There are also endless things in Santa’s heart. I asked Terry this morning what he thought of climate change. He’s a Yorkshire man and not daft. He said why, have you found a cure? Keep the droolroom greased, Letitia; to put the lisp on it, I lay there like cheese on toasted princesses, but it rips its heart out the mumbling cherrypit. The mailman came at noon and the moon was far offline. The G.P.S. A dog and the moon, the airwaves: I changed the page into a tracking system. The Dwelling descended. I want to tell you about the dream. The California is a paradise lake with colorful animals dream. The when I go back to my homeland California is a paradise I am happy for you dream in which Alexander the Great damager of farflung lands invented the caterpillar, ravager, personally, we were going ever so through the dusty eucalyptus the dusty eucalyptus & shadow road in the “opposite of blindness” & “relinquished speech” the lake is to the left. On one side, a tall Pink bird invented space and time and called it Flamingo, & there, other small & medium birds shiny & loose with pockets of Geryon-ash-what-can-be-lit & an eye of spit. It turns out that Furby Booms were banned from the American Department of Intelligence because of the myth that they would memorize what you said, which was never the myth. But like any ghost that cannot achieve phenomenal presence, even the signature of “America” has no essential identity to claim but instead marks the space of nothing beats a good shit. ‘But now I realize the hard voice box is the Furby’s cockroach and cockroaches are everywhere and it might be the very best thing to dress them in sweetness and love so we can approach as fully as possible and encounter the limits of, well, you can just hide the soap, or get hand lotion, as it says in the epitaphs grimly carved on whitecaps, each wave offers another swank eyelid or else barbers smearing pep-pills on their toes know to hide these last nubilities in rags of pied piper and snorts (cyclotron in chains) or else I rub the small of her back with the small of my dick.’ They hand me the bullhorn and I’m on. It’s usually too late by then — once I asked the Chief why me? why a poet? wouldn’t a standup comedian be more uh? Yeah they would he but like if it’s poetry we can get a grant. I stand there and address my saddest lines to the dog fugitive holed up in his mad grudge, what’d I say? Yesterday I started with “The haystack itches where the needle is, but it can’t reach that far.” But today I’m peeved by something I just read, so I tell the crazed killer: EACH THOUGHT EMITS A CAST OF ITSELF. Like babies or proletariats. The estate is not to state. No more ever. No sacked substance, no leg. On the wool of sound some object of silence I ate out of your hand. The issue is love, the only thing worth having is poisonous. Who stops who gazes? I have seen certain shapes. Their voices are apocryphal. There, giant cats scratch the earth. But then again every idea of ‘law’ implies that there is something worth more than life, something we can sacrifice or risk life for. A “dragon fly” zooming through the forest, setting all living and dead things ablaze and touching off acidic inflammatory desires; a tiny monster starved for millennia, now destroying everything it can in anagrammatic wrath; not an it, not a me, not a you, but a pathogenic bass line them; Planet MOA-2011-BLG-274 b was discovered in 2014 and has a mass of 0.8 (± 0.3) MJ and a semi-major axis of 40.0 AU; which is to say, if you were born on a Saturday, or, the stars, if tipped towards Saturn, if there are no trees, if you were born on a Monday, if the snow is silver, if you were born on a Wednesday, because of the day and the year that you were born, you are the luckiest dog in the pack. In the case of Gregor, tho, not one member of his family consoles the guy by, for example, pointing out that a beetle is also a living thing, and turning into one might be an exhilarating and elevating experience, and so what’s the problem? In the movie I co-wrote and directed of George Langelaan’s short story The Fly, I have our hero Seth Brundlesay, while deep in the throes of his transformation, “I’m an insect who dreamt he was a man and loved it. But now the dream is over, and the insect is awake.” True or false: Midwest white baby boomers are obsessed with property values because they think it symbolizes how awesome they are at being human, but it doesn’t, it symbolizes a racist white hierarchy of made up ponzi scheme bullshit but Midwest parents pray at the altar of sitcom nightmares and cable news absurdity. If you asked a Midwest baby boomer if they would like a vacation to Machu Picchu, they’d say no way. Like, at one point in the novel Tom is a little boy and goes to the principal’s office and a teacher tells him, “I see a guy before me with so much potential,” then says, “But you’re just wasting it all away. You have no ambition,” I think Tom is like ten when someone says that to him. Why would someone tell a child that, but people do, people are always up each other’s asses about ambition. Tom grows up anyway even though he has no ambition, he ends up working for the transportation department and living in New York City and smoking weed. Every worm is this-is-so-cool. Saying every sparrow is subject to restitution while almost any tax expert moos like a doggy. By your putting them to rest they take ‘full effect’ with no attachment to addictive capital — “when you remember Lacan read Lacan from the start. After him, seems mathematical to think about transmissions favorably, tho programmers have a fiercely vandal like impression of judgment under uncertainty.” So this is an edit. “That’s as close as I have to lush, ennobling a pulse.” I’m here too, waiting for everyone I can’t stop waiting for. All right, I should add even as the collaborative level is raised here and there, Heavy Queen Neptune, a steamy guitarist said, “write something about me,” so evidently I do. No, that’s not someone with a hacking cough, another sea lion. If a spoon and saliva’s involved, is a prostate exam legit? Yee ha! The question I will ask today is simple: how have I tried, how has it been possible, in my work, to read Marx with and after Foucault? And both, after Hortense Spillers? I breathe what you release and you breathe what I release. By its nature, the shadow is connection (more than it is internalization or intersection only): it literally joins with the feet with which we are walking, with the angle with which we are moving. Shadow is a somatic extension of our mood. Where I squat, in the middle, I breathe with my shadow, even at times into it (like CPR) as a way of breathing with myself. True or false, the earth asks more of us than the Bible does: drink soup with me, breadcrumbs on the snow.
[Note: Sources: a mashup of Jonty Tiplady, “FKA-DERRIDA.pdf / CLIMATE CHANGE ROMANTIC COMEDY / SNUGGLR APP”, Bill Knott, “Poem”, “SWAT Poem”, “Each Thought Emits A Cast Of Itself”, in DROPPING SYLVIA PLATH ON HIROSHIMA AND OTHER NEW POEMS 12:46 p.m., EST (USA), November 27, 2010, Alan May, “Tracking Systems”, “Flowers”, “The End of All Being”, in Tracking Systems, Eleni Sikelianos, “from The California Poem”, at Jacket 23, Édouard Glissant, “Cities” (tr. Betsy Wing), quoted in John K, “Poems: Édouard Glissant”, at J’s Theater, 13 Mar 012, Cecilia Corrigan, “Tune”, at Glitter Pony 8, Fred Moten, “Njeeri Wa Thiong’o”, at Ron Hogan’s Beatrice, 14 Feb 010; JBR; Kristin Prevallet, “LIFE IS UNPREDICTABLE. ANYTHING CAN HAPPEN. And it already has …”, quoted in her “Happy 2015: Year of the Green Wooden Sheep”, at Trance Poetics, 31 Dec 014; David Cronenberg, “The Beetle and the Fly”, at The Paris Review, 17 Jan 014; JBR; Noah Cicero, “Spotlight on Andrew Worthington’s Walls”, at Enclave, 29 Dec 014; JBR; Jack Kimball, “Every worm is this-is-so-cool” (cancelled post), “Architecturally, you’re my business”, at Pantaloons, 30 Dec 014; Paul E Nelson, “Last of the 2014 American Sentences”, at Paul E Nelson, 30 Dec 014; JBR; Antonio Negri, “A Marxist experience of Foucault” (tr. Arianna Bove), at Generation Online (the talk was given at the “Colloque Marx-Foucault, Nanterre, 18-19 dicembre 2014”); JBR (I don’t think Negri’s advanced as far as Spillers yet … in spite of his name); j/j hastain, “By its nature …”, at Truck, 30 Dec 014 (cancelled post); JBR; Robert Kelly, “Heart Thread 121 & 122”, at Mill of Particulars, 30 Dec 014]
Comments