Set the city on fire. Teach them war. The mountains melted. She smote off his head, and they cried, about a thousand men and women. Every man unto his place. The hands of the children. From the womb to the day of his death. What [is] sweeter than honey? A razor upon mine head: if I be shaven then my strength will go from me, and I shall become weak, and be like any [other] man. Weapons of war. Et cetera. Some sky of hydraulic / spring Some season ever / There is a spike in the air / So the tree for even / Everyone’s listening to someone in the air / a twig O branch / For why am I afraid to sing / O earth / I come to it at the edge / Put your map right with the world / To describe the logic of sight / That I came back to live / pull the surface onto target and / And since the change / the air burns / arrive at zero aperture. / The season folds into itself, cuts a notch in my. I become thinner. / He was going to take it to the next town. / Just a small song / If all the world says something / we think then we know something / don’t we? / It begins with socks in a drawer and continues to laundry bags to the future. / I am not a poet / This is my poem / No one lives there / I guess if we get to be here today / and watch this movie together / The small heart / Its linenlike thread / opens out / To be dark, to darken / to meet the world / Out of the old place and out of time / If I could tell you this / or tell where this is / or where on a given map / this being is / this combustion far off. / After all the sun we had. At twilight a salamander / Say it then or / sing it out / will appear in the core of the reactor. / Let it be thought breaking in your view. “They say pretty is / as pretty gives back to her community.” In New York and London, I met other investors who, like Heilberg, were stepping away from the paper world. A banker who told me about Ukrainian farmland-for-vodka deals had me over to his apartment, an airy corner loft in Tribeca. “Here’s the trick,” he told me. “All these collective farms collapsed once they decollectivized them, because they had no capital – the guys couldn’t afford tractors.” This was why vodka and a few months’ worth of grain went so far. Via a long-haired middleman he nicknamed Jesus, his investment bank, one of Wall Street’s big three, pursued not only thousands of acres of prime farmland but ostrich farms, a chocolate factory, and a Ukrainian pornography channel. The bankers flew through the countryside in a massive, double-rotor Soviet helicopter, landing in fallow fields and peasant villages, and helped introduce a crop of genetically modified, drought-resistant sorghum first developed on an Israeli kibbutz. … The Ukraine deal had ultimately fallen through – Jesus had demanded bigger and bigger cuts – but climate change was an area of endless growth. When Europe launched its emission-trading scheme, doling out carbon permits to coal plants and power utilities, the same banker had helped them “massively overrepresent” their emissions, then helped them sell the excess for hundreds of millions of dollars. “I was actually doing the carbon deals,” he said. “All that kind of shit. That was a big scam, too.” Is it emotions are likened to water? Growth – the Sequoia? Tree, names I don’t know – the desert sans name / or taxonomy / but / for this little burst, minute, pink to cactus red buds to take as measure. What was or is it in a / temporality / does not need us nor, without a mind, need itself. Thus, … it’s worse than the / puzzle it appears. The nearest village boasted a mere seven hundred inhabitants, who got by without modern farm equipment: the economy ran mostly on goats. I believe in the blob, where people who normally are not available may be and where they may be seen and heard, regardless of gender, color, orientation, class and whatnut. I can not explain the psychology behind “see me hear me” but it is not gender typical. The only ice. But shit what all the girls all the time having to hear everyone’s fatigue in that they show up, here's a good (and scary) example: And damn what I got to experience things worse than loneliness when peoples, hey only. Thus, everything everything everything. But the reality is usually finer stuff. And, above all others! It would get melty toward the end. They dream only of America / To be lost among the thirteen million pillars of grass: / When his headache grew worse we / Stopped at a wire filling station. / “This honey is delicious / Though it burns the throat.” Different medium, but I read a review of a Brooklyn gallery show a couple years ago with this great sentence: “Owls are the new deer.” And yeah, Roscoe Mitchell plays in notation for future people / (futures that don’t fuck with pretty or ugly / But everything we thought of that way is / Full of holes and / / The canal where the hairs now rise / Visible, huge as kelp trees hitting / A minor ant. I am guilty of caneophora, caryatid, and agora. They seemed to just roll off the tongue at times. How did they get there I wonder? Couldn’t be the BAPS bros :0 no I remember, I was reading lots of aesthetics and there was a caryatid in there and I went on a search and found out their hairdos often supported whole Greek institutional architectures ... The Ants is a study not of, but through, ants. Prima facie, The Ants is a catalogue of insect observations and observations of insects. “Nouveau-ambitious” and “free-thinking”, found in the soups of dumplings and remembered in childhood vignettes, these ants trail through what Nakayasu writes as the “industry of survival”. The danger is not in sentiment, but rather, in a gash, a wall, an argument, an intention. Is it more lonely to be crushed into the core of a non-mechanical pencil, or to “find” “it” “all” in the distance, the break, the tenuous wilderness between exoskeleton and endoskeleton? I have never actually read Bentham’s Panopticon ... but yeah, what could be better than Quaker prisons? What is a photograph? My favourite line from the textbook section on Cognitive Therapy: CT “allows the patient to experience emotional arousal and reality testing simultaneously”. I mean, “Is it reactionary of me that I love Rem Koolhaas’ Delirious New York?”
[Note: Sources: Adam Broomberg and Oliver Chanarin, Holy Bible (a combination of [almost all] the passages they underlined (Judges)); Peter Gizzi, mostly but not always the first lines from the poems in the Periplum, and Other Poems section intermingled with the same from the Threshold Songs section, in In Defense of Nothing: Selected Poems, 1987-2011; Maureen Thorson, My Resignation, quoted in Adam Robinson, “Adam Robinson with Maureen Thorson”, at Everyday Genius, 24 Mar 014; McKenzie Funk, Windfall: The Booming Business of Global Warming; Paul E Nelson, “Notes On Gone South”, at Paul E Nelson, 24 Mar 014 (on Barry McKinnon, Gone South); Peter E. Gordon, “The Intellectual and Other Wanderings of Walter Benjamin”, at The New Republic, 23 Mar 014; bits from Stina Kajaso, “How do you want to appear as a little girl?”, at SONOFDAD, 24 Mar 014; Anne Gorrick, “Lipstick Distances”, at The Rope Dancer Accompanies Herself with Her Shadows, 24 Mar 014; John Ashbery, “They Dream Only of America”, quoted in Tom Clark, “John Ashbery: They Dream Only of America”, at Tom Clark Beyond the Pale, 24 Mar 014; Franklin Bruno, FB comment, 23 Mar 014; JBR; Oki Sogumi, “Notes about Saturday music”, at Salted Bunny, 23 Mar 014; Anne Lesley Selcer, FB comment, 24 Mar 014; bits from Les Figues blurb for Sawako Nakayasu, The Ants; JBR, FB comment, 25 Mar 014; title of a show at the International Center of Photography, via Beth E Wilson, FB comment, 25 May 014; Hazel Sullivan, FB post, 25 Mar 014; JBR; Thom Donovan, FB post, 25 Mar 014]
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