Zeitgeist Spam

Save Your Pennies. Ernesto Priego's got a new book!

 

THE PRESENT DAY
Ernesto Priego. ISBN: 978-0-9561919-3-9 £6.95 / $11.95. 104 pages

AVAILABLE FROM 1ST OCTOBER 2010

 

This sequence of poems is a poetic and critical response to Octavio Paz, whose book, "The Labyrinth of Solitude" contains a chapter entitled "The Present Day". Priego's book is dedicated "to the memory of the victims of recent violence in Mexico".

"For ernesto priego, a mexican english language poet living in london, these magnificently rendered poems are the work of the life of 21st century post-nationalist poetry. the borders of geography, heart and mind wander and blur into a writing that is grounded in both english and spanish. no longer can the reader ask what is native but find what is human is every where present in the word. that word is ultimately one of love where priego asks, 'What / was love for you / if not a revolutionary force?' the revolution exists neither in the past or the future but the present day, we live always in the present, that for priego also includes yesterday and tomorrow and is in the end a metaphysics of palpable presence."

Richard Lopez

This will be available via Leafe Press, Amazon (link to follow), or via me at j at johnbr dot com. And (fingers crossed, elsewhere before too long).

In the House of the Hangman 205

It’s crap, of course. How many millions has BP spent on Mountain Dew and Aquafina? (Yes, Naomi: “This unnatural disaster sponsored by the Pepsi Corporation!”) How much of

the logistics for this cleanup has been subcontracted to Xe Services (formerly Blackwater), with their conveniently-close base of operations in Houma, Louisiana?

Perhaps we’ll never find out, or, perhaps, we will … And if you believe BP is really paying for this, why, “you taste good,” “you look just like food to me.”

[Note: Sources: Richard Seymour, “Vince Cable attack on ‘capitalism’”, at Lenin’s Tomb, 22 Sept 010; Michael Nardone, “A Gulf Notebook, Part 2”, at Lemon Hound, 22 Sept 010; The Karmapa, as quoted in Tim Morton, “Karmapa on Veterianism”, at Ecology Without Nature, 21 Sept 010]

In the House of the Hangman 204

The idea of brain-controlled wireless digging machines: at night you dream of tunnels—because you are actually in control of tunneling equipment as you sleep. A South African platinum mine begins to diverge wildly from known sites of mineral wealth, its excavations more and more abstract as time goes on—carving Escher-like knots and strange excursive whorls through ancient reefwork—because the mining engineer, paralyzed in a car accident ten years ago, has become addicted to morphine. “And you hate filing. / And this had no mystery. / And you are greedy / With live, accordion-driven, dark carnival music / Collapsing

most (un)naturally” into the clutch of too-much sensation (“Where they cross there is shimmer, glitched emotion, as if you own it all. You do, don’t you.”). (“It was said: please assume the brace position”). Victor’s work, of which I am a fan in the sense of adding mostly tippets of wind and tendrils of gasoline; if the transcendental is intersubjectivity, how can the borders of the transcendental and the empirical help becoming indistinct? For along with the other person, all the other person sees of me – all my facticity – is reintegrated into subjectivity, or at least posited as an indispensable element of its definition. Thus

the transcendental descends into history, this strange nostalgia that amnesiacs or those who were amnesiacs for a while have at times for places that they have never seen, that they are seeing for the first time; in my case, It is the density of the traffic and no longer that of the buildings along the road that clues one that one is still in the city. She did not believe that the luminous lines she saw around people’s heads from time to time had any meaning, or the ruins she saw in their hearts or the stress cracks in their eyes or the inside hammerings that seemed to deafen them. Tho meaningless and worthless are not synonymous. “No one knows how to be recorded yet, no one knows how to act: (…)”

[Note: Sources: bits from Geoff Manaugh, “Of Networked Buildings and Architectural Neurology”, at BLDG/BLOG, 21 Sept 010; Amanda Ackerman, “Winter Poem Written in Summer”, Divya Victor, Sutures, Vanessa Place, in Place’s “Poets Without Products: Amanda Ackerman, Divya Victor, Carol Watts, Joseph Mosconi, Ariel Goldberg, Mairéad Byrne”, at Constant Critic, 12 Sept 010; Lynn Behrendt and Anne Gorrick, “About THE CARNIVAL, PEEP/SHOW ISSUE #2”, at PEEP/SHOW 2; Maurice Perleau-Ponty, Signs, as quoted in Shahar Ozeri, “Phenomenology and Naturalism”, at Perverse Egalitarianism, 20 Sept 010; Jalal Toufic, Over-Sensitivity; SLindsay Hill, “TEMPORARY TEXT / TIME AND THE DEAD (“Edges”), at PEEP/SHOW; JBR, re: Ray Brassier’s sentence “Existence is worthless” in the preface to his Nihil Unbound; Cody Todd, quoting Laura Mullen, in the intro to Mullen’s “Bride of the Photograph 1839-1930 & Bride of the Bayou & Bride of the Photograph 1940-1944”, at The Offending Adam, 6 Sept 010]

In the House of the Hangman 201-203

… comforting words to him in a language he did not fully understand. She whispered happy exclamations in words he did not know the meaning of, but the tone was unmistakably that of a sweetheart towards her lover. Finally

in answer to a true scientist’s question in his eyes, she said in English: “They caught the thing alive. They await your order to advance.” “Let us be on our way,” said Larner and he started to arise. “You are hardly strong enough,” said Tula. “Believe me, I am all right,” insisted Larner, and a … B-r-r-r-r! The buzzer on his desk buzzed and his feet came off the desk. A whole poem by Tom Clark

plashed onscreen: The dispassionate banana lay / on the metal / hospital tray / table; old, / with many / black spots. The umbrella moves up down up down twelve times per minute. A larger-than-life swimmer strokes through a sea on a wall. A floor fan causes styrofoam cups to sway like ocean waves.

It is said that Atlas is wearying. Premonitory signs announce it: “……………………………………………………………………………………………………
……………………………………………………………………………
…………………………………………………………………”
“Etcetera.” I’m fumigating

at the moment. Apparently, I should have harvested them when they were slightly larger than my large thumb (not my other, which is tiny). Lovers, statues, rocks, arise … roll as far as the sea … fish, salt, eat away the rust clinging to your limbs ; pistons, carburetors, axles, wheels, vibrate

eject oil racing engine under the eternal sun, paws, feelers, nippers, fangs, thorns, blades, spears, sex organs, vibrate ; tears, molten lead, blind the repentant torturer. Cloud, smoke, beat like the heart above me ; sand, wind, rekindled ash, men’s and beasts’ hides turned to powder ; of the embrace all that remains is a bit of powder and the vomiting behind the window pane : - Serge, Serge, are you there? What are you doing? You’re feeling sick …

Right now the “recording instruments” are somewhat gummy like the thousand-mile fungus living under the earth, only cold and long dead stars to navigate by waving so long, suckers! from a billion year-long wake of light—something

wriggles when cut in two then three then up to so many I forget which name it goes by. You thought you were a different kind of stripper, a sassier version, so put it in the newspaper and on television

which they never turn off even when doing very light work such as guard duty or cleaning a rifle or something. If we were carpenters on the roof I would discover a way to hammer quietly or I wouldn’t, as the lady in the market confided, the corporations own everything. How’s that for a bit of The New Sincerity? Anyway, this post isn’t about that, it’s about spasms and grotesque anatomies. The Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. The cheek, the crack, and the cheek.

[Note: Sources: 201. Anthony Pelcher, “Vampires of Venus”, in Astounding Stories of Super-Science April 1930, as transmitted to me in an email ad for Viagra, etc from Norsaganay Chapko to one Osnoe Colyott, at my address, 19 Sep 2010, 1:36:30 p.m., and as identified and vaguely skimmed at Project Gutenberg; Tom Clark, “Objctivity/Measure”, at Tom Clark Beyond the Pale, 19 Sept 010; Jim Jenkins and Dave Quick, motion/motion: Kinetic Art, describing Bryan Rogers, Machine to Move an Umbrella Up and Down and Fred Tomaselli, Shoreline. 202. Habib Tengour, “Maghrebian Surrealism” (tr. Pierre Joris), at Poems and Poetics, 20 Sept 010; Nikki Reimer, “The more things digitize the more we return to the printed page”, at Lemon Hound, 20 Sept 010; Eileen Tabios, “Squash Moi!”, at The Blind Chatelaine’s Keys, 19 Sept 010; Pierre Guyotat, Tomb for 500,000 Soldiers (tr. Romain Slocomb). 203. Habib Tengour, “Maghrebian Surrealism” (tr. Pierre Joris), at Poems and Poetics, 20 Sept 010; Jennifer L Knox, “The Emptiness, Armed Only With Dreams, Brings Singular Shapes Into The World”, “Postscript: I Made it a Manwich Night”, at Spooky Boyfriend 1; Amy King, “A Hole in My Name”, at Spooky Boyfriend 1; Juliet Cook, “Undressing”, at Spooky Boyfriend 1; Shanna Compton, “Need Anything from Home Depot?”, at Spooky Boyfriend 1; Stephen Daniel Lewis, “Cutting Board”, at Spooky Boyfriend 1; true encounter, afternoon of 19 Sept 010 – I saw a woman in an Obama 08 t-shirt and asked her if she still liked him – she wasn’t overly enthusiastic … but as she said, what difference could he have made, really, the corporations own everything. I didn’t see any reason to mention that even tho they hate him, he’s still their lackey; Johannes Göransson, “Basquiat’s Body Possessed by Media”, at Exoskeleton, 20 Sept 010; something I read a long time ago, when I worked at Black Sparrow Press, that said the best way to understand the nature of the Holy Trinity was to consider the nature of the ass]

In the House of the Hangman 200

Stale air of the plane and bad breath of the young female next to me who had apparently taken a horse tranquilizer before she got on because she was knocked out before we took off, head back mouth open, and when I needed to extract myself to get to the bathroom I hopped up on the seat rest and climbed over her, pretty much sat on her head and she still didn’t stir; or is there an unacknowledged world of building practices open to people who, legally speaking, reside nowhere? The geometries formed by these buildings and streets—boxes, whorls, circles, half-labyrinths

and interrupted circuitboards—what did – what am I doing here, wonders Maximilian, who has recently begun thinking in English, what do – the torturers want? Following his lead, I freeze garbage. The streets in the camp are paper-thin. Please put that grain of sand back where you got it, thank you. The fact that I’m

president of this sentence (you’ll note that I’ve removed all the decimal points and convertied the octothorps (#s) to letters surrounded by brackets ([   ])) should just be an anecdote among friends.

[Note: Sources: anonymous, “Tuesday & Wednesday. Airspace, Manhattan & Southampton, NY. Stale, then smoggy, then southampton weather at its best and brightest”, at What We Feel Most Has No Name, 9 Sept 010; Geoff Manaugh, “The Permission We Already Have”, at BLDG/BLOG, 18 Sept 010; Geoff Manaugh, “Geometric Sociology”, at BLDG/BLOG, 18 Sept 010; Jean Baudrillard, Simulation and Simulacra (tr. Sheila Faria Glaser); rollerfink, “Standard Disco Beat”, at Rollerfink?; Miriam Levine, “Still Life: Garbage”, at Miriam Levine, 1 Sept 010; memory quote of a sentence in Jean Genet’s “Four Hours in Shatila”; Bob Perlelman, a poem in Face Value, as quoted in Al Filreis, “The President of This Sentence: Bob Perelman’s History”, at Jacket 39; Geof Huth, “Cryptographiku Revisited”, at dbqp, 17 Sept 010]

Unhappy Anniversary, Sabra and Shatila

SABRA AND SHATILA

By Robert Fisk

What we found inside the Palestinian camp at ten o'clock on the morning of September [JBR note: lacuna in text; the massacres took place 16 -18 September] 1982 did not quite beggar description, although it would have been easier to re-tell in the cold prose of a medical examination. [...] In the panic and hatred of battle, tens of thousands had been killed in this country. But these people, hundreds of them had been shot down unarmed. This was a mass killing, an incident - how easily we used the word "incident" in Lebanon - that was also an atrocity. It went beyond even what the Israelis would have in other circumstances called a terrorist activity. It was a war crime.

Jenkins and Tveit were so overwhelmed by what we found in Chatila that at first we were unable to register our own shock. Bill Foley of AP had come with us. All he could say as he walked round was "Jesus Christ" over and over again. We might have accepted evidence of a few murders; even dozens of bodies, killed in the heat of combat. Bur there were women lying in houses with their skirts torn torn up to their waists and their legs wide apart, children with their throats cut, rows of young men shot in the back after being lined up at an execution wall. There were babies - blackened babies babies because they had been slaughtered more than 24-hours earlier and their small bodies were already in a state of decomposition - tossed into rubbish heaps alongside discarded US army ration tins, Israeli army equipment and empty bottles of whiskey.

Where were the murderers? Or to use the Israelis' vocabulary, where were the "terrorists"? When we drove down to Chatila, we had seen the Israelis on the top of the apartments in the Avenue Camille Chamoun but they made no attempt to stop us. In fact, we had first been driven to the Bourj al-Barajneh camp because someone told us that there was a massacre there. All we saw was a Lebanese soldier chasing a car thief down a street. It was only when we were driving back past the entrance to Chatila that Jenkins decided to stop the car. "I don't like this", he said. "Where is everyone? What the f**k is that smell?"

Just inside the the southern entrance to the camp, there used to be a number of single-story, concrete walled houses. I had conducted many interviews in these hovels in the late 1970's. When we walked across the muddy entrance to Chatila, we found that these buildings had been dynamited to the ground. There were cartridge cases across the main road. I saw several Israeli flare canisters, still attached to their tiny parachutes. Clouds of flies moved across the rubble, raiding parties with a nose for victory.

Down a laneway to our right, no more than 50 yards from the entrance, there lay a pile of corpses. There were more than a dozen of them, young men whose arms and legs had been wrapped around each other in the agony of death. All had been shot point-blank range through the cheek, the bullet tearing away a line of flesh up to the ear and entering the brain. Some had vivid crimson or black scars down the left side of their throats. One had been castrated, his trousers torn open and a settlement of flies throbbing over his torn intestines.

The eyes of these young men were all open. The youngest was only 12 or 13 years old. They were dressed in jeans and coloured shirts, the material absurdly tight over their flesh now that their bodies had begun to bloat in the heat. They had not been robbed. On one blackened wrist a Swiss watch recorded the correct time, the second hand still ticking round uselessly, expending the last energies of its dead owner.

On the other side of the main road, up a track through the debris, we found the bodies of five women and several children. The women were middle-aged and their corpses lay draped over a pile of rubble. One lay on her back, her dress torn open and the head of a little girl emerging from behind her. The girl had short dark curly hair, her eyes were staring at us and there was a frown on her face. She was dead.

Another child lay on the roadway like a discarded doll, her white dress stained with mud and dust. She could have been no more than three years old. The back of her head had been blown away by a bullet fired into her brain. One of the women also held a tiny baby to her body. The bullet that had passed into her breast had killed the baby too. Someone had slit open the woman's stomach, cutting sideways and then upwards, perhaps trying to kill her unborn child. Her eyes were wide open, her dark face frozen in horror.

"...As we stood there, we heard a shout in Arabic from across the ruins. "They are coming back," a man was screaming, So we ran in fear towards the road. I think, in retrospect, that it was probably anger that stopped us from leaving, for we now waited near the entrance to the camp to glimpse the faces of the men who were responsible for all of this. They must have been sent in here with Israeli permission. They must have been armed by the Israelis. Their handiwork had clearly been watched - closely observed - by the Israelis who were still watching us through their field-glasses.

...

Note: Source: Photo: The People's Voice.org, 13 Sept 07; Text: Countercurrents.org, as accessed 17 Sept 010]

In the House of the Hangman 198 & 199

Is hanging a door akin to wearing a necklace? What about the revolving metal blades in The Thousand and One

Nights in the Mansion of Bliss? “Now we start looking at each other again. We don’t know what we’re supposed to do. We don’t know what’s supposed to happen.” Give a yellow-headed

blackbird a break. And who brought the scare quotes to this picnic? The family’s incredible fun experience begins as they are picked up by the hand of god, which also destroys their car.

The bulb gets brighter as it rises and passes three solar voltaic cells. The cells convert the “sun” light into electricity that powers the wind towers. Upon reaching its pinnacle

the direction of the bulb reverses; it descends and “sets” behind the cow. The cow is painted with phosphorus and

having absorbed the light, glows, slips from its pocket Dante to chance hit a word, which is transcribed by the yellow-headed blackbird, then placed in a pneumatic tube and whooshed to Rob’s Word Shop. The store’s been closed since May, of course. Dante’s ordered universe lies dis- or reassembled on its floor.

[Note: Sources: 198. Michael Darling, Roy McMakin: A Door Meant as Adornment; Alice Aycock, The Thousand and One Nights in the Mansion of Bliss, as seen in Jim Jenkins and Dave Quick, motion/motion: Kinetic Art; Erika Doss, Benton, Pollock and the Politics of Modernism: From Regional to Abstract Expressionism (quoting from the movie Crossfire (1947)); email from Sue Brown, National Wildlife Federation Action Fund, rec’d 16 Sept 010, 10:59 a.m.; Nick Montfort “TV Audiences, Here’s Pole Position”, at Post Position, 21 Aug 010. 199. Jim Jenkins and Dave Quick, motion/motion: Kinetic Art, describing Fred Tomaselli, Recharge; Edwin Denby, “Disorder, mental, strikes me”, as quoted in Tom Clark, “TC: Edwin Denby: Sonnet: “Disorder, mental, strikes me”, at Vanitas Magazine, 14 Sept 010; a Robert Fitterman project, for details of which see Rob’s Word Shop (“Starting this Wednesday, May 5th [2010], I will be opening ‘Rob's Word Shop’ for the month of May. Rob's Word Shop is a storefront shop where individual letters and words can be purchased. Single letters are 50 cents and single words are 1 dollar. As the sole proprietor of the store, I invite you personally to stop by for a chat and buy a letter or a word. These chats will be recorded and, with your permission, collected in a book form at the end of the month. My shop location is 308 Bowery (the south window at the Bowery Poetry Club), and my hours of operation are Tuesday through Thursday 11-2PM from May 5-May 27.”)]

In the House of the Hangman 197

Nevertheless, ladies and gentlemen, nevertheless. The blue pill will bring on an Armageddon for which they have prepared all their lives, in which they will be heroes, have warrior mates and send loyal lieutenants to certain death. I constantly don’t care or if I do, I don’t have a scrotum to lose. And the big balloon keeps trafficking through my window, I’m fat between its red and green zones. There’s no need to recognize yellow. Eat. Sleep. Caucasian. The red pill will bring on an endless deferral, in which they will have all the time in the world – indeed, more than all time through the recombinant

feedback loop of time-travel-altered futures, with Eloi-friendly-replicants sent to protect and serve, displacing inevitable Borg dominance – one episode at a time – with Borg dominance. Common knowledge as the lowest of limbos. Wall or cardboard bricks as approximate graffiti. Screaming Green Gorilla did the Dance Dance Revolution, left an Etch-A-Sketch in my teddy bear’s intestines. The white pill will bring on a John Conner god complex, which requires a transcendental observer using the force to manage the

time shifts – Guild Navigators, Murakami in the Hall of Mirrors, or Weyland-Yutani itself perhaps. Basically, muh muh muh. There is only one universal, and that’s its first syllable. Your employees will see God in you when you wear Hermès cufflinks. The gesture “opens the sphere of ethos.” To what? First-person shooters improve the brain. Obama’s turned into/revealed as Mr Fuck You Poor People. She covers herself in feathers and sets fire to her grave, tho she won’t be buried there. Tea Party Taliban. That ain’t a gravel road; that’s a fish kill.

[Note: Sources: John Hutnyk, “Working notes for a sci-fi novella (after accelerationism)”, at Trinketization, 15 Sept 010; Paige Taggart, “The Yellow Crocus of Down Under”, as quoted in Elisa Gabbert, “Paige Taggart”, at The French Exit, 14 Sept 010; Chris McCreary, as quoted in Mark Wallace “Brief Reviews”, at Thinking Again, 26 Aug 010; Jack Lowe, “Murakami at Versailles”, at Huh, 15 Sept 010; Bryan Coffelt, “Basically”, at l Lunchtime for Bears, 10 May 010; email rec’d 15 Sept 010, 8:54 p.m.; Robert Mittenhall, “Agamben’s Gesture”, at Blandiloquent, 30 May 010; stuff from the past few days’ news, except She covers … buried there, which is a sort of composite image I have of Ana Mendieta]

In the House of the Hangman 196

Nevertheless, ladies and gentlemen, nevertheless. I fainted during a bit. I regained consciousness. I entered. I shut the door. I sat down on the bed. The blackest space spread out before me. “It became necessary to destroy the village in order to save it.” The print will be in an edition of 100 and sell for £75. What are we supposed to

fight them with, a meat dress? A troubled computer user accidentally pressed the caps lock button and doesn’t know how to turn it off. Naively, he seeks help from the internet. The internet tells him

you can’t turn it off, it’s irreversible. I love the internet. Whenever you use Yan Lu’s “Poor Little Fishbowl Sink,” water in the fishbowl drains, resulting in a life-threatening situation for its resident goldfish.

[Note: Sources: Theodor W Adorno, Introduction to Sociology (tr. Edmund Jephcott); Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet, Maurice Blanchot, Death Sentence, as quoted in Richard Crary, “Notes on Laird Hunt’s The Exquisite”, at The Existence Machine, 12 Sept 010; Alexander Haig, as quoted in Adam Curtis, “The Pope and the Axis of Terror”, at BBC/Adam Curtis Blog, 11 Sept 010, via Tom Raworth, “Everyone Is Out To get You”, at Tom Raworth.com, 15 Sept 010; Nina Power, “two announcements”, at Infinite ThØught, 15 Sept 010; Lada Gaga wore a dress that may have been made of meat at the 2010 MTV Music Awards; Casey Chan, “HOW DO I TURN OFF THE CAPS LOCK?”, at Gizmodo, 12 Sept 010; Patrick James, “Conserve Water, or the Fish Will Die”, at Good, 13 Sept 010]

In the House of the Hangman 195

The barn is FULL of burnt-out light bulbs. The decision-makers attempt to manage these clouds of sociality according to input/output matrices. “The fully enlightened earth radiates …” I think I love your happy voice. A 30-day escrow? You’ve got to be kidding. To engulf or bear down like a flood, storm, avalanche, etc; hence to involve in destruction or ruin. To bury under a load of earth, snow, or the like. TV viewers are furious — Socio-bah! I turn to stone too, and I hold my hands toward the flames. May I disappear in order that those things I see may become perfect in their beauty

from the very fact that they are no longer things I see (Simone Weil, who also freaked out and screamed You’re touching me!), what with all that speed, noise and power those jets were so close we could feel the heat from the afterburns. Robosaurus grabbed a couple old cars by its claws and ate ‘em up & all the rocks and trees, which is what happens when you throw a yellow rock into a purple stream. How hot the clouds are. Meet Mr Spewed Up Product, she or he sits conjuring. Meet Ms Old Gold

King Size. Howdy and a handshake. As in, “O that ol’ cunt gusher’s up taking her pussy on sublunary walks in public again!” With its communist kitsch, mythological figures, cake-eating, and Baudelaire miniaturized himself to Tinkerbell size. Not Truly Interactive. Pandemonium was composed using pressure-sensitive keyboards wired to electronic beaters, which in turn hit various found objects in the decaying prison such as toilet bowls, bed frames, and cabinets (see Figure 12.2). There is no right way of living my damaged life.

[Note Sources: Carolyn Morris, slightly paraphrased, in phone conversation 13 Sept 010, between 2:15 and 2:30 p.m.; Jean-François Lyotard, The Postmodern Condition (trs. Geoff Bennington and Brian Massumi), as excerpted in The New Social Theory Reader (eds. Steven Seidman and Jeffrey C Alexander); JBR, email to Eileen Tabios, 13 Sept 6:24 a.m.; Max Horkheimer and Theodor W Adorno, Dialectic of Enlightenment, as quoted in Wolfgang Schirmacher in the intro to his anthology German 20th Century Philosophy: The Frankfurt School (the ellipsed words at the end of the sentence are disaster triumphant); OED (I began to wonder what whelmed as in overwhelmed means); Claude Pelieu, Kali Yug Express (tr. Mary Beach), in Pierre Joris, “Kali Yug Express 10”, at Nomadics, 14 Sept 010; epigraph to Nicky Coutts, “Postcards”, Parallax, 16:2, 44 – 56; a bit from an old yoga studio story old roommate Bob Miller told Kathy and me 40 years ago in Walnut Creek; Richard Lopez, “between the click of the light and the start of the dream”, at Really Bad Movies, 13 Sept 010; Exuma (tip o’ the cap to Omo Bob (“Who was Exuma? He was a spirit who came from a planet, now extinct, brought to us on a lightning bolt, who had communed with Charon, the ferryman of the River Styx and Vodun priests”; see Brian Phillips, “Exuma – The Obeah Man”, at Perfect Sound Forever); Dan Hersam, “amidst a tangled web”, at Dan Hersam.com; Jerome Rothenberg, “Variations on the Hell of Smoke”, in The Jigoku Zoshi Hells: A Book of Variations; Carol Watts, Hare, in Infinite Difference: Other Poetries by U.K. Women Poets (ed. Carrie Etter); Warren Dotz and Masud Husain, Meet Mr Product: The Art of the Advertising Character; Earl Robinson and Abel Meeropol, “The House I Live In”, as quoted in David R Roediger, Working Toward Whiteness: How America’s Immigrants Become White; Lara Glenum, “Cunt Gushers”, at Montyevidayo, 14 Sept 010; Johannes Göransson, “Making Alliansen Cry (More from Aylin B.B.)”, at Montevidayo, 14 Sept 010; Antler, as quoted in Sarah Fox, “My Favorite Detritus 2”, at Montevidayo, 14 Sept 010; Adair Roundthwaite, “Hearing History: Storytelling and Collective Subjectivity in Cardiff and Miller’s Pandemonium”, in Sonic Meditations: Body, Sound, Technology (eds. Carolyn Birdsall and Anthony Enns);Wolfgang Schirmacher, German 20th Century Philosophy: The Frankfurt School]