Zeitgeist Spam

In the House of the Hangman 1902

And I understood your language down to the scraped layer of cake if cake was as good as hearing your words all over again and again and again until I heard each gravel of tone like an avant eruption of noise, each frag reborn into something totally new totally old totally worn, wazillion thread sheets, 1920s French porn, big band New Orleans headliner. As a result, one is ‘healed’ from what Vattimo considers to be the violence of metaphysics. This ‘convalescent’ aspect of Verwindung occurs through the hermeneutical event of the act of interpretation. Determined in this manner, Vattimo’s philosophy of ‘weak thought’ involves a withdrawal from metaphysics by avoiding new foundations or complete assent to any position. I mean, it should be like Oz comes out, balding, ugly and grey, saying “it’s not me anyway.” For example, I could always be president because I sleep and daydream too much. It’s true. How is it that everyone knows the trade agreements are just plain cruelty, a degree away from holocaust orthodoxy and yet ad continuity ad nausea. Ahem. Well the good news is we don’t have to watch what we say because History will be unemployed in the future. Note to historian: Please write, “She knew she was great.” (No. She knew HOW NOT great she was which made her great. And she knew the system. Muse on that, historian. It will help you become a better human and not write such superficial biography. Thanks.) Mertz! And I was serious! Take me seriously, dammit! What tone is serious anymore? How do we know when anyone is being serious, when the serious sentences were used to rub the crotches and the banks of so many suits?! Mertz! Mertz is so serious, dear Alain, did you ever read Zamyatin’s “We”? It’s what Orwell based 1984 on. He got kicked out of Russia before it was Bolshevik. But Zamyatin foretold a world where everything was algebra and the only thing to wake up the creativity, the poetry pole you juxtapose against math, the Dionysius to your linear Apollo, well let’s just say Dionysius didn’t dance without Venus. Do you think Venus exists? You must believe in the ***, the undefined, the ***, the poetry that beds the data when it’s young and vomiting on the floor, before it grows into a tall and strong polynomial chain. You said you did. Should I just ask somebody to write me a prescription and forget about it? The arc soars like a singular licence for shadows to freak on the drooling sanguine disco childhood house music club buried beneath the sand made by thousands of silkworms and one sad robot celery strings banjo wax festival inveterate dance cane under and then over x. Rage, Caesar, of why should I make a villain of world protest there are lots of things colouring your vision, not just this buzz. Art isn’t even art anymore and might not even be mad vanilla and yet there is a lot to be deduced from this for example slam-dunking prosody is for wimps, and Google’s future installation art portal compared to Matt Damon’s hard and trippy face in the immense autumn atrium of the trees which I don’t know it’s just an illusion, Shakespeare was right, and there is infinite sex, not just for us and I don’t even want a fucking revolution but no, seriously, bantam leaf dab to angelic preterition of apparel anonymous hung fender to the gulf blue of bolts to the floor by way of the neural rayed starry intake of marine feathers upgraded to chillax recant of real grade huff. I crime towards you aggressively with an already-broken bat in my hand a flashing mental accent cube rests atop the laboratory spirit icons bounce hollow on their bar font headings churn paste on the mountain action what makes my cloth and my food eroded cantaloupe skin on vague animal ideas the 1812 invention of gas streetlamps. A pregnant bear sits on municipal ground, a piper at the gates of prepared slaughter this superimposed shitsponge logic the withering spirit of most lemons, I buy an orb-shaped glass orb and a designer candle and go home to play minimalist drone music backchanneling an elder about acupuncture receiving dull, potato-shaped aches, Pepsi will bring your ancestors back from the dead. If you haven’t been here before and are wondering what this is about, you might wish to start with “What are otherkin?” The neighbor, a kindly Mennonite, watches from his porch for pattern changes that confirm his cosmic suspicions, hybridized-grass lawns, cut to spec, so against the dictates of any nature I can imagine. This too feels like an allusion. I would, if I could pay for the place — or maybe a hedge maze or labyrinth. I mean, I wonder, is my eudaimonia an option? All regular expressions reduce to questions of authority, which is why A Barefoot Doctor’s Manual prescribes Coptis Root (Chu Sha / Zhu Sha / Huang Lian) for night terrors, but also as a remedy for foul breath and the rampant proliferation of corn-based products. Or take a later manifestation of this rethinking, when in II.ii the cladistic association of “condor dinosaur” leads us, eventually, to “piece curio old / desk drawers rail / ties ladder rung.” “This is a photo of a dodo,” said Marie. She pointed to a photograph of a dodo drawn in pencil, and Mina looked. Above the photograph hung the dodo drawing, set in double glass and framed in wood. Long ago, before Marie and Louise were Marie and Louise, Mina told Marie to read Louise’s sentence. The sentence was 120 pages and full of word play, like crisis jubilee, which sounds like a dessert one should eat on New Year’s Eve. In the foyer, Mina placed her keys on the Louise’s grandmother’s writing desk, a kidney shaped structure made of tulip wood. Louise returned from one of the nearby markets where she had picked out a pink pony piñata with the help of their son. “We almost bought a turtle,” he said later. Several poets, all of them female, donated several kinds of services, including commissioned poems, palm readings, and Tarot consultations. OK. This book is dedicated to the Soviet Space Dogs, who played a crucial part in the Soviet Space program. These homeless dogs, plucked from the streets of Moscow, were selected because they fitted the program's criteria: weighing no more than 15 pounds, measuring no more than 14 inches in length, robust, photogenic and with a calm temperament. These characteristics enabled the dogs to withstand the extensive training that was needed to prepare them for suborbital, then for orbital, space fights. On 3 November 1957, the dog Laika was the first Earth-born creature to enter space, making her instantly famous around the world. She did not return. Her death, a few hours after launching, transformed her into a legendary symbol of sacrifice. Two further strays, Belka and Strelka, were the first beings to make it back from space, and were swiftly immortalized in children’s books and cartoons. Images of the Space Dogs proliferated, reproduced on everyday goods across the USSR: cigarette packets, tins of sweets, badges, stamps and postcards all bore their likenesses. Soviet Space Dogs uses these unique items to illustrate the story (in fact and fiction) of how they became fairytale idols. The first book to document these items, it contains more than 350 images, almost all of which are previously unpublished, and many of which have never been seen before outside Russia. OK. I could have it all wrong. Ophelia finds the right wormhole at last, what does it represent that you forgot the claim but everything, OK, alright, I really do like drinking water from the tap, the yoga Hamlet placemat, Lapland in Palm Springs, and should do and oneself energetically spray in love with the adrift stray oblong. What kind of hamster am I anyway, me, the nunnery, the ghost of Hairpin’s mother, not just on Berkeley campus, where living energy on the incandescent lake, but. Since when was this world made to last, it was not. And never can or will be, or not yet. Then Jesus says go Holliwood where is your flannel and your soap clam. All tears are so important. I can’t believe tears exist. A dead bird lands on your belly like a scrap of heaven, or whatever, and then there is you: like Genet in Palestine, killing the mimosa of memefication and switching it down the talc, Hello. Hello back. I think my problem is a shitty psychological one, I don’t think, I’m kept up at night by terrible visions of Ezra Pound throwing me into a dungeon. And then by “Cities”, by H.D., in which the world is broken down into “aesthetes versus larvae”. And then by an alternate reality in which the musical Cats is based off Zukofsky’s cat poems instead of T.S. Eliot’s cat poems. And by a horribly unanswerable question: is Cats now better, or is Zukofsky now worse? Put simply, this shift is from maximalism to responsive variability. What do you do next? That’s what responsive variability is, a way to get more surplus aesthetic, economic, and political value from maxed-out noise. (To Jeffrey Nealon’s expansion→ intensification model of capitalism, I’d add → responsive variability. He argues that expansion has been maxed out as a way to generate profits – that’s the result of, among other things, globalization. Intensification is how capitalism adapts – instead of conquering new, raw materials and markets, it invests more fully in what already exists. But once investment is maxed out, then, I think, comes responsive variability: responsiveness and adaptation are optimized.)

[Note: Sources: Katy Bohinc, “New Orleans”, “Ode to Jack Spicer during the Debt Crisis in the Nation’s Capital Where I Live(d)”, at Poor Claudia, “from Dear Alain”, at Open Letters Monthly; “Gianni Vattimo”, at Internet Encyclopedia of Philosophy; JBR; Jonty Tiplady, “FKA-DERRIDA.pdf / CLIMATE CHANGE ROMANTIC COMEDY / ANY PARTIES”; Emily Skillings, “Among Elsewhere”, “Backchannel”, “Pepsi Will Bring Your Ancestors Back From The Dead”, at Poor Claudia; “Otherkin.net Harmony & Discord”, at Otherkin.net; John Estes, “Mower’s Song”, “Pattern and Fault”, at The Offending Adam 175.1; Ryan Wynet, editor’s note, in “Matthew Hittinger:: Cross Bucket Candle Knife”, at The Offending Adam 714.1; Teresa Carmody, “Foyer”, “Front Porch”, in Maison Femme: A Fiction, at Two Serious Ladies; JBR; Amazon blurb for Olesya Turkina, Damon Murray, and Stephen Sorrell, Soviet Space Dogs; JBR; various, at I Shall Destroy Everything Around Me That Prevents, 31 Dec 014; Robin James, “Some Philosophical Implications Of The ‘Loudness War’ And Its Criticisms”, at It’s Her Factory, 31 Dec 014]

In the House of the Hangman 1901

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]

In the House of the Hangman 1900

So what will save us? Duh. You’ve read 1.5 million words of this thing and still don’t know? OK, I’ll spell it out: crunking all this / I haven’t met you, or Wendy, but I love you both equally and in the year in which which we can’t breathe in and of course I am with you, as well as with the other suicide moths for free with curry sauce plus if they kill you with their hammers and tape I will piss all over them, this time urethrally like wings that dash down the non-existent angel of the anthropocene of Cordelia’s nothing, as Drake says on the break point of inter-species inter alia rebellion, so what were we all riled up about? Every hair on your head is worth infinitely more than the magically passive aggressive peak kale firesuit melting on my floor. None of this is about numbers, obviously. About which was I, I was saying what? Get your feet off the backs of the other people’s velveteen bunnies … You bought me a Twix and insulted me and now you have to choose: Mondrian or Klee? Whose song negates traffic patterns and goes to a talk with like twelve people there two of whom I love and one of whom is you? that’s it, that’s the cipher for “ideal community,” or as DH Lawrence reborn might say, it’s time to eat some cake, and to read Hegel, it is Wednesday, on a boat, the ship of death, hierarchies of power move like doors and I am not dreaming, now it is autumn and the falling fruit will eat some cake and go listen to the stairs toward the stars with the cake, where is the cake? on Wednesday when we eat some cake and read some Hegel, we’re all going to … what? what? A Seated Pigeon Turned Makes Sculpture [great art is a great mistake]. On a walk, kids in a yard yell after us, “You love each other!” until we’re out of sight. Smoking at the bus station in Centralia. Pointing out Cygnus, Cassiopeia, getting confused about Scorpio, Delfinus, Draco. Riding buses together, we see skunk-cabbage spathes’ flames along the road in March. You show me how to gather firewood and sterilize stream water. I point out fawn lilies is what I think they’re called. I would apologize for the weather, and still will. Sweating plastic sheeting taped over. Thinking up better names for the Venus lily: stenchblossom, purple dildoflower. Sulfur breeze mounts the buckled pavement. I mean, like the other day, when I watched the cat sitting like cats can with her paws folded inwardly towards her own chest. I said to my loved one: ‘the cat is also praying for us’. You see? A remark like that is not the result of reflection, it is just a strange thought being formed into words. I was completely baffled about his reaction, though. He said, completely serious: ‘yes, in my country (which is in West Africa) it is said that only human beings can skip their prayers and live. Animals can not skip one day – or they will die. They always have to pray.’ And yet … and yet … who said anything about being saved? It’s a hazard, it’s OK, you didn’t know. I hate to say it, but this news isn’t news. I know there is nothing else to it, but can’t we just meet at the Getty and carpool from there? I stick a blanket in my bass drum now, too, dad. We all sleep with white noise now, too, dad. It’s more gorgeous than we could’ve possibly imagined. The chill sent by that and the unknown fungus, which looked like bubble gum in June. Sent a pic, subject line: “...” But I knew that, and in my heavy tiptoe west I also knew I was asking too much, visiting cities too probable to be real. Took an anti-inflammatory. I do move slowly. With so much residue refusing to unhinge from the walls the solo voice “Starsailor” the singer multiplied himself into an astral choir. Sixteen strands of vocal goo -- Weirdly, the words were among his best ever -- a sort of erotic-mystic Fauvist beat poetry, all ‘baited moans’, like ‘Though I memorized the slope of water / Oblivion carries me on his shoulder / Beyond the suns I speak and circuits shiver.” I mean, true or false?

HEY HEY
HO HO
OWL-BATS AND DONKEYMEN HAVE GOT TO GO
HEY HEY
HO HO
OWL-BATS AND DONKEYMEN HAVE GOT TO GO

And I thought: is this a discussion about poetry? Or is this a discussion about how you position yourself in the world, about how you want to live your life? (Or is that simply the discussion that I personally and didactically want to have?) Which is to say that the politics of form is really a discussion about the politics of content. Which is to say that in 1676 Dr. J. Beal of Somersetshire also discovered some glowing veal haunch, but instead of delicately making out with it for the cause of inquiry like Robert Boyle did he just wrote a stupid letter to the Royal Society about “a story of Goblins” or something. Just fuck the mysterious veal dude. So hi-hi! Hail the Industrial Age, hail! Now the observatory’s been ransacked for its myths, the telescope shattered to a million bifocals. The furrier uses em now to sew tiny rabbit mitts, the ground was already cramped with the buried, year of the rat: 10 yields of sorghum. Year of the dragon: 10 yields of sorghum. Year of the dog: 1 yield of sorghum. Year of the monkey: a drought. I am covetous of you & curse our birth order, do you know your laughter carries isself to our lornsome hills, I long for lightspeed Shangdu, like teatree oil to ward off mosquitoes.

[Note: Sources:JBR; Jonty Tiplady, “FKA-DERRIDA.pdf / CLIMATE CHANGE ROMANTIC COMEDY” (attached to an email from Jonty rec’d 29 Dec 014 approx 6:39 AM PST, the email reading in part “Do feel free to use it, mangle it, remix it -- I love seeing that being done to it, I feel like there can be a real shock in seeing it in new contexts, plugged in to other voices. I love it. It’s all part of the same project – FKA-DERRIDA.pdf – but I don’t know how it will fit together yet. Fuck knows.”); JBR; “With Intimations of a Polemic”, “Notes on Lawrence’s Ship of Death”, at [“IT’S TIME TO HOP TO THE BLUES”], 29 Dec 014; tumblr title, and “Ten Years”, at A Seated Pigeon Turned Makes Sculpture, 29 Dec 014 (I feel sad that I can’t know or if I knew can’t recall whose tumblrs these are …); JBR; Angela Roothan, “Praying Animals”, at —angelaroothaan, 28 Dec 014; Issa; JBR; Wendy Lotterman, “small remainders”, “Secondary Characteristics”, at Hypocrite Reader; Simon Reynolds, “Mouth Music #46”, at Blissblog, 29 Dec 014; JBR; various, at I Shall Destroy Everything Around Me That Prevents, 29 Dec 014; Daniel Borzutsky, “Delusions of Progress”, at Harriet, 29 Dec 014; Cathy Park Hong, “Aubade”, “Year of the Pig”, “Gift”, at Octopus 12]

In the House of the Hangman 1899

Too hard to get to, they say, 10000 mountains made of tears, a hairless broom remained so we take an iron shovel to hell, & sleeping I only can run down the stairs, a pill

………………..it’s…………………….over now
…………we had it

………………with…….ALL……present at
………………………………………….times
………………for………………………to behold
………………………………………….called & callin’

& the rabbit

& such justice is the province of the powerful
……………………………where the wall
enclosing us begins to burn
the eye spins in its socket
men with hammers change the faces
of those we love……they drag them
slithering & pale behind their wheels

it is too cold
he says: my hand is looking for a hand
he says: the paper has erased its words
& fallen dumb

For the word “daemon” here (the name of a character in Wilson Harris’s Resurrection at Sorrow Hill) speaks to a spirit with a power to “bring together the human and natural sciences in a new projected science of the human able to constitute demonic models of cognition.” As examples, let’s think then of Jonkonnu, Vodou, Palo Mayombé, Santería, Carnival Mas, their arts, musics, and philosophies, as expressions of these models, as sketches of possible epistemologies projected from a demonic (broken) ground. Let’s think of Lorca’s duende – black song, deep song — along with its Caribbean incarnation in the plantation spirit / sprite called the douen. And all the syncretic transformations and sub/versions of knowledge systems. From Nomos to Nommo. I mean,

Buenos días, Carlos.

Cómo está? 

Je suis devant la fenêtre.

Wǒ yǒu yìdiǎnr bù gāoxìng. 

Vous êtes devant la fenêtre. 

Nǐ yǒu yìdiǎnr bù gāoxìng. 

Pero Ud. piensa ahora en su lección. 

Vous ne sortez pas parce que vous ne voulez pas. 

Oui, parfaitement.

Vous éprouvez du plaisir en voyant ou en entendant des choses agréables. 

Naneun gogimyeo saengseonimyeo gariji anko jal meogeoyo.

Oui, parfaitement. 

La peur est une autre émotion.

Meokgo sipeumyeon meogeo boryeom.

Something about I want (must) to see what’s under these flowers

scram munch creature, few moon, scram, few moon ( / scram)
munch, moon, creature, scram, few, munch, moon, creature

scram munch creature, my charms are a thousand times weather-beaten!
you are versus what it’s all about, at the very least
scram munch creature, the gigantic air is crowded with your immense numbers

Tiresias the birds. Tiresias who sees what only a child could see, who blunders up from hell and hell is not underground. Says riots are a work of vast and incomprehensible mourning, a border a burning weird – this really happened we have no fucking demands and Tiresias summoned voices of the vast dead charts of incomprehensible bird flight, everywhere we are those birds and it don’t mean shit the cops don’t know this, and white phosphorous stinks far outside the permissions of our sight, and we live there. ‘We won’t scratch the green wall’ the skull nodded; ‘you will be slapped to death if you don’t glow in the dark’ (and now there is a cure against gravity) (our beds on the stairs were no beds at all). I didn’t mean to drink it they mingled the bottles the color they injected in my eyelids (we were not afraid of the animals appearing beyond our eyelids), we saw our faces on a piece of soap and sliced it, and spread it, and remember the valleys, they move so fast. Someone or something dancing on the outskirts of the green planet; soon or later kids you will embrace this octopus, you hear what I’m sayin? Scrub jays experienced in theft hide food from potential thieves. Dogs can learn the names of hundreds of objects. Dolphins modify their signature whistles depending on whom they are currently aligned with. Trout would rather be shocked than be alone. Do apes read minds? Humans are ugly. There are few things in life more pleasant than the laughter of a snake. This is because the cephalopods, the squids and octopi, lowly creatures though they may seem, have perfected a form of communication that is both psychedelic and “telepathic” — an octopus does not communicate with small mouth noises, even though water is a good medium for acoustic signaling. Rather, the octopus becomes its own uh opalescence anticipates neon, and language gives birth to a neon psychedelic peephole into my wing drive, which is full of ever more implausible, beautiful and self-fulfilling rays. Both Gosling and Lee Kang-Sheng are beautiful Tiqqunian Young-Girls, but whereas Gosling plays different tonalities and faces (he is woozy and jokey in The Notebook, for example, but placid and hedonic in Only God Forgives), Lee Kang-Sheng is always really only uh in that first scene on the street in I Don’t Want To Sleep Alone it is enough that Lee Kang-Sheng be in the frame. He hardly has to do anything. The silence of Tsai Ming Liang’s films is often taken for granted (in reality they are full of mesmerising background noise). Gosling’s silence is provisional, always liable to break out into cute macho banter. Lee Kang-Sheng stays consistent. Speech becomes an unnecessary luxury. He has given up on it. His silence, really just nothing more than an incarnate retreat or human blockade, is also the sign of ecological excess, of capital having overtaken the social and every other planetary domain. The other Young-Girl-object in the film is the mattress, which Lee Kang-Sheng is first rolled on to after being beaten up by the money swindler’s henchmen at the start of the film. The mattress is as carefully managed as any of the bodies in the film. It is cleaned, folded and debugged and carried from place to place. The final shot of the film, held for several minutes, is of the mattress drifting into view on the lagoon, a raft with Lee Kang-Sheng, Chen Shiang-Chyi and Rawang all on it. We are left with the world scattered into disparate polemological nodes: the sound of a water machine, crouching by a concrete lagoon, the putter of flip flips, a giant-docile-penis-resembling bean bag, fishing with a butterfly on one’s shoulder, a double hand job, and the question of whether you can tell someone has their eyes open when you are sleeping next to them. Really Lee Kang-Sheng’s presence is as listless and psychedelic as an octopus, who cannot not communicate, and cannot not be the model for any short term humanity. War becomes war within all the vectors, and that war is taking place. “I’ve only just” are reassuring words, aren’t they? ... The chromium dioxide memory ain’t what it used to be for some of us … but we still might have a few examples stashed away … memories of the medium bearing ancient messages, mixes or, in my case (“Is this machine recording?”). Loops, static ... all that noise that memories make, even when you can’t remember anything. Like Dogen’s view of mortality, the story engages death before it may [not] have happened, requiring scenes and coincidental backdrops be replayed, special terms like “waves” to recur as they do at sea (“repetition … of events will make a crack, will crack”) (“the boy is a crushed rose on the cement”) amid the nonwilled state (“the high waves of grass flickering in color where [no] one will be …”). The novella could read as even tempered theoretical interchange of matrices connecting, for instance, Gertrude Stein’s continuous present to Walter Benjamin’s nostalgia for the now defunct interiority of an observer-as-flaneur, and apposite Kathy Acker’s absolute present as pain emptied through plagiarism. Or Dahlia’s Iris could be experienced as a brainy refusal disguised as festive appropriation where story lines from some favored movies (“Invasion of the Body Snatchers,” “Blade Runner”) are researched and repurposed to, well, as the other Henri Lefebvre might say, “… • In 1970, Robert Filliou offers Bengt Adlers the drawing Meditation Bound, representing three men with closed eyes; after Filliou’s death, the central figure mysteriously disappears from the drawing • A French museum loses, or destroys, the film for an installation by Alain Fleischer: the face of a young woman projected onto the blades of a fan; for want of anything better, the museum replaces this lost image with that of the curator’s secretary • Incomplete, the last novel of Brigitte Reimann (GDR) who dies suddenly in 1973 at the age of forty • During World War II, twenty-nine works by Alexander Calder, Michel Seuphor … disappear forever from the collections of the Museum of Lodz, the first European museum of modern art • In 1969, David Hockney develops a passion for the tales of Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm, reads three hundred and fifty of them, plans to illustrate twelve of them, but only illustrates six • It is not known what became of Saint Charles Borromeo Giving Communion to the Plague-Stricken, a work painted by Pierre Mignard for the high altar of San Carlo ai Catenari; in 1677, he decorated the small gallery of Versailles, which was destroyed in 1736; his St. Luke Painting the Virgin of 1695 remains unfinished • Except for two receipts, no handwritten text by Molière has reached posterity • A bas-relief by Giacometti represented four legs arranged in a cross; the work was destroyed when his attention was drawn to the pattern’s close resemblance to the Nazi swastika • At the fourth chapter, Pierre Michon abandons writing his novel The Eleven; later, he burns his pornographic texts • Whether in life or in the novel (we no longer know), Nina Bouraoui (Nina B.) takes some photographs of Diane (D.), then tears them up “in a rage” • After two years of work, Julio Cortázar abandons writing a biography of John Keats • …” Flow charts mark the failure of eye beams to remain fixed. There’s the melting, as of lava in Pahoa, flowing downhill, through chain link. The newspaper reports every foot of it, the week-long pauses. Walk for your life, someone jokes. The mystery is not that it exists, but when it will erase the strip mall’s parking lot. “What did he just say? Did she really just say that? Did I hear what I think I heard? Did that just come out of my mouth, his mouth, your mouth?” This happened. This happened. And this happened. In repetition, the self is disconnected from the self, because that which repeats becomes the thing, itself, and everything else fades away. So OK. “Suppose that the worst has happened. Human extinction is a fait accompli … Picture a world from which we all suddenly vanished … Might we have left some faint, enduring mark on the universe? … Is it possible that, instead of heaving a huge biological sigh of relief, the world without us would miss us?” However much I might doubt a positive answer to that, I am drawn to Weisman’s experiment as it tellingly demonstrates how the current crisis can precipitate a sense of the present that disconnects the future from the past by putting such a future beyond the grasp of historical sensibility.

[Note: Sources: Stefan Hyner and Jerome Rothenberg, quoted in Rothenberg’s “Stefan Hyner & Jerome Rothenberg: Vienna & the German Tidiness, An Exchange”, at Poems and Poetics, 19 Dec 010; Christopher Winks, “Comments on Sylvia Wynter”, at CUNY Academic Commons, 26 Mar 012; JBR; Michael Joselph Walsh, “Glossolalia”, at Word for /Word 24; Jeff Harrison, “Scram Munch Creature”, at Word for /Word 24; Sean Bonney, “ftp ///// Corpus Hermeticum”, at Abandoned Buildings, 28 Dec 014; Purdey M. Kreiden, “From: The Testimony of my Sister”, at BlazeVOX 11; JBR; blurb for Kristin Andrews, The Animal Mind. An Introduction to the Philosophy of Animal Cognition, and Do Apes Read Minds? Toward a New Folk Psychology, at Kristin Andrews; JBR; Helen Oyeyemi, Boy, Snow, Bird, at elanormcinerney, 28 Dec 014; Terence McKenna, Food of the Gods, and Jonty Tiplady, quoted in Tiplady’s “the explosive act of kissing”, “Aide-Mémoire (7): Lee Kang Sheng’s Ass Is A Global Village”, at Trillionaires, 28 Dec 014; Robin Tomens, “Felix Kubin - Chromdioxidgedächtnis (Gagarin Records)”, at Include Me Out, 28 Dec 014; JBR; Jack Kimball, “To float in Buddhist …”, at Pantaloons, 28 Dec 014; JBR, but see next; Henri Lefebvre, The Missing Pieces (tr. David L Sweet), at Berfrois, 22 Dec 014; Susan M Schultz, “11”, at Tinfish Editor’s Blog, 28 Dec 014; Claudia Rankine, Citizen, and Aaron Bady, quoted in Bady’s “Citizen, Occasional Poetry”, at The New Inquiry, 28 Dec 014; JBR; Dipesh Chakrabarty, “The Climate of History: Four Theses”, in Critical Inquiry 35, at University of Victoria Law; JBR]

In the House of the Hangman 1898

I mean, in spite of everything, I protected an elephant as much as I could, I watered little drums right away and entangled the Sava River. I putrefied a small soup. We people die, only the white mushroom, you come from the valley, from your spine. From something more? Bricks are yellow, made of polyvinyl, fattish. Lights switch on, at least one juxtaposition between tree trunks. The hand’s move is always the first one. And the opening of your little mouth: yours, yours, yours, my great-grandmother milled an old man and swallowed him. She dangled from the terrace. She’s confused all the more if there’s a wind. She doesn’t like croissants. The death is worn out, she decants old gasoline. She loves hardship. The death is also stoned. He’s constantly clapping his hands, clapping. I hear he got gold coins, we’ll buy a garden. We’ll invite all people, he’ll clap, he’ll clap. He’s near, he’s near, the man who claps and laughs. “We will put up the mountains. We will lay out the prairie. We will cut rivers to join the lakes.” “Good luck to each of you.” And I meant it. I mean, there r so many brilliant moments. & another scene … narrator says there r no terrorists in world only murderers & the “you” becomes a murderer & the narrator declares her masochism “revolutionary” bc i suppose in the bdsm apocalyptic utopia of acker’s book the ability to find pleasure in pain rather than pleasure in bringing pain 2 others is the closest act to the most radical thing of all — love. hence “there is a basic agreement that the act of kissing is far more explosive than that of fucking” /// section 1 ends w/ open colon at moment of authorial boredom almost. So. “We went around to Captain Beefheart and the Magic Band’s house and smoked a lot of pot and Don put on Reich’s “Come Out”. We lounged around the living room while a guy with a really deep voice repeated the phrase overandoverandover until it turned into many different ideas. When the record was over, the needle skipped and skipped, so we listened to that for a while too. I, personally, could find no meaning in it, but I tried. We went outside and stood around in a circle. I rolled my eyeballs in one direction and then the other, trying to stop them in midspin.” Which is why, in this issue of the Proceedings of the Society of Drinking a Lot of Cough Syrup, we take up this last question and explore Monism. Like, some say that there is more than one object. It might seem, for example, that my table is one and my chair is one, so together they are more than one — they are two ones. But suppose for reductio that there is more than one one. Then the ones are not one. But one cannot be not one. So there is only one one. As an added advantage, these cars also follow paraconsistent logic, thus preventing Explosion. The difficulty of building these cars with dialetheic engineers (who both work and do not work, and are both paid and are not paid) is then discussed. I started writing Franklinstein on my 40th birthday after reading 2 books I owned but had never read before — The Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin and The Making of Americans. At the time I thought — I should mash those books up and call it Franklinstein — I thought I was so clever — And so I did that for a while—mashing up little pieces of other peoples words to make a monster —And it was so boring—it was so boring, my dead thing of parts. But then the church I grew up in, in Philadelphia, closed. The church where my mother and father were married. The church where they baptized their babies. A church I was no longer a part of, but wanted to see before I couldn’t see it ever again. The church in Philadelphia in a neighborhood I thought I knew — a place of rowhomes and vacants and schist. And when I went there to see that place — the place that was with me from my very beginning — I could see how I didn’t know it or its people. I could see how I needed to get to know them all over again. I knew that if I could come to know this place, it would breathe new life into my pieces. Later they spoke as symbols of the dark; or, The Mechanical Reproduction of the Sky, the Sky, the Sky. The URL you requested could not be found. It’s not after all that “history” is some kind of mission but that it had different ideas from his host. Or like Melville, he was too focused on capital, caught up, delivered like dental floss through a cog and force-fed: 20 years ago The Killer Shrews sang “bring me the fat in California.” But in Ljubljana people say: look! This is Tomaž Šalamun, he went to the store with his wife Marushka to buy some milk. He will drink it and. How to pumice the skin into pavement, how to define its feathers up and down. You crumple yourself in the fish pond. The vault was duped. Into the bag (before the giant with his eyes wakes up). These are fluffs. There’s the night with rams. The man agrees. He ascertains: Gustave Moreau is a dead stuffed sphinx. The verbs are what’s most fun: “getting,” for example, before “lost,” as if “lost” were a bauble.

[Note: Sources: JBR; Tomaž Šalamun (i.m.), “‘Lucretius grabbed my arm and lead [sic] me’” (trs. Michael Thomas Taren and Tomaž Šalamun), “Legs on the Signpost”, at Poetry Foundation, “We Lived in a Hug, Shivering with Cold” (trs. Brian Henry and Tomaž Šalamun), at The Paris Review, “The Loire Delta” (tr. Brian Henry), at Jacket 37, “From The Edge And The Night She Sorts Peas For Herself”, “Ling Lang-Lao About Her Husband Xu Fu-Tshu”, at Body, 17 Sept 013, “History by Tomaz Salamun” (trs. Tomaž Šalamun and Bob Perleman), at The Guardian, 28 May 014, “Irradiated Gnostics”, “Nabucco”, “What Does Poetry Do?” (trs. Michael Thomas Taren and Tomaž Šalamun), at BOMB, 10 Oct 014; Scott Geiger, “On the Wilderness Continent”, at Nautilus 101; JBR; Cassandra Gillig, “there r so many brilliant moments …”, at Cassandra Gillig Dumb Poetry Blog, 27 Dec 014; JBR; Pamela Des Barres, I’m with the Band: Confessions of a Groupie, quoted in Dennis Cooper, “Revamped: Pamela Des Barres Shrine (orig. 12/14/06)”, at DC’s, 27 Dec 014; JBR; “Monism special issue”, at fauxphilnews, 26 Dec 014; Susan Landers, “Numbers: 5 days, 20 posts, milestones, markers”, at Franklinstein, 27 Dec 014; Traci Lynn Matlock, “Later they spoke …”, at The Body as Conduit, 26 Dec 014; result of attempt to trace a link in my RSS feed back to Jonty Tiplady, “Photo”, at Trillionaires, 27 Dec 014; Jean Vengua, “12/27/2014”, at Jean Vengua, 27 Dec 014; Susan M Schultz, “10”, at Tinfish Editor’s Blog, 27 Oct 014]

In the House of the Hangman 1897

(Enter Ariel.)

PROSPERO  Well, Ariel?

ARIEL  Mission accomplished.

PROSPERO  Bravo; good work! But what seems to be the matter? I give you a compliment and you don't seem pleased? Are you tired?

ARIEL  Not tired; disgusted. I obeyed you but why not come out with it? I did so most unwillingly. It was a real pity to see that great ship go down, so full of life.

PROSPERO  Oh, so you’re upset, are you! It’s always like that with intellectuals! So be it! What interests me is not your moods, but your deeds. Let’s split: I’ll take the zeal and you can keep your doubts. Agreed?

ARIEL  Master, I must beg you to spare me this kind of labor.

PROSPERO  (shouting) Listen, and listen well! I’ve got a job to do, and I don't care how it gets done!

ARIEL  You’ve promised me my freedom a thousand times, and I’m still waiting.

PROSPERO  Ingrate! And who freed you from Sycorax, may I ask? Who rent the pine in which you had been imprisoned and brought you forth?

ARIEL  Sometimes I almost regret it .... After all, I might have turned into a real tree in the end .... Tree: there's a word that really gives me a thrill. I think about it a lot: palm tree -- long, high fuse topped with nonchalant, squid-like elegance. Baobab -- like the soft entrails of some monster creature. Ask the calao bird that lives a cloistered season in its branches. Or the ceiba tree -- spread out beneath the proud sun. O bird, o green mansions set in the living earth!

PROSPERO  Stuff it! I don’t like talking trees. As for your freedom, you’ll have it when I'm good and ready. In the meanwhile, look after the ship. I’m going to have a few words with Master Caliban. I’ve been keeping my eye on him, and he's getting a little too emancipated. (Calling.) Caliban! Caliban! (He sighs.)

(Enter Caliban.)

CALIBAN  Uhuru!

PROSPERO  What did you say?

CALIBAN  I said, Uhuru!

PROSPERO  Back to your native language again. I’ve already told you, I don’t like it. You could be polite, at least; a simple “hello” wouldn’t kill you.

CALIBAN  Oh, I forgot... But as froggy, waspish, pustular and dung-filled a “hello” as possible. May today hasten by a decade the day when all the birds of the sky and beasts of the earth will feast upon your corpse!

One of the problems with Hangman is it’s too white, isn’t it? Tupi or not tupi that is the question. In the country of the big snake. [Every country has a big snake.] [Which is why my own personal country has a gray flag.] But for ourselves, we never admitted the birth of logic. The illiterate king told him: put this on paper but without too much talk. So the loan was made. Screenplays. Screenplays. Screenplays. Screenplays. Screenplays. Screenplays. Screenplays. Death and life of hypotheses. From the equation I coming from the Cosmos to the axiom Cosmos coming from the I. Subsistence. Knowledge. Against the vegetable elites. We already had communism. We already had a surrealist language. The golden age.

     Catiti Catiti
     Imara Notia
     Notia Imara
     Ipeju*

Magic and life. We had relations and distribution of fiscal property, moral property, and honorific property. And we knew how to transport mystery and death with the help of a few grammatical forms. I asked a man what was Right. He answered me that it was the assurance of the full exercise of possibilities. That man was called Galli Mathias. I ate him. Only God is the conscience of the Uncreated Universe, Guaraci is the mother of all living creatures. Jaci is the mother of vegetables. *“The New Moon, or the Lua Nova, blows in Everyman remembrances of me” in The Savages, by Couto Magalhaes. [Above, a million ellipses] I have a messed up ankle and I met an old witch woman who told me to walk 3 miles backwards while holding a dead fish. I don’t know why. Maybe you do.

And if I was wrong?

Test positive for
evergreen.

Extrude correlative
life studies.

Voice correspondence
ultimately.

                    Emit

the other dress.

Correspondences
Correlatives.

A logic of,

on or at Baudelaire’s

spread sheet,

that I’m so huge to the point of dying
like the enormous gray bear that sleeps while it walks
like the enormous black lace cloud fluttering above eyelids
like the dump truck leaking dribbles of oil in the middle of a desert
like the house with rotten stairs and six feet of dust collected in the ceiling
cloud’s nostalgia
I pulled that smelly thing
buttocks-cloud came down from the ceiling
a rope for strangling came down, but it dispersed as soon as it hanged a neck
the walls floated in air and barked
when I sang, all the sweat pores on my body salivated

It was the time before
I was born.
I was thin.
I was hungry.

Her neck was a Rembrandt made out of filth. Blood painted her teeth. Her nose had the same red, but crusts of white and brown came out of her eyes.

The Caribbean
English slaveowners
in the
nineteenth century
had injected a
chemical similar
to formic acid,
taken from two
members of the
stinging nettle
family, into the
already broken
skins of their …

A person who eats even a
small amount of the
tetrodotoxin of the
puffer fish or fungus
feels pale, dizzy, and
nauseous. Insects seem
to be crawling just
beneath the skin. The
body seems to float.
Drool drops out of the
mouth while sweat runs
out of the pores -- the
body is deserting the …

… recalcitrant
slaves. Ants
crawl ceaselessly
under the top
layer of skin.
And forced their
unwilling servants
to eat Jamaican
‘dumbcane’ whow
leaves, as if they
were actually tiny
slivers of glass,
irritating the
larynx and causing
local swelling,
made breathing
difficult and
speaking
impossible.
Unwilling to speak
means unable to
speak …

… body -- the head is
aching and almost no
temperature exists.
Material is cold. All
is ice. Nausea;
vomiting; diarrhoea; the
eyes are fixed; it is
almost not possible to
breathe; muscles twitch
then stop, paralyzed.
Unable to move you.
Eyes are glass you. The
soul lies in the eyes.
The mental faculties
remain acute until
shortly before death;
sometimes death does not
occur. Many many herbs.
In time, like ink on a
blotter, poison seeped
into the lives of the
whites. Poison entered
the apartments of the
bourgeoisie.

These thoughts in the sailor went round and round like hamsters strung out on dex.

[Note: Sources: Aime Césaire, The Tempest (tr. Richard Miller), at First Year Foundations; JBR; Oswaldo de Andrade, “Cannibal Manifesto” (trs. Mary Ann Caws and Claudia Caliman), at Exquisite Corpse 11; JBR; “Prophetic Dirge”, at [“IT’S TIME TO HOP TO THE BLUES.”], 26 DEC 014; Marjorie Welish, “from ‘The Same’”, in In the Futurity Lounge, at Coffee House Press; Kim Hyesoon, “The Way Mommy Bear Eats a Swarm of Fire Ants”, “Cloud’s Nostalgia”, in Sorrowtoothpaste Mirrorcream (tr. Don Mee Choi), at Asymptote; Linda Hogan, “Tear”, at Poetry Foundation; Kathy Acker, quoted in David Mertz, “Kathy Acker, Empire of the Senseless. Grove Press, New York, 1988”, at Gnosis Software, Inc. (pretty much as formatted by cutnpaste)]

In the House of the Hangman 1896

By evanescent light / ether / light from an electric lamp / an extra light /   / Light from a student-lamp / sapphire light / a shimmer / smoking-lamp light /   / Ordinary light / orgone lumination / light from a lamp burning olive oil / opal light /   / Old light and owl-light / may be opal light / in the small / orifice / where old light / & the will-o’-the-wisp  / make no announcement of waning / light /   / but with direct directions / & the winking light of the will-o’-the-wisp's accoutrements / & lilac light / a delightful phenomenon / a delightful phenomenon of lucence & lucidity /   / Is it old light? / The oldest in the whole world. / Why do you speak in such a manner? / He throws white roses / from a white vase into a white waste- / basket placed / at a challenging distance from the chair. / Wd that require a kind of incandescence? / Not in daylight. / Wd anda-oil suffice? / If the lamp were new enough. / But what might be the effect / of nova light? /   / It would be a modifier. /   / Wd it modify a word? / Also I seem to start dropping punctuation / My need for punctuation lessens     like some people’s need for sleep / My need for sleep lessens too     but later I fall on my face / OK. Reading the piece was so liberating, as I realized that I too don’t really like hot beverages, and I vowed to introduce baths into my morning ablutions and drink iced coffee exclusively. My bath is about ten minutes long or so, and I stare at the wall or ceiling, occasionally drawing my legs up and out of the water and stretching them along the facing plaster. Or I lift my back from the bottom of the tub so that the water which rushes into the space my back had occupied is newly hot. Yesterday morning I watched a cockroach glide along the trim, under a bad patch job over a kinky clump of mold. I had never realized how graceful cockroaches can be. Maybe this particular one was a “morning person.” In any case, as I started to tell you earlier, among other things, I wanted to return transcription to its roots in somatic practice, to bring my body into contact with the linguistic remains of extraordinary rendition and state-sponsored death, like a scribe reproducing Torah, or a monk laboring over illuminated books, unable to restrain himself from spilling into the text. I wondered how my writing prosthetic of nerve & bone would metabolize such language in an effort to perceive my body’s relation to a detainee’s occulted figure? And how might that effort make palpable the militarization that has captured all our social relations? The report entered the public sphere, together with a cache of related materials, by way of the ACLU’s recourse to the Freedom of Information Act, and is among the documents that I accessed while working on a book called Music for Porn for which I’d been seeking evidentiary language to denote the bodies of fallen U.S. soldiers in Afghanistan and Iraq. At that time, I decided not to use any of the language from these Gitmo reports in my soldier poems, afraid that I’d somehow be betraying a fundamental difference, equating the non-equatable, reducing irreducible bodies to the common denominator of stately reportage, bodies made fungible by search engine despite the fact that any meaningful fidelity to this constraint could only be impossible given the functional nomenclature of such reports, the way a curious expression quickly belies a cliché preassembled phrase convenient for the setter of moveable type linguistic version of the readymade, a common place. For example, his “unremarkable genitalia,” semantic residue of the waste his body has become autonomous product of security marks the gulf between clinical expression and radical sensation, occulted specificity and familiar designation, rupture of word and world. To the tune of: Violin. Double Bass. Flute. Harp. Tambourine. Kazoo. Rain Wand. A man who cries. Two man who weeps. A rumbling belly. The dog’s stomach rumbling also. I’ll fuck play bingolotto. Heut ist mein tag. Heut ist mein tag. Heut ist mein tag. Heut ist mein tag. You wake up with that bittersweet feeling that we should be kind to people ... In a funny german accent. On a funny German accent. I wish. Sweetheart. I wish. Sweetheart. I wish ... It was a total freak accident. Full everything. It is so easy to become such that costs money. Rather than serve them. Type woman. Wish I was one of those guy. Who earned money. As might. Who had menstruation and became pregnant. I wish I was a guy. I wish. Sweetheart. On the funny German accent. I know of no one who is an adult. Get the urge to Falling down around town now. Crazy pregnant woman with a balloon and a water pistol, handbags, makeup and hair, a rat, a career, tough accent, designer of silly clothes, chest, hysterical, talking with wallpaper, can not move, totally. (The funny German accent) Imagine a person who is bad at life. Run ten laps around a stick now. All I wanted was a hurricane wear my little legs left right left. Drive the car to Boden and ride the water slide. Become a pirate. But I’m too tired to even. And yet. I went to Emily Dickinson’s house with my friend Susie Timmons. I scraped dirt from the foot of huge trees in the backyard into a little pot. When I returned to Philadelphia I didn’t shower for three days, then rubbed Emily’s dirt all over my flesh. At the top and bottom of the ride I would show photographs of myself to strangers and ask, “EXCUSE ME, have you seen this person?” Sometimes there was confusion, “ISN’T THAT YOU?” I would reply, “Have you seen this person?” “Excuse me, EXCUSE ME ...” At each security camera I paused, looked into the camera, DIRECTLY IN THERE and stuck my tongue inside a flower. Flicked it in and out, in and out, flicking, licking, suckling blossoms. A rent-a-cop asked “What the fuck are YOU DOING?” I replied, “I’M A POLLINATOR, I’M A POLLINATOR!!

[Note: Sources: JBR; Jackson Mac Low, “9 Light Poems”, at Grist; Brandon Brown, “Krewella, Live For The Night”, at Ashbery Home School; JBR; Rob Halpern, “Note on Common Place”, at Elderly 7; Stina Kajaso, “Heut is nicht men tag”, at SONOFDAD, 25 Dec 014; JBR; CA Conrad, “Anoint Thyself”, “M.I.A. Escalator”, “Security Cameras and Flowers Dreaming the Elevation Allegiance”, in 3 (Soma)tic Poetry Rituals & Resulting Poems, at Headlands]

In the House of the Hangman 1895

And even on the level of dumb pulp high concept stuff this game falls flat. Like there’s no effort put into thinking through “well, how would civil unrest play out in a city that’s a bunch of floating archipelagos?” Could the individual chunks separate and isolate themselves? Could somebody on either side maybe cut the tram lines connecting them throughout the game and make you get around some other way? Would each individual island band together and start its own thing? Well, no, it turns out “exactly the same as dweebs imagine it playing out in any other city on the land,” that is, everything is suddenly covered in big bolts of red cloth and all the posters are suddenly in tack faux-Mao style for no reason. Like I was prepared for a lot of dubious things in this game but nobody warned me that at some point the developers presumably huddled up and said “yeah, after you COMFORT ELIZABETH (press x) she copes with crushing guilt by donning some cleavage, heheh, ‘level up’ guys” or that the game has you meet her menstrual blood twice before you actually meet her. Which like, the latter in particular is odd enough that it might work in, like, a Guy Maddin movie or something? But this is a triple-A videogame where she also can’t open doors on her own and hides behind rubble whenever anything happens so like literally the only two characters this game attempts to get the player to give a shit about are a legit no hyperbole 1890’s strike breaker and the tween Bernhard Goetz of the Steampunk Skyway, let me open up a mystical tear between realities with my elevator meat-mitt, this game is so not Schiller. I mean, Ban Grand Theft Auto or whatever, I haven’t played it, but I bet there’s no big blue button in it that says “COMFORT ELIZABETH” after said Elizabeth stabs a black woman to death for extremely poorly conveyed reasons. This is the worst $5 Abby and I have ever spent including the dumplings I got last week that made me throw up for two days. I mean, this is the most violently pro-Pinkerton video game since 1998’s “Rivers Cuomo’s Pro Leg-Drop.” Honestly I wouldn’t be anywhere close to as pissy about this game if its head wasn’t so far up its own ass about being some weird simulacrum of aRT g  aa ME. “This is a game … about violence.” Well yeah I’ll probably teach it in my upcoming seminar, “ENG 881: Towards a Hermeneutics of Disembowelment.” Actually my uncle was a hundred birds and they all had elevators for hands and it was nothing like this game. I mean, “As an artist I am morally obligated to authentically replicate and depict the cruel effects of hitting people with a hand made out of an elevator, and also of becoming of a gun that shoots out hundreds of birds.” In Bioshock Infinite there’s a point where you’re supposed to feel bad about an industrialist getting killed and the revolutionaries suddenly become bad-guys or something because <rihsfjfrwfhwj> but I just let them shoot me to death and pretended it was the end of the shitty game. Good ending. Oh, wait. Oscar Wilde just gave me a big idiotic steampunk gun. I find a lockbox in the street and in the lockbox was cotton candy. Headline: Scientists discover oldest stone tool ever found in Turkey. I read the headline and think hey they, like, they discovered an ancient meat thermometer. So. Heaven is kitsch. I put a thin gold chain in my mouth and then two more necklaces. And while most other kitsch is contextually kitschy to a general space/time, the kitschiness of heaven is forever. I think I could fit a small dog inside my mouth, but what if it shits? Public prayers are kitsch but private ones never. Burning a flag and saluting a flag both. Maybe this is why one sees so little experimentation in flag design. A semi-transparent flag, an optical illusion flag, and a plagiarized flag walk into a bar in heaven. We got on the train and the sky burned down red and someone made a joke about the last days of wherever, &c &c. & then “Nathaniel Turner saw visions of blood on the corn […] How is class constituted in the concrete lobster of post-industry, how does / Its conflict appear, who and how many will die, what songs will we sing to remember them.” &c. &c. & then “I wanted my face to fuck / your face […] I will fight with all my life to make you you […] Comrade whoever, I love you […] Destroy your / fucking enemy with your visions of collective life. / Artists, teachers, writers, scientists, all of us who crawl in the dirt, / we must form militant unions and assert the power / of our labour. […] it is our responsibility to use our privilege even / in our despair, born there to fair life give me your hand / and let’s destroy our enemies and love each other and / have everything by rigorous life struggling blessed future.” &c. &c. & then “It goes without saying that whatever is said within this box is not knowledge, or science, but art, and that whatever happens here is not insight into this world but commentary on misapprehension, a struggle to know exactly where it is that we ought to start, gathering together a series of x number of elements …” No worries! no terrors! no fears! no coming attractions! It’s like Hesiod but with fewer cannibals, and louder. One of us is covered in sunspots and one of us is not. In this sense how strange it is to have gotten this far, in this sense let me be very clear: this is an exercise in channeling WILLIAM BLAKE, this book is so heavy I bet it will fall through the floor, I see the snow that’s not falling, when it comes to bizarre technological immortality schemes, should I invest in cryogenics or should I invest in relocating my mind in a virtual construct? Yes, and then standing by the windowsill you discover the politics of the future and you make a note: a small and endless vacuum, “O poet, O oracle: In 2015, how will we avenge with jokes?” and so on. Future! Why are you so sad! Let us all gather in a room together and hear what one another has to say: the geese fly by regularly and making noise, “drear, like the geese who honk in the fog flying over the house in the suburbs with cars in the garage with car-seats that buckle and — but are we being listened to? are we being watched? But the Future has gone to shop for a raiment in the capital of schnauzers! Should I try to be less ashamed? Should I try to be more ashamed?” Truly, there are two worlds. We are not giving up hope, but surrendering to it. We want people to have reason to ask of us: how did he do it, and how does he make rocks balance like Thor?

[Note: Sources: various, at I Shall Destroy Everything Around Me That Prevents, 22 & 24 Dec 014; JBR; Donald Dunbar, “A Beginner’s Guide to Sex in the Afterlife”, mixed with Ann Ward, “Heart Weight”, at Glitter Mob 2; David Grundy, “RIVET CHRIST MASS, 20/12/2014 // JACK FROST CHRISTINA CHALMERS CONNIE SCOZZARO DANNY HAYWARD ( + ED LUKER & JOSH STANLEY) // 16 WILD’S RENTS, BERMONDSEY”, at Streams of Expression, 24 Dec 014; JBR; various, at [“IT’S TIME TO HOP TO THE BLUES”], 24 Dec 014; Susan M Schultz, “7”, at Tinfish Editor’s Blog, 24 Dec 014; JBR; Gerald Hausman, “Once again Longhouse Publishers in Vermont …”, at Gerald at Home and On the Road …, 23 Feb 014 (a review of Bob Arnold, Stone Hill)]

In the House of the Hangman 1894

Sun representing a human face or an animal
Globes forming human face or part of a human body
Rainbows
Electricity; Lightning; Sparks (jagged lines)
Advertising, skywriting; Clouds; Fog
Raindrop (a single drop); Single drop (rain, tear, etc.); Teardrop (a single drop)
Snowflakes
Cyclones; Tornadoes; Whirlpools
Monsters (not robots); Other grotesque including men formed by plants or objects
Objects forming a person; Person formed by objects

If there existed a column of air between earth and the sun, we would be able to listen to its bell-burning sound.

This column would be like a solar stethoscope.

But the sun would ignite our air-column, as well as anything else we used to hear the sun.

This may explain why the sun is surrounded by nothing.

When sound doesn’t need a thing to travel through, it is actually light.

This is what radiowaves are, a type of light:

the doum and the
tek and the doum doum tek a tek doum tek a tek.

Serial Number             85555965
Filing Date             XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Filing Basis             1B
Original Filing Basis     1B
Description of Mark     The color(s) blue, red, gray, white, black, green, red and orange is/are claimed as a feature of the mark. The mark consists of The terms THE WEATHER WONDERS and the individual characters listed below.
Type of Mark             SERVICE MARK
Register                 PRINCIPAL

... [In] other words, ‘Life is good,’ says the T-shirt with a smiling cartoon stick figure that is waving crudely. After three kids kill themselves at my school, each dorm starts ‘themed’ floors, the fourteenth floor of one building naming itself ‘The Thirteenth Floor.’ My roommate complains to me about how she couldn't enjoy Matrix Revolutions because everyone else in the theater was laughing at it. ‘Too much psychobabble for your puny minds?!’ she asks our dorm room. I glance at her cow-print slippers. The vomit from my Vicodin overdose was green. One of the first things I am told as a writer is to write about what I know. Shandar Sweets, Giant Detail Center, Office of Mughal Waterproofing, exhalations and filthiness falling among the vegetables, entertaining notions of a scarf dance on a subway. Blair Mazzarella Funeral Home, a girl’s braids come undone, her mother’s earring a gold tooth. [Cocktail] lounge Bukhara catering hall Quicinera Las Mariachis Raja Realty Honey locksmith smartbeep beepers kaloshi real estate. Adam & Eve Unisex -- (a warrior of either sex in the distances which are American) -- Pharmacy, Farmacia, Anteka plus Urdu and Bengali. Recharge here -- Lahore fashions -- Bahar shishkebab chum chum, aloo chat -- [goat pic] halal meat khoobsurat beauty salon (ladies only) -- one black headscarf, one white head scarf, one yarmulke on a head of greasy spikes like circumcision of a black horse by the Urdu Bazaar. I decorate the forest of my regard, caressing the route: Lung Wah Kitchen, Weinstein-Garlick-Kirschenbaum Chapels, Pak-O-Hind, Russian, Kosher groceries, Rabbi Hecht’s Esrogim Center. The longing to be modern and sheltered and different and insane and decorative as Hecht’s skullcap company, Judaica seforim gifts & religious articles, abysmal elevation and cantankerous filaments.  Sweet Art’s Stitch & Stictch, Full line of beans. Adult novelties: “Intimate Fantasy’s” -- Visions in wigs -- Hat’s Plus, Freund’s Family Shop. A gasp of laughter at desire, and disorder, and dying, and Gigi’s Wig Salon. “And now the light goes out, but still it’s visible.” What’s this, all of a sudden? “There’s nothing more frightful, nothing more wonderful.” By the way, did you see Ilya? “The pillow you sprinkle with your sweet and sour drool.” Do you know if Alyoshka arrived? “The other half bursts into flame, now glows, now whistles.” And what time is it there now, approximately? It is somewhere near the Volokolamka road. He hasn’t written poems in a long time. Thank God, he’s been doing something worthwhile. “And now the light goes out, but still it’s visible.” Well, what did your Zarathustra say? “There’s nothing more frightful, nothing more wonderful.” Are you serious about it? “The pillow you sprinkle with your sweet-sour dribble.” “The other half bursts into flame, now glows, now whistles.” “And now the light goes out, but still it’s visible. There’s nothing more frightful, nothing more wonderful. The pillow you sprinkle with your sweet and sour drool. The cover of your crib is tearing from its chain. The little piggy dances and sings and sways. Half the picture’s above your head, flying away. The other half bursts into flame, now glows, now whistles. And Doctor Dolittle treats the pig for measles. Your throat now feels like cotton, and the lights are out.” Calling a flame a loudspeaker isn’t to speak metaphorically, by the way. So. So much for the magic act; how did he make the leap from flame to sound in the first place? “In the case of Firebirds ... it was really a happenstance occurrence. I was sitting around [a fire with friends] in 1975 ... and there was a pause in the conversation and we heard, coming out of a jet of gas in the log, the end of a pop song and the beginning of an announcer’s voice. It was AM radio coming out of this little gas jet. It was just one of the strangest things. We looked at each other ... and we said, There was another American musical genre, developed also in the 19th century, that dealt with issues of white hegemony. The Tejano corrido is much less well-known, however. Here’s one, “Jacinto Treviño”, in Linh Dinh’s “rough, really rough”, translation:

This makes 3 times
beauty reveals itself;
the first was in McAllen,
then Brownsville and San Benito.

In Bekar’s cantina
a shootout erupted;
shards of broken bottles
flying everywhere.

In Bekar’s cantina
only one was left,
only Jacinto Treviño
with rifle and pistol.

“Come in here, cowardly rangers,
you’re not messing with a kid;
if you want to know your father,
that’s me, Jacinto Treviño!”

Jacinto Treviño tried to stifle
a laugh as he spoke: “To me,
rangers are only suitable
to sew my shirt cuffs.”

The sheriff then spoke
as an American: “Jacinto’s
too much of a man, there’s
no denying he’s Mexican.”

With this I’ll take my leave
from all those present here;
if anyone wants to find me,
I’ll be waiting in Matamoros.

But let’s forget ourselves for a second and get back to you. You know that feeling when you’ve just opened a book in the kind of mood you were just in, hungry to be in the future already with that new mind figured within you, and you’ve just encountered a suggestively interesting few lines in this book, but wanting the holistic feel before you really hit the particulars you flip a few pages backwards towards the book’s start and refocus there (?). But here’s where something that’s never happened before to you happens, or maybe this is the way it always is when you’ve read as many books of poetry and borne as many futures as you have, but this time it’s finally for real. The page-spread you’ve turned to is, upon inspection, the same two pages you were looking at before, and so you flip again, but there it is again, every two pages the same. Meanwhile, the news didn’t relieve us, potentially drawing along a notch in a hot-pink stick what was folded in hot batter the other week. Hours got lighter by exhaust and prevented stain. We think, we can grow our company. Pebble fuck-ups, wire fenced walkaway. We never well. *e dog dance is standard: one lilts up, another pads (hone) on target, rustle of papers, man sta+, red furs and the monarch poise. ,, King king, hush now, tell us king Jesus king Jesus come, as is thy will, king Jesus force feed mescall worms Jesus king your book *e Unchlenche*d Leprodananyic,,,ich dear sweet baby LORD maketh me a marrow tree so I can feed my family Don’t tell me how to bring up my kids. Come in munch and storage bids. . transscendition *is year’s diseases.

[Note: Sources: Ian Hatcher, “(c) THE WEATHER WONDERS”, at LIT; Brent Cunningham, quoted in Lauren Levin, “The Double Dream of Reason: on Brent Cunningham’s Journey to the Sun as satire”, at Lana Turner, 21 Apr 012; Nada Gordon, “Coney Island Avenue”, at Shampoo 23; Geraldine Kim, Povel, quoted in John Armstrong, “Geraldine Kim, Povel (New York: Fence Books, 2005)”, at Arduity; Lev Rubinstein, “The Great Chain of Being” (trs. Philip Metres and Tatiana Tulchinsky”, at Free Verse, Spring 013; Ambidextrous Magazine, quoted in “KD presents ... The redirected technologies of the sound artist Paul DeMarinis”, at DC’s, 23 Dec 014; Linh Dinh, “Border Poetry”, at Detainees, 24 Dec 014; Lewis Freedman, “Scans By Lew - WELCOME TO THE TWELFTH LETTER OF THE ALPHABET - Childe Roland”, at Flying Object; JBR; Andrea Brady, “The Day Rate”, at INVISIBLY TIGHT INSTITUTIONAL OUTER FLANKS DUB (VERB) GLORIOUS NATIONAL HI-VIOLENCE RESPONSE DREAM; Verity Spott, “ii. (Isis)”, at Tripwire 7]

"Moaning" during rape = consent, apparently. I hate FSU. (As a "symbol" of our misogynist rape culture as well as for themselves) Reposted from Yahoo! Sports

TALLAHASSEE, Fla. (AP) -- The lawyer for Jameis Winston's accuser says ''the fix was in'' when Florida State cleared the star quarterback of violating the school's code of conduct.

Baine Kerr, one of the woman's lawyers, said the university did not conduct a fair hearing earlier this month.

''I don't want to impugn the proceeding as corrupt, but I think it was biased and the fix was in,'' Kerr said in a phone interview with The Associated Press. ''It's all about a football game 10 days from today. It turned out to be just a predetermined whitewash to keep a guy playing football.''

A two-day hearing was held this month to determine whether the 2013 Heisman winner violated sections of the conduct code- two for sexual misconduct, two for endangerment.

Former Florida Supreme Court Justice Major Harding ruled the evidence was ''insufficient to satisfy the burden of proof.'' Prosecutor Willie Meggs made a similar decision a year ago when he decided not to criminally charge Winston, citing lack of evidence.

Florida State coach Jimbo Fisher has supported Winston throughout the process and said there's a sense of relief now that the quarterback has been cleared. The Seminoles play Oregon in the semifinal of the first College Football Playoff on Jan. 1.

''I felt very happy for him and his family and the people involved with him,'' Fisher said. ''We've dealt with it in our own ways, but it is a relief. Especially for him.''

While Florida State is looking forward, Kerr said they are not ready to move on and are pondering the next step. The woman has five school days to file an appeal, but Kerr said they have not decided whether or not to pursue that course of action.

''The proper forum to getting to the truth is going to be the court of law, not, essentially, a sham court like this one turned out to be,'' Kerr said.

Kerr does not believe the subject of consent was properly vetted. The woman testified that she asked Winston to stop and the code of conduct states that clear verbal consent must be given.

According to documents obtained by the Associated Press, Winston gave a statement during the hearing that detailed his account of the night. He exercised his right to decline to answer questions from the judge and the woman. Winston, however, did answer one question about consent. He said she verbally and physically consented by ''moaning'' during the sexual encounter.

''Moaning cannot possibly count as any evidence of consent,'' Kerr said. ''There has to be clear verbal consent. That's not verbal and it's not clear. Moaning can be from pain.

Winston said in his statement that woman was an active and willing participant in sexual acts that evening.

Kerr called the hearing a ''mockery ... that ignored what the evidence was.''

''It was not an impartial ruling,'' Kerr said. ''It was a ruling that went to great lengths and improper lengths to try to find a way to exonerate Winston.''

Winston's family adviser David Cornwell declined comment through email Monday.

A university spokeswoman declined comment outside of the statement released by school president John Thrasher. Thrasher said the university selected the former state Supreme Court justice to remove any doubt about the integrity of the process.

''He (Harding) conducted a thorough Student Conduct Code hearing and reviewed more than 1,000 pages of evidence generated by three other investigations, and we would like to thank him sincerely for his service,'' Thrasher said.

In the meantime, Florida State continues to prepare. Fisher said there's no feeling of vindication.

''He's on to his next thing,'' Fisher said of Winston. ''He's focused on the team, like he always is.

''You hate for those situations for all parties involved. ... There was a lot of scrutiny on it, but glad it's over with and move on.''