helpless …”
“… so fragile
“Honey scorched our lips …”
“… why
“are my hands shaking I should know better …”

and
It lasts
all day? (Cf.

means
‘compare’ &
‘leads to useful,

interesting,
or related
material that is

not,
however, essential
to an understanding

of
the meaning’)
The world is

round
& falling
down & don’t

look
at me
counting nineteen humans

plus
eight trees
reading Anne Waldman’s

Manatee/
Humanity did
this to me.

That,
& having
two ribs out

of
place. Each
reader writes the

text
and no
one steps into

the
same crosswalk
twice. I continue

shrinking.
I am
taller, taller by

far.
When you
click on the

remote
the whole
picture comes alive.

I
keep a
lot to myself

although
as you
say. Is not

a
good shit
a true pleasure?

Are
not these
houses a form

of
dis ease?
Will the seagull

eat
peanut butter?
What was it

that
arrived implicitly?
“O my stone

God
quicksand Eternity!”
“When I came

across
it on
the piano …” At

the
end, X,
you were so

small,
playing with
a stone on

your
bedspread at
the edge of

the
ocean. A
language of one

consonant,
a vowel,
various as any,

[Note: Sources: a mashup of “Autopoiesis CXCII” and “Autopoiesis CLXXXII”; Anne Waldman, Manatee/Humanity; Peter Jaeger, Eckhart Cars, in The Reality Street Book of Sonnets (ed. Jeff Hilson); Elizabeth Willis, “Constable’s Day Off”, “The Tree of Personal Effort”, in American Hybrid (eds. Cole Swensen and David St John); David Antin, “Yamaguchi”, in Selected Poems: 1963-1973; JBR, “The Sculptors II (homage to Anthony Gormley)”, “I Still Don’t Know What Came Over Me” (quoting Ted Berrigan), in The Beautiful Distractions; Noah Eli Gordon, “The Area of Sound Called the Subtone”, in The Area of Sound Called the Subtone; Kelvin Corcoran, “Seeing Hilton”, in Roger Hilton’s Sugar; Ted Greenwald, “Anyway”, in 3; Ronald Johnson, “The Different Musics”, in To Do As Adam Did: Selected Poems; Bernadette Mayer, “Max Carries the One”, in The Bernadette Mayer Reader; Ron Silliman, blurb for Gil Ott, Public Domain; Gil Ott, “Figures”, in Public Domain; Martha Ronk, “In the Vicinity” 27, “Closer to My Natural Voice”, in In a Landscape of Having to Repeat; Ron Silliman, Sunset Debris, The Chinese Notebook, in The Age of Huts (compleat); Jean Valentine, “The Child Jung”, “Coltrane, Syeeda’s Song Flute” (quoting John Coltrane), “X”, in Door In the Mountain]

FCF 66

“... and
what divination
will rhetorize the

oppositorum /
attract the
needed nightshade / counter

pull
assume high
produce / to be

revered
osteo”? “No
curve to infinity

can
mimic bells”.
“Frogleaps suture kismet

vines”.
Start
the box step

waltz
of four,
“lubrication-lit”, so

much
for my
vocation as a

weather
gal. It’s
the kind of

California town that cares lovingly for its old Mission-style whitewashed courtyards, red-tiled patios, and agave plants. It caters to tourists and promotes an international flavor. Most of its service workers live in Salinas and Seaside (on the outskirts, in other words). This piece was probably as tall as a person, done quickly by an obviously experienced hand, who didn’t try to get fancy or cute; just clean lines, all attitude, nothing extra. An artist. The spray-painted text read “BE GOOD,” in front of two toothy cartoon characters who looked a bit cynical, like they didn’t quite believe it. I had been listening to a radio report on the CIA torture memos. Will the graffiti be there tomorrow? Will we be good? Wish I had a camera. Reading the flow of “tweets” at Twitterfall, Benjamin’s words came to my mind: “where we perceive a chain of events, he sees one single catastrophe which keeps piling wreckage upon wreckage ...”

The
dotted line
barks back to

restooge
our rights
/ slash / PRISTINA -- / slash /

you,
the human
labor saving device,

/ slash /
solar-powered
shit-manufactory / slash /

/ slash /
Culture, please --
massive doses of

dog
tranquilizer -- dash
dash            dash dash

whats looking at me
Form Form Form
one hard Cor after another
bleeding harp
Skin-sac(k)(x)s
o
Ff***
asterisk asterisk asterisk,

“Every
heart vibrates
to that iron

string.”
I’m walking
against the wind –

with
all its
particulates – making my

throat
catch – and
my eyes tear –

“paratexts
without texts
do exist, if

only
by accident.”
Fluorescent, incandescent, and sunlight.

We
are historical,
he thinks, but

we
don’t live
in history. Yes,

there
are records
of this, but

we
are not
in the records.

A
particular is
not a singularity.

Silhouettes
they arrived
in trenchant cut

as
apparition, majestic
in evocativeness, evocativity.

Evoking.
‘You and
I are pretty

as
the morning’ –
the cheap pages

crumbling
already after
so little time,

the:
grass: it:
slends: spread of:

strokes
a: “suth.
pitted.light.stream.”

To
“forks of
ponders”. The most

averse
might stand
accused as the

most
acquiescent. “We”/
”our” is a

formulation
typical of
reminiscence. This sentence

could
be read
two different ways

as
confirming the
impression. yeah, i’d

like,
like, a
ray of light

and
a side
of historic distortion.

Can
you Supersize
that with a

microrobot in the language of the bees, for a bee audience, in a semi-functional, semi-fictional dance? Can you position atoms precisely and create molecules to spell words? Can you give these molecular words expression in plants and let them grow new words through mutation? Can you observe and smell the molecular grammatology of the resulting flowers?

We’ve been here before, a million years ago when there were paintings on the walls that represented time zero to 10^-43 second and the temperature was supercalos standing in a line. The rope ladder we used then is still isotropic.

Everything you have heard is true enough and none of it looks all wrong. We leave the café with a universe the size of a grapefruit (peeled) fizzing in a paper bag. The costumes are the lights are champagne on a night you will never forget,

a brazen harph and

the dirt and grass sat in the air glowing and splattin mud packs to the ground and sides. Too damn hot to touch. I spent the night looking at the thing, which ceased to glow within

minutes
but looked
larger by daylight,

bat
swill below
the fever along

the
nerve of
the Apocalyptic Poetics

old
style: we
stopp for Famous

Recipe
prestressed rubber
ooze and oze

(translation:
the erudite
music messes with

our
desire). Backlit
dust of unencumbered

stars
at plinth
of noon; what

matters
velvets. (I
think         its        clear

that
we've         dedededede
(I        think         its

clear
that the light inverts itself pretends to be the light, the green

of
the door
casts an unpleasant

glow
over

the
green in
the photo of

the
cups.

this is a poor and sleepless poem –
fetal and fetal-field, more importations of human plasmatic neoplasm organism
                                                           into
programs of restructuration, retaining and amplifying abject deconstruction.
but heard nothing more than wailing or sounds like an animal -
nothing of crying, just tattered sound –

just
interior narratologies
abject/purified narratologies and emanent interactions
abjected/purified contents of dis/ease, dis/order, ecstasy, ekstasis,
catatonia, defuge, death/immobility, sexuality, speech/murmured/
whispered/cried/screamed, body formed/deformed
tantric/middleway theoretics

as
extreme as
a worn &

fractured
bank-note,
crown head refracture

in
vanilla filth
up to its

just
another puckered
asshole / slash / caught

fingering
the moon.
“It is very

strange
to be
an agapanthus and

not
a philodendron” –
that’s the epigraph

to
“From Parmenides
to Alenka Zupančič”,

and
that’s all
I’ve been getting

at
for the
last 350 pages.

Well,
not exactly
all. NO INPUT

FILE
SPECIFIED. I
install a site

specific
version of
the Menstrual Quipu:

28
streams of
blood colored fleece.

In
the Andes,
unspun wool is

cosmic
energy, pure
potential. “Don’t sell

the
glaciers, water
is gold.” Stare,

stare --
nothing there.
Camp. Earth. House.

Poof!
said the
beak. Not a

ripple.
It is
not thy duty

to
complete the
work, nor art

thou
free to
desist from it.

                      -Pirke Avot

“Prepared music is an arrogance…”

That moment before naming the

Object you remember the object

Its function then recall what it's called and

So childlike joy at meeting something completely new.

[Note: Sources: Otoliths email ad for Scott Glassman and Sheila E. Murphy, Quaternity, received 23 Apr 2009, 20:20:46 +1000; Jean Vengua, “weather”, at Okir, 23 Apr 09; Ernesto Priego, “Waterfall of Consciousness”, at Never Neutral, 22 Apr 09. From here on it’s a mashup of bits from the authors found at EPC, one from each letter of the alphabet. See EPC for links. Bruce Andrews, “Mistaken Identity”; Caroline Bergvall, “Cogs”, from GOAN ATOM (part 1); R W Emerson, “Self-Reliance”, as quoted in Maxine Chernoff, “Self-Reliance”; Craig Dworkin, “Trotsky’s Hammer”; Gérard Genette, Seuils, as quoted in Craig Dworkin, “Textual Prostheses”; Jerry Estrin, “Rome, A Mobile Home”; Raymond Federman, “Here on the Balcony”; Barbara Guest, “An Emphasis Falls on Reality”; Lee Harwood, “Linen”; P. Inman, Vel (the two bits in quotes and the to are from Joan Retallack’s blurb); Elizabeth James, “‘Our violent times’: reading notes” (on Alice Notley); Adeena Karasick, “What Have You Done With My Kabbalah?”; Eduardo Kac, “Biopoetry”; Michele Leggott, ‘salto, salto, where are your shoes?”; Gustave Morin (?), in collaboration with (?) labial d. frenley, Sanjay Dichotomy & Mazen Jabera, “The Last Spike part V: The meteor”; not A L Nielsen, whose work I was looking for, but Tony Quagliano, “Benjamin Latrobe in New Orleans”, which appears next to ALN’s stuff in Tinfish 5; A L Nielsen, “Route J”, “Route S”, “Route A”, from Evacuation Route: A User’s Guide; Jena Osman, “flag of my disposition”; a slightly mangled Babel Fish translation of “La musique savante manque à notre désir.”, which is the epigraph to, and bits from stanzas 5 and 7 (to = my lucky 57) of, Ted Pearson, “Descant”; Meredith Quatermain, “Matter 4: Organic in-organs”; Joan Retallack, “Family Guide to the Splendors of”; Soledia Ríos, “A Gust Disperses the Limits of Home” (tr. Aviva Cristy); email from Omo Bob, rec’d as just this moment of composition, 24 Apr 09, 9:47 a.m.; Alan Sondheim, “elegy for Boojum, our companion cat, we are all poor,”, untitled blog post of 24 Dec 07, “outline of emanent research”; Elizabeth Treadwell, “Gentry”, “Doily Construct School of Itself”; Ana Maria Uribe, “From Parmenides to J.P. Sartre”; Cecilia Vicuña, text related to El Quipu Menstrual; Fred Wah, “ArtKnot Thirty Six”; epigraph to Karl Young, Milestones, Set 1 (1970-1973); Nikos Vassilakis, Disparate Magnets: Book of Poems, at BlazeVOX, link provided by email from NV, 21 Apr 09 7:44 p.m., in re: this just-published title]

FCF 65

          Knock
hard. Life is

deaf.
We are
thrown to the

ground,
literally swept
away by a

god’s
hunt. Desire
is in reality

the
instant when
the sky wants

to
lower itself
so deeply down

that
bodies disintegrate
into themselves. Did

Aristotle
ever have
a job? You

are
burned all
over. Cold cold

warmer
warmer hot.
Dancing singing howling

chirping
squawking we
dream-reforest the

earth.
The monkey
laughs. No, this

frame-
up is
not unparalleled. The

dolphin
laughs. Time
grows short. It

is
all or
nothing. How does

one
downfall advise
the next? It

would
be better.
I don’t know

what
would be
better. I gather

my
severed heads.
Deeper in the

mountains,
in the
Valley of Marvels,

a
seemingly infinite
number of drawings

and
engravings – maps,
beasts, beings, and

moons –
animate the
rock. The rock

laughs.
And there
appeared unto me

a
woman with
chains upon her

wrists,
riding on
a bicycle; and

in
her hands
a banner bearing

these
words: yet
these things happen.

OK.
Bon chance.
And travail diligent.

There
is no
wolf, of course –

I
heard it.
And and and.

I’m
like totally
OK (in a

medicate-
me sort
of way) with

a
little uneasiness.
There is a

boat
that goes
where the mouth

is.
And and.
And I said

oh-
oh-wo-
oh-wo-oh-

wo.
And the
Bay was named

Disenchantment,
and from
20 miles out

you
could hear
the glacier calf.

        1) What do you hate most?
        2) What do you love most?
        3) What do you want most?
        4) What do you fear most?

What I
want most
is “sunshine tonight”.

“Frico.
Frico” sang
the peacock. I

see
the sad
dark face of

the
wounded man
as the arm

is
amputated.
Whoa. A rush.

I
am all
my temptations and

each
and every
one of them.

Is
it not
possible that the

cortex
might have
a real and

positive
function, like
footprints, which are

face
to face
with the sidewalk

as
well as
the raqiya` (firmament)?

Say
it and
peel off that

gray
iguana skin
mask. When I

say
images I
mean we will

rent
a room
in the house

of
meat and
muddled languages where

the
moon is
stretched out across

the
sky as
on a wheel

and
beaten, where
no cats =

no
bumblebees =
no clover, where

it’s
not the
end of the world

tho
I no
longer want anguish

after
6 p.m.
I mean I

don’t
really say
images when I

say
images. And
the earth spins

round
humming and
something eats at

our
soft spots,
I mean it’s

like
we spend
our lives ironing

an
ancient iron
with a new

sock.
But the
lid keeps rattling,

yes,
yes, it’s
a terrible thing

that
we must
kill no one.

What
makes us
moan and fall

to
our knees?
Courage! I don’t

mean
have courage,
I mean it

is
courage … oh.      {from that dawn and night on the Nile

space

where all ends in a beginning

…

an unpremeditated pentacle of erotic song.

[“Passionate Ornithology Is Another Kind of Yoga”]}

well. Let us

all
laugh together*;           *and yes, it’s true, our laughter
we’ll have to                 will have to be historicized

make
a broth
and smear honey

on
the bed;
clothespins must be

worn
all night,
etcetera; I love

this
flower which
has no innocence.

[Note: Source: Surrealist Women: An International Anthology (ed. Penelope Rosemont), working both ends towards the middle. Mimi Parent; Renee Gauthier, “Dream I am in a field …” (tr. Myrna Bell Rochester) (a god’s hunt = “those enormous, deafening noises of men and monstrous beasts that pass over in the sky on a certain date in the year. When you hear them, you must lie on the ground on your stomach and plug up your ears.”); Kasja Bergh, “Desire” (tr. Bruno Jacobs); paraphrase of an observation made by Fanny Beznos, in “I Go, the Wind Pushing Me Along” (tr. Myrna Bell Rochester); Lenka Valachová, “The Sterile Dish” (tr. Katerina Piňosová); paraphrase of part of Suzanne Muzard’s answer to the 2nd question of an inquiry on love (tr. Guy Ducornet); Gina Lutherland, “Imagination and Wilderness”; Nancy Cunard, “The Scottsboro Case”; Penelope Rosemont, “Revolution by Chance”; Meret Oppenheim, “Where Is the Wagon Going?” (tr. Catherine Schelbert); Alice Rahon, “Despair” (tr. Myrna Bell Rochester); Valentine Penrose, “To a Woman To a Path” (trs. Roland Penrose and Valentine Penrose); Rikki Ducornet, “Manifesto In Voices”; Sheila Legge, “I Have Done My Best For You”; Penelope Rosemont, ‘Revolution by Chance”; email sent to students, re: a library assignment, by Mary Hi-Kyung Song, 15 Apr 09, 12:10 p.m. (not in Rosemont); Mary Low, “Where the Wolf Sings”; a riff run on Laurence Iché’s line, “I prefer your uneasiness”, from “I Prefer Your Uneasiness Like a Dark Lantern …” (tr. Myrna Bell Rochester); Sonia Sekula, “Womb”; a riff run on Jayne Cortez’s “Bumblebee, You Saw Big Mama”, a memory version of a Janis Joplin moan, Joplin covering Big Mama Thornton’s “Ball and Chain” (Big Mama Thornton was the first live blues musician I ever saw. I haven’t been the same since); Emmy Bridgwater, “The Birds, (Three)”; “What Do You Hate Most”, a “surrealist inquiry” that 1st appeared in Savoir Vivre (ed. René Magritte, 1946); Irène Hamoir, answer to Savoir Vivre’s question #3 (tr. Penelope Rosemont); Edith Rimmington, “The Growth At the Break”; Carmen Bruna, “Moi-Même” (tr. Natalie Kenvin); Leonora Carrington, “What Is a Woman?”, “The Cabbage Is a Rose” (firmament’s the usual English translation of the Hebrew raqiya`); Jayne Cortez, “Say It”; Jacqueline Johnson, “Taking a Sight 1951”; Nancy Joyce Peters, “To the Death of Mirrors”; Rikki Ducornet, “My Special Madness”; Jacqueline Senard, “Cat = Clover” (tr. Myrna Bell Rochester); Isabelle Meyrelles, “I will tell you during the walk …” (tr. Guy Ducornet); Joyce Mansour, “Into the Red Velvet” (trs. Peter Wood and Guy Flandre); Marianne van Hirtum, “While we spend our lives ironing …” (trs. Peter Wood and Guy Flandre); Anneliese Hager, “Automatic Dream” (tr. Miriam Hansen); Joyce Mansour, “A Mango” (tr. Mary Beach); Blanca Varela, “Dance Card” (tr. Natalie Kenvin); Sonia Sekula, “Notes From A Journal”; Philip Lamantia, “Passionate Ornithology Is Another Kind of Yoga”, as quoted in Franklin Rosemont, “Poetry as Revolutionary Praxis: Philip Lamantia & the Surrealist Movement in the United States”, at InterActivist Info Exchange (not in Rosemont); riff on Vladimir Propp, epigraph (“Laughter … is a reflex that characterises man alone and has its own history … We do not laugh now as people once laughed … a definition [of the comic and of laughter] can be only historical.”), in Stephen Halliwell, Greek Laughter (not in Rosemont) (Halliwell notes that the assertion that laughter can only be attributed to humans is controversial);; paraphrase of Remedios Varo, “A Recipe: How to Produce Erotic Dreams” (tr. Walter Gruen). i.m. Franklin Rosemont]

FCF 64

It
constitutes a
meditation that says

the
Cameroonian stink
ant gets infected

by
spores of
a parasitic fungus

during
its climb;
it’s one of

the
very few
ants capable of

emitting
a cry
audible to humans,

text
by Slavoj
Zizek. The question

is,
where is
the common ground

we
need to
get to, beyond

ego,
beyond ambition,
to reach the

floods,
the dance
of hands, our

first
language, so
what if one

of
us once
thought, “Mere existence

is
so much
better than nothing,

one
would rather
exist even in

pain.”
So what
if flies, I

have
my own
view, and an

extra
blade of
grass. Love arrays

this
heel below
the card. How

can
love leap
upon death? Love

opposes
the cult
into the shocking

broadcast.
Death migrates
underneath love. The

converter
completes love
beneath the studio.

Why
won’t love
honor a curtain?

SOUT                     MAPARD              GRANTACHIN
BRAPHIS
ASING                    HANITOWN         LINGE
LINUHA
LIVOIREALIC           IRAZIL                ISEN
INFORD
EURAZIL                 DEPARCTBOOL    ESTACAST
IKITOWA
HARATEN                DUSSIA               ISEMAR
EFFORLDWIST
HANGHDãD             AMERROUTH       ARGESCRID
SAMBAD
SOURROUTH           WUHAKA             BATSONGAPONS
SAMERLISSEMOSUS
EFFORTA                 HERIATOWINA     CHINGAPE
SALOMADA
ORIGHTENT            CAPHINGGINA     GERE
JASPS
KINGE                     TURCTINSUS       FRAPARAPS
TIMENSHICO
EHANGAPE              AMERMAV           SHINGER
BOGNINAM
MOSULANGO           BUENESIAN         ÕSAN
THINOWING
ITANDONSHI            NORONTE           ARGELBOUT
OYADESPOROM
MINA                       CHINADH           ATHIC
GUANIFU
FRALLAS                  AMENEY            ESTARAN
DAHONS
OMISHINAM              ALMAR              CONDS
MAPARE
DISSEROCCO            STASHI              NAMPLICAL
HARALISCRIVADA
ORICATED                MAKAN             UNLOADA
ARANTO
NAMEDINA               PERS                 DATE
RAKIST
KARID                     OYANIZED          MOSHI
USAN
CHILK                     REQUIDE            CHATIC
FRAPHINTRA
INDONERMAR           LARTMES            ANKARTMERIGINA
MUKED
PAULANILATIC          PETENEZUELLAS MEXICATIC
KONTRIPPLINA
UNIFE                      GROPIA              NIGHTED
TOKARAZIL
BRAL                       SURECE             MONGALVAIN
OYAKUTH

OKAYUTH
OKAY
OKAY

a
hodgepodge of
little shrines line

the
road in,
along the water:

you
never know
how the blood's

going
to appear, the
[FUCK FUCK FUCK]

longest
song bends,
having lived through

it
the flesh
knows, an Egyptian

court
has banned
a journal for

running
a poem
likening God to

a
villager who
feeds ducks and

milks
cows. Elsewhere,
an anonymous voice

calls
out, “Hey,
my avatar’s not

working!,”
llyllylly, zykotic,
Wharn ompiallo yeorem

helmth
lascade. Lopious
qualmishion demagogo platation.

Ewebabble
din’t rejict
azzle-addled endglyph.

Tetrum
swalter obrastic,
podgy shidrick subpremely

gumptatious.
Mulljam plumn.
There are no

dogs
near the
dentist’s office due

to
the pitch
of the drills.

There
is only
my djinni to

lead
me through
the loud exhibitionism

of
the wasting
water roman-style,

cool
chalky water
I’m letting it

flow,
I’m in
science road by

the
sandstone devil
fountain that spouts

a
trickle, I
am a cedar

mask,
devouring my
own tongue, I

close
the space
between my teeth

with
[melting] permafrost.
From this I

will
heave forth
the Brooks Range,

leech
my ears
into the shape

of
whale flukes,
mount my face

to
the white
wall of a

gallery.
I will
settle down to

give
you this
tight bundle of

charts
and maps
to find me

not
in unnatural
shapes but in

bear
grease.

[Note: Sources: some of the links provided by Ron Silliman, at Silliman’s Blog, 13 Apr 09, and products of a couple random generators. Murat Nemet-Nejat, review of Kent Johnson, Homage to the Last Avant-Garde, at Rain Taxi, Spring 09; Michael Rumaker, interview with Leverett T. Smith, Jr., at Rain Taxi, Spring 09; Samuel Johnson, as quoted in J M Coetzee, “The Making of Samuel Beckett”, at New York Review of Books, 30 Apr 09; Mahmoud Darwish, “Words”, “I Come From There”, in S.K. Pande, “Salute to Poet Darwish”, at Mainstream Weekly, 12 Apr 09; generator at Creativity Tools Random paragraph generator; word generator at Nexi.com; G C Giscombe, “Giscome Road”, Jennifer Moxley, “In One Body and One Soul”, in Barbara Berman, “‘American Hybrid’ - an anthology of poetry”, at SFGate, 12 Apr 09; ynetnews.com 8 Apr 09; Tim Griffin, and Rae Armantrout, in Griffin’s “Liberal Mediation” (a review of Armantrout’s Versed), at bookforum, Apr/May 09; Geof Huth and mIEKAL aND, Texistence, as quoted by Steven Fama, who has arranged the pwoermds Wharn … plumn into sentences, in “How the heck did I miss this one?”, at the glade of theoric ornithic hermetica, 12 Apr 09; Jeramy Dodds, “Moorhen”, as quoted by Chris Hutchinson at Lemon Hound, 9 Apr 09; Djelloul Marbrook, “Sinistral”, as quoted in Brent Robison, “Story in the Spaces: Brent Robison reviews Far From Algiers by Djelloul Marbrook”, at Gently Read Literature, 1 Apr 09; Pam Brown, “In Europe”, as quoted in Gregory Bem’s review of Brown’s True Thoughts, at Rain Taxi, Spring 09; Cathy Rexford & dg okpik, as quoted in “Cathy Rexford & dg okpik”, at Still North Reading & Performance Series, 9 Apr 09]

FCF 63

It has
ruby chips in

its
eyes! Do
you name it

as
you see
it           now                or

as
you witnessed
it           here? There

are
two different
landscapes both evenly

lit.
His behaviour
is beginning to

attract
attention. I
have not yet

spoken
a word
about the great

uh,
sometimes, yes,
okay, but, what

a
day for
people getting struck

by
lightning as
the sea boils

up.
There’s always
time for a

crisis.
Each sphere
suggests the globe

and
its relatives:
heads, eyes, eggs.

In
retrospect,
I think that

I
did have
a real self.

Of sorts.

Family
is hand.
Sentences make time

go
straight. Listen,
someone is having

a
gas. And
if there must

be
clarity, let
it be opaque,

like
mask and
meat in the

impasto
of pus.
ooh        whee                ooh        ooh        whee

apple on the tree
in the factory

DO YOU DIP YOUR BEAK
in the vast black lily
of the of?

I
refuse to
wait for immaculate

healing
and dislike
cruelty, I take

exception
to the
rule that says

I
may not
love you forever

because
that’s too
long a time

for
a mortal
human, the mural

of
truth mimics
the horizon, burning

in
a hedge,
because truth is

a
name for
a thing and

if we were

awake

it would be worse.

New
keyboard lacks
cents sign, round

to
the nearest
verb. The hairy

centipede
scampers
across the floor,

quiet
as the
thought of it.

Dirt
is sexy.
Scar in the

wall
where once
a phone jack.

Your
face like
fish, rabbits, dropped

into
a mailbox.
In the chapter

called
“Flower Thieves”
I read, “Ah

there’s
blood running
all over them,”

she
said, and
began to tremble

without
knowing why.
Having seen, she

felt
at once
as if she

had
known all
along. The very

memory
of her
former ignorance faded …

OH!!!!!

“The waters are best”, said one;
“fire is best”, said another;
one commended the thunderbolt (?) to many;
(but) speaking the truth, you carved the (gods’) chalice.

UNDERSTAND ME??

Promote
the Love.
It ain’t no

sin
to be
glad you’re alive,

chained
to the
sky, supervermilion uranium

rays
coming out
of your eyes

and
a sodium
blaze and electric

stain
coming out
of your ass

while
wonder ignites
your wishes; didn’t

Byron
wear metallic
sepia lipstick when

he
took his
utterly unheimlich flea

bit
mixed up
muh-muh-muh-

muh
monkey to
Europe? Is there

anything
more enticing
than a hectic

flush?

Dot

Dot

Dot

Safe and sound. By good luck, it is that i hear before, and he had said nothing of crossing the hi! You fellows on the stage! Have you forgotten his home. He is an observer of the austerest vows. The conclusion of that period they heard these a bundle no longer, but in his pocket just fifteen with lord strathern the propriety of setting traps of the panchalas and the princes of the vrishni snipes and curlews. in the meantime the sailors the coolio thirst. I wet myself. i pour in cup death. He had pondered these matters wearily till i am, i cannot be a fit wife for thee! What joy.

This has something to do with giving your partner multiple orgasms.

[Note: Sources: Chelsey Minnis, “The Skull Ring”, “Supervermilion”, “Baby Vamp”, in Zirconia; Diane Ward, “Naming the Baby”, in Flim-Yoked Scrim; Richard Makin, Rift Designs, “X”, “XII”, “XIV”, “XIX”, “XXI”, “XXII”, “XXIII”, in The Reality Street Book of Sonnets (ed. Jeff Hilson); C D Wright, “Animism”, in American Hybrid (eds. Cole Swensen and David St John); Rebecca Solnit, “The Foundation: Dirt”, and Katherine Anne Porter, as quoted in “Backward Glance: Flower Thieves”, in Solnit’s As Eve Said to the Serpent: On Landscape, Gender, Art; Rae Armantrout, True; Allen Bramhall, Days Poem Volume 1, “76)”; Clayton Eshleman, “Winding Windows”, “Meditation on Marwan’s Faces”, in Hades in Manganese; Robert Grenier, “EARLY MIDDLE AGE, “SEE”, in Phantom Anthems; Mary Kasimor, “the factory trees”, in silk string arias; Michael McClure, “HUMMINGBIRD ODE”, “ODE”, “TO THE LOVE-LISTENER”, in Little Odes & The Raptors; Ron Padgett, “Exceptions to the Rule”, in You Never Know; Elizabeth Robinson, “As Betokening”, “Mendicant”, in Harrow; Ron Silliman, “Non”, “Oz”, in The Alphabet; Geof Huth, “In the Merry Old Land of the Second Half of N/O [/] + A + B + C + D + E + F + G + H + I + J + K + L + M + N + O + [/] Considering Ron Silliman’s The Alphabet: “Oz””, at dbqp, 29 Sept 08; Rosmarie Waldrop, “Photo”, “No Apples Here”, in Love, Like Pronouns; Rig Veda 1. 161. 9, as quoted in M L West, Indo-European Poetry and Myth; Sharon Mesmer, “Café Ennui”, in Half Angel, Half Lunch; Diane Ward, “Home Maps: A Rough Sketch”, in Portraits and Maps; Tarot, comment in re: Jean Vengua, “!!!!SIGH!!!!!”, at Okir, 10 Apr 09; JBR, comment appended to Tarot’s; Rolling Stones, “Monkey Man”; email rec’d just at this point in composition]

FCF 62

Nothing.
Only silence.
And that ambient

electric
hum vibrating
each wall in

the
city everywhere
and at all

times,
a reverb
that masks what

[we
suspect to]
lie within, what

we
strain to
hear, what would

give
us the
answer to the

trolley
problem. “Take
giant surfaces, conceived

as
infinite, cloak
them in color,

twist
and push
them around menacingly,

disfigure
their smooth
shamefulness. Bend

and
turbulate.” In
the era of

the
draining of
the Nether Blob.

There
is nothing
‘unconscious’ in the

‘latent
dream-thought’.
I was reading

Smoke
and I
called it Ghost.

There
is nothing
‘unconscious’ in the

‘latent
dream-thought’.
As he stepped

into
the alleyway
behind the club

for
a breath
of fresh air,

a
menacing figure
suddenly loomed before

him,
wielding a
knife and demanding

his
money. His
spontaneous response was

to
start reciting
the “Ur Sonata”.

One
tends to
love a story

like
that [sic].
I just returned

from
several months.
And the day

I
returned I
had iguana eggs

for
breakfast, airline
pretzels for lunch

and
a $7
shot of Jack

for
dinner at
the Houston Airport,

entering
the country
shoeless, holding up

my
pants because
they don’t let

old
men wear
suspenders through security,

well,

Springtime, that tattered gray moon
Etched out the door, timed for this pinkish vestige like some

Calculation; in sync, how the night
and the grid is, on the heels of dallying light

such a beast            its shimmering veils, trailing behind

“In my dream, I remember hearing a sheet of paper falling to the floor,”

I
remember everything
and it’s all

wrong,
i.e. this
is the real

morning
and not
the other. It

is
a meadow
and tho I’m

old
& dry,
only the healing

imagination
has animals
in it. A

tiny
manila envelope
with three altered

metro
tickets in
it. So Anton

calls
Sigismund. Sigi
doesn’t answer. Doc

says,
can you
not call to

him?
Does he
lack reason? Anton:

he
knows Latin
and runs through

a
stout book
as if it

were
a flitch
o’ bacon. But

don’t
upset him,
he has a

horse
bone weapon.
I HAVE NO

SKY.
They lay
in wait. Any

picture
suggests a
whole world. The

box
effects change
by shuffling up

the
molecules. It
is theoretically possible

that
the grammatical
sequence “you just

never
quite know”
will assemble itself

during
the performance …
“you know” “quite

just”
“never never”.
By the middle

1990s
Barbie’s body
was made in

China
using molds
from the United

States,
machine parts
from Europe and

Japan,
and plastic
from Taiwan. Dust

walks
across the
surface and is

bound
in glue
to it. Contamination

striates,
as a
kind of lovely

virus.

[Note: For Chuck Richardson.

Sources: Chuck Richardson, Smoke; Judith Jarvis Thompson, “The Trolley Problem”, in Deontology (ed. Stephen Darwall); Kurt Schwitters, from Merz, in pppppp (eds. Jerome Rothenberg and Pierre Joris); Reza Negarestani, Cyclonopedia (NB = oil); Slavoj Zizek, The Sublime Object of Ideology; Jerome Rothenberg/Pierre Joris, “Introduction” to pppppp; Joe Bageant, “Escape from the Zombie Food Court”, at Deer Hunting With Jesus; Jared Schickling, “(to get behind a machine”), in Aurora; Christophe Casamassima, “Sixteen Cages”, at Triplopia, v.4 no.2; Peter Gizzi & Elizabeth Willis, Song Out of Mind; Robert Seydel, 5 Hares & 3 Ruths, from The Book of Saul. The envelope w/the tix is from Siglio Ephemera #2, as is the Gizzi/Willis and the Seydel. a paraphrase of a bit from Hugo von Hofmannsthal, The Tower (tr. Alfred Schwarz), in The Whole Difference: Selected Writings of Hugo von Hofmannsthal (ed. J D McClatchy); Keith Waldrop, Several Gravities; Hannah B Higgins, The Grid Book; Robert Seydel, “Imagination’s Artifacts: The Art of Keith Waldrop”, in Walrop’s Several Gravities]

FCF 61

... Except for the eyes, you dig? That's the one thing the asshole couldn't do, was see. Perhaps a mummy's best friend is an Egyptologist: “Now I go and drink bad coffee with.” “It was a glass eye. There was a hairline crack down the middle the white pupil of the night sky's ash-colored eye—stuffed with sand, nails and shards of glass, no more flying grannies: Then the day is mine!” [screen reveals a drawing of an eye] You drew a picture of an eye. “His eyes were wild, like those of the South American Andean Condor. With madness eye and candied cane. The children sleep no more. ‘t was a mer-woman with one eye. Get it straight! “Horrible sharp eye.” From assholes to ice-cream cones, “tomato suctions”, Vishnu rolls his eyes as if slowly awakening from a month of, like a wave of green breaking over his eyes. Facing west, the sun behind the diet of sonic photography in light of making my glass eye more versatile and, blue glass, yellow membrillo fruits rotting on a tray, leaning back in the driver’s seat and closing his eyes. Stop right there, asshole. There’s a question of power here. Stir with ice. (A classic “he’s an asshole, but he’s my asshole” exchange), research is a plant only found in a certain part of the jungle- “Yes, I’m a German from South America! But that doesn’t automatically mean my father was a Nazi!” Dusk ended and night fell completely, travestí porn; and demonstrated the fact by asynchronously twirling. It’s forty feet in circumference, weighs 8.7 tons and is 100 percent American ingenuity. With (also a telepathic one) a telepathic guy with his brain in a glass dome for whatever reason; I sit in a rigid half-lotus position atop the glass table and watch the (I can actually read this one without a magnifying glass) a time warp allowing access to the “Fuck you, don’t mess with our future” and “You assholes, messing with.” Keep your eye on the look that corpse in the eye and ask yourself, “Did I support the law that.” A suden her old ass hole puckle her eye ball fell on the flor and one crab said Throw me in the marsh blindfolded—. The second telegraph pole was the site of “Buried alive in glass” and then he looks at me with wild, crazy eyes and cried: ‘i am. el pero: i miss you’ and offering free unlimited pancakes, and a glass of beer each day. They’re staging a load of crushed glass and cyanide glass and chrome and spandex, Let the flaccid, fleshy mushroom with the strange mole be your guide. With a glass eye who lurked around the door asking for gravy and pills. You delegate your beauty down, From dark epicenters of wine glass eyes, To eternally pursed lips. I myself, Speak Latin and French Can prepare Elaborate meals; America is singing, Children are frowning, Old Men are bathing – mountain and fists. And ended the next night with a glass of gasoline (a one-man performance/noise piece revolving around a novel that doesn’t exist). My name is and I’m an Ugly American living on the cusp of. I zip my hoodie and slip on gloves; New World (New U.S. Base, Capital). This ends when Kenny throws a ninja star into Butters’s eye, -- that's a Venn diagram I, to the “rabbit's fur cloud” and “the weird broken teeth of the glass-encased battle flag. Watch the trees, Okay.” “You probably should give a damn” he said softly. And possibly losing, the Century War –. Minor transshipment point. Put the paper on the little glass thing, whatever you call it, you know what that laughter is? The animal heads look down on him, lamplight pooling in their glass eyes. Animal the word is derived from “soul”. He started walking along the road, eyes focused downward. No pieces of glass or plastic that would have shattered on impact with a human body, flamingoes every step I take in this flat mid-western American town. The moon is in the glass. When I lift it, my shadow and me get this dance going. In the outstretched wings of a hawk -- the black wink of a blue eye. With your eyes pissing in the park with your eyes of America taking a fall ... the bits of glass left in your face sparkle beautifully. Blocks of smoldering wood, a gray haze in the eyes. I would diligently feed him, pet him, I don’t remember consciously doing either. Not mine of course. The Latin word of the day is: quaero - to seek, ask. The Suck Monster on the Once behind the tinted glass. I rested my sweaty head against the wheel. Maybe, just maybe, you are the host of a rare, communicable South American mutagenic monkey disease ... Diseases are always from elsewhere, aren’t they?

Anyhow,
as we
were saying, “… regardless

of
what we
are talking about,

Beuys
is everywhere,
Rimbaud is everywhere,

John
Cage is
everywhere, Duchamp is

everywhere,
Walter Benjamin
is everywhere, Lacan

is
everywhere… Heidegger,
Kafka…everywhere…” Oh,

and
that book
I bought yesterday,

w/
all the
time cards: listen

to
this. His
project was one

year
long. He
had to punch

in
on the
hour every hour

24/
7/365.
So he could

never
be more
than an hour

from
his timeclock
(never more than

half
an hour,
really), and he

could
never sleep
more than, say,

58
minutes at
a stretch – fuck.

[Now, as I do this: now, as the light here goes out, for instance. What is the now? Is the now at my disposal? Am I the now? Is every other person the now? Dot Dot Dot Am I the now, or only the one who is saying this?

He dreams this irreplaceable place, Dot Dot Dot.] As soon as

the
morning sun
is high, even

though
debarkation is
not supposed to

take
place until
noon, the passengers

begin
fussing about
the deck. The

miseries
of the
crossing are forgotten.

There
are some
who cannot stop

inhaling
the perfume
of that ever

so
fresh speck
of green, still

off
in the
distance, and others

who
hold up
faded hand mirrors

and,
not having
water, pour light

into
their canvas
wash-basins, for

caring
is profit,
& theories accumulate

across
this surface,
a garden of

effects.
Like dragonflies …
… each tending to

recompose
a previous
flight path … Paradise,

Pound
said, was
real to Dante

because
he saw
it, one tends

to
love a
story like that.

“It’s
as if
we were floor

models
riding conveyor
belts, the floor

passes
beneath us
so effortlessly” “if

only
my feelings
equaled my intellect”

TO
MY DYING DAY,
I will wonder

if
that is
or is not

what
I meant.
I played my

part
in the
Endless War anyway,

shouldered
my spear,
stayed up all

night
in the
Chelsea Hotel, writing

Sad
Eyed Lady
of the Lowlands

for
you, tried
to stay cool

through
all the
jackhammering, the silverware

flashing
in
the sun while

doing
the dishes,
ka-thump, petting the

dog,
ka-thump, playing
I will be

happy
on the
ukulele, ka-thump, and

I
swear, for
whatever it may

or
may not
be worth, I

hardly
speared anyone,
If only I

knew now what I knew
Now

I knew
I knew now what I knew
knew now what I knew
Now
Now
knew now what
Now

Now
I knew now what I knew I knew now what knew now what Now

I knew
only I knew now what I knew knew now what I Now
only I knew now what I now what I knew
Now
If only I knew If only I knew I knew now what I
Now
now what I knew
Now

but Benedi-

cite Anyway, Everything Here Is

Verbing (as Julian of Norwich might

say), aka The White Of Our Noise Me-

ringues Into Peaks, aka A Little Light,

Like A Rushlight, To Lead Back To Splendour,

aka Having Everthing We Need,

We’ll Nevertheless, aka Who Crin-

ges Before That Vasty Shape? aka

Suchness Itself Held In Silent Ventriloquy.

[all mid scenes of “cannibalistic hysteria” in the Assembly, with “cries of ‘Kill! Kill!’ and ‘Let’s see some blood,’ belched forth by trembling old men.]

OK,
but the
museum is full

of
fish, dub
dub in the

riff
riff valley.
And what will

happen
to any of
us? [how “the

atmospheric
or rather
historic pressure / immeasurably

even

if

it

makes

some
words of
mine luxurious.”] As

always,
this road
ends behind us.

For
example Tatlin
**and also bread**

It’s
not snowing
but hey, “Noli

in
Spiritu Combueri”,
the dust in

place,
incomprehensible, the
new place strange,

it
borrows from
the old. Wind

preens
or lusters
the elegant weeds.

“What
causes a
death rattle”, oh

heteronymic
madmad? Je
cherche l’or

du
temps, the
familiar bruise and

each
is the
very one Baudelaire

was
thinking of.
What ultimate dosage?

I
don’t think
that art can

change
the world.
But whose circumstance,

mesi,
mesi, mesi,
is not political?

Joro, Jara, Joro- O Zombie way na one way

Joro, Jara, Joro- O Zombie way na one way

Joro, Jara, Joro- O Zombie way na one way

Joro, Jara, Joro- Ooooh

Atten       tion

Quick march Slow march ZOMBIE

Left turn Right turn ZOMBIE

Double time uh ZOMBIE

Sa-lute yaya ZOMBIE

Open your hat
Stand at ease
Fall in
Fall out
Fall down ZOMBIE

Get ready

Get ready

ZOMBIE

Or-der ZOMBIE ZOMBIE ZOMBIE

Dis      miss

{ffffffaaaaade …………… to ………. hhhhhisssssssss ……… uh

zom      bie …              zom      bie…              zom      bie…}

[Note: For Omo Bob.

Sources: JBR, from glass eye asshole latin american novel; email from Omo Bob to JBR, 5 Apr 09, 9:21 a.m.; email from JBR to Omo Bob, 5 Apr 09, 10:02 a.m., in re: Tehching Hsieh, One Year Performance 1980-1981, as described by Marina Abramović, “When Time Becomes Form”, in Out of Now: The Lifeworks of Tehching Hsieh (ed. Adrian Heathfield); Martin Heidegger, The Concept of Time (tr. William McNeill) and Jacques Derrida, Archive Fever: A Freudian Impression (tr. Eric Prenowitz), as quoted in Adrian Heathfield, “Impress of Time”, in Heathfield; André Breton, “Troubled Waters”, “Bearer with no burden”, “For Madame Suzanne Césaire”, in Martinique/Snake Charmer (tr. David W Seaman); Simon Smith, Night Shift, “2”, “4”, “6”, in The Reality Street Book of Sonnets (ed. Jeff Hilson); Charles Wright, Littlefoot, “32”, in American Hybrid (eds. Cole Swensen and Davit St John); mIEKAL aND, Bystander: An Irreality; JBR, “THREE POEMS FOR ANNY BALLARDINI, EACH MARKING THE FIRST DAYS OF THE THREE MOST RECENT SPRINGS OF THE 21st CENTURY” (“You Asked Me To Admire”, “Title Without A Poem (1st Day Of Spring)”, “Autopoiesis CXXVII”; see Fieralingue, for notes, etc.); Aimé Césaire, Discours sur le colonialisme, “Lagoonal Calendar”, (tr. Colin Dayan?), as quoted in Colin Dayan, “Out of Defeat: Aimé Césaire’s miraculous words”, at Boston Review, and Dayan himself, ibid, who writes “Césaire … [was buried] in the cemetery of La Joyau where he was buried on April 20 after a long journey through the streets of Fort-de-France, lined with tens of thousands, some of whom sang in Creole, “Papa Aimé, mesi” (“Papa Aimé, thank you”), as if he were a god.”; JBR, “After the Flood”, in Nothing Whispering Here; Kelvin Corcoran, “The Empire Stores”, in New and Selected Poems; Noah Eli Gordon, “If you see the straight highway before you …”, in Novel Pictorial Noise; Kent Johnson, “[First interregnum: E-mail from an Architect in Russia [Original formatting kept.]”, in Poetic Architecture; Bernadette Mayer, “A Thursday” and “Winner of the Bad Poem Contest”, in Poetry State Forest (the Latin's from Ed Sanders; Mayer translates it as “refuse to be burnt-out”); Gil Ott, “why fires age …”, “Inversion”, in The Yellow Floor Poems: 1978-1983; Lisa Robertson, “Eclogue One: Honour”, in XEclogue; David Shapiro, “For the Evening Land” (quoting the NY Times), “A Cross for Joseph”, in New and Selected Poems (1965-2006); André Breton, as quoted by Gael Turnbull, “For André Breton One Hundred From His Birth [1896-1996]”, and Turnbull himself, “Transits, A Triptych (3. Sheddings)”, in There are words; Tehching Hsieh, in Heathfield; Fela Kuti, “Zombie”]

FCF 60

Strung
the air
is wine colored.

Your
heavy hairs
are dancing. A

sexual
wave. The
red phoenix tattoos

on
the arms
of a locksmith.

“What
advice would
you give to

a
young poet?”
You can only

be
cured of
imaginary spider bites

by
doing a
ceremonial dance. Stand

in
the center
of the hard

mattress
and pull
the shirt over

your
head. Open
the iridescent. Like

that
time you
entered a room

(the
dead mouse
is a symbol).

May
I borrow
your pencil? Couldn’t

he
didn’t couldn’t
anyone stop? We

always
loved you.
But saved for

what?
“The decisions
about the meat

you
do not
have are not

made
in the
kitchen.” We are

deferential
to
the
snap. And

there
are stars
no one’s heard

from
yet, they
have so far

to
fall / toward
the face foretold.

I begin to wonder whether Alfred Jarry was in fact the author of Shakespeare's plays (this does not throw the authenticity of Shakespeare’s bike riding skill into question; cf. Jarry's Supermale, which actually proves it). From a blog called The Eastside View:

“Ubu Roi is probably the oldest Absurdist play to hold the stage—though now that I type that I realize there’s nothing Absurdist about it; it’s simply a totally realistic, moralistic, objective updating of just about any Shakespeare historical play.

Ubu, fat, stupid, and utterly without morals, overthrows the Polish king, converts the national phynancial system into pure personal gain, taxes the peasants to death, and ultimately takes on the Whole Russian Army. At one point he announces his agenda in the tersest of terms:

Avec ce système j’aurai vite fait fortune, alors je tuerai tout le monde et je m’en irai.

(Thank you, Project Gutenberg.)

(With my system, I’ll soon be rich, then I’m gonna kill everybody, then I’m going away).

You can see that, like Shakespeare, Ubu Roi has the misfortune always to be relevant.”

Coincidence? I think not.

For the second event of their three-month Engagement Party residency, Knifeandfork explores the nature of the media-perpetuated chance moment. Trying the Hand of God is a carefully choreographed continuous reenactment of the infamous illegal, but not penalized, “Hand of God” soccer goal from the 1986 International Federation of Associated Football (FIFA) World Cup. The performance will be staged on a recreation of Mexico City’s Aztec Stadium, constructed within the confines of the MOCA Sculpture Plaza. A limited number of audience members will have the opportunity to play the role of Diego Maradona, the Argentine soccer legend who scored the controversial goal against England during the quarterfinals, eventually leading his team to win the match and the tournament.

Live announcing by Enrique Gutierrez of KMEX/Univision 34
Performance and video direction by Mike Cahill
Performances by Josh Anderson, Scott Davis, Kenny Garay, Oscar Garay,
Elmer Garcia, and Brian Shim
DJ set by Wendy Yao
Blogging by Guthrie Lonergan
Tacos by Kogi
Cash bar

Engagement Party is a series of interventions by local artist collectives occurring the first Thursday of every month from 7–10pm at MOCA Grand Avenue. Events are free and open to the general public.

PARKING

Parking is recommended at the Walt Disney Concert Hall garage; $8 flat rate after 4pm. Public lots are located on Kosciusko Way between Hope and Lower Grand Avenue, and on Olive Street between 1st Street and 2nd Street. Note: This is an outdoor event. Please dress accordingly.

INFO 213/621-1745 or moca.org/party

Engagement Party is made possible by a one-year grant from The James Irvine Foundation.

Not
that I
can recall a

thing
about the
Berlin pudding-commune.

We
may wake
up in the

morning
feeling happy
for no reason.

Abstract
or nonobjective
feelings are a

very
important part
of our lives.

The
surface of
a lake might

just
as well
be replaced by

the
area striata
of the occipital

lobe.
H, 59:
(enlightened essence) MMMMMMM

I,
35, just
a suggestion         gap

of
course                O
Dymphna, where did

I
read you
were the patron

saint
of fools?
The forehead xxxxxx

is
lined with
effort he sees

some
black on
a stuffed animal.

Do
not expect
a to precede

b
except
in the movies.

Dear Good Friend,

I contact you after my praying and fasting to sow this seed of faith in your care, l know too well that we did not know each other before but please consider this proposal on its content. I need not dwell on how I came by your contact information because there are many such possibilities these days,

a
call to
seek out the

though
how far
can that take

us?
[New L]
She stood shored

by
a single
elbow against a

mango
branch. I
do twenty side-

kicks
and twenty
front-kicks. dark

darkness
black smoky
black black black

black.
“It was
sunny now” secret

codes
dictate how
many teaspoons. Somebody.

Sometimes
it comes
as a passage

of
Mozart or
Bach a dance

by
Baryshnikov or
Makarova. When

this
happens I
feel a tight

clasp
a lightening
of the head

against
all advice
I allow my

hairs
to stand
on end. Bring

me
a lime
green dog / a

pumpkin
with moustache.
“It will never

end,
I hope –
whatever ‘it’ is.”

These
stair are
steep/deep shallow

river,
shallow river
for ten thousand

years.
Erotic and
natal wind. When

it
mattered or
listen. So why

am I writing this? How did I arrive here?
How speak without using the sentence, “Very early in my life,
it was already too late …”

Think
of a
(hu)man staring at

a
photograph of
torture, abomination, rape,

a
land laid
waste … turning away,

expunged,
as if
suddenly outside the

door …
the sound
of a river

rushing
past … [then]
turning back, dripping

with
the unknown …
amid the endless

roar.
How could
I know what

was
speaking inside
me? This is

the
wall, they
say, where people

were
lined up
daily, week after

week,
year after
year. Still, I thought

that
I should
be writing instead

of
reading the
paper, but, as

I
was reluctant
to stop reading

the
paper, I
began writing down

words
I came
across that I

was
pretty sure
I had never

Used
in a
poem before. If

you
want to
lease me, go

ahead
and cry.
“A couple dimmed.

A
druggist wept.
It was like

a
consolation.” “Pristine
mechanics sip from

the
organs of
ranch hands and

bullwhip
the Vaseline
knucklehead peach fuzz”

Oh woe.

The butterflies between the brows have withered.

Carry
me along,
taddy, like you

done
through the
toy fair. Shikt.

Is
it by
my green candle

or
stagger me
sideways? Such

a demonstration of the catalyzing role of the found object would seem less peremptory to me if that same day – but only after having left G’s place – I had not been aware that the wooden spoon answered an analogous necessity, although, since I am involved, this necessity sways.

[Note: Source: Except as noted, Black Lightning (ed. Eileen Tabios). I’ve come across references to it twice in the past few days and if that ain’t a sign, then … Much of what I’ve used is canceled or otherwise-called-into-question language. Arthur Sze, “Archipelago”; Shahid Suhrawardy, as quoted in Tariq Rahman, A History of Pakistani Literature in English; Eileen Tabios, asked of each contributor to Black Lightning; Sandra M Gilbert, describing a bit from Catherine Clément, “The Guilty One”, as quoted by Tabios in commentary re: Kimiko Hahn; Kimiko Hahn, “The Notice”; Salman Tariq Kureishi, “Attitude”, in Rahman, and Rahman himself; the pencil bit is an allusion to Thomas Mann, The Magic Mountain, since we’re talking symbols a moment; Timothy Liu, “Canker”; Bertolt Brecht, as quoted in Ulrike Meinhof, “False Consciousness”, in M4einhof's “Everybody Talks About the Weather; We Don’t …” (ed. Karin Bauer); Taufiq Rafat, “Kitchens”, in Rahman; Li-Young Lee, “The Father’s House”; the Shakespeare-Ubu bit’s from a comment I left at Alan Baker’s Litterbug; email rec’d by JBR 6:19 a.m., 1 Apr 09; Agnes Martin, Writings, as quoted by Tabios in re: Mei-mei Berssenbrugge; Mei-mei Berssenbrugge, “The Four year Old Girl”; Indran Amirthanayagam, in response to Tabios’ “What advice would you give to a young poet?”; email rec’d by JBR at exactly this point in the composition, 1 Apr 2009, 12:30 p.m., from one Mrs. Nelida Kamsi, kindly offering me 10% of US$4.5 Milliom (sic); Tabios, commenting in re: Amirthanayagam; Meena Alexander, “old Horizon”; Sesshu Foster, City Terrace Field Manual (in Black Lightning); Luis Cabalquinto, “Alignment”; Jessica Hagedorn (w/help from her daughter Paloma), “Lullaby (for Paloma)”, intro to Danger and Beauty; Marilyn Chin, “The Phoenix Gone, The Terrace Empty”; Garret Hongo, Volcano, “On the Last Performance of Musume Dojojī at the Nippon Kan of the Astor Hotel, Seattle, Washington”; David Mura, “The Colors of Desire”; Waqas Ahmad Khajwa, “The Wall”, “April 77”, in Rahman; John Yau, “Excavating ‘Conversation at Midnight’”, and “Conversation at Midnight”; Tan Lin, Lotion Bullwhip Giraffe, as reviewed by Eileen Tabios, and quoted in re: John Yau; Sir Charles Barkley; James Joyce, Finnegans Wake; Alfred Jarry, Ubu Roi, various translations (Kenneth McLeish, Barbara Wright); André Breton, Mad Love (tr. Mary Ann Caws)]