Which is why “I would like these homes to be built in sacred forests, in steep and isolated spots, in the midst of great disorder, like at the Grande Chartreuse, etcetera. Also, before the newcomer arrives at his destination, it would be a good idea if he were to be brought down by machines, be taken through ever new and more amazing places, and if the officials of these places were to wear distinctive costumes. The romantic is suitable here, and I have often said to myself that we could make use of those old castles built over caverns that pass through a hill and open out onto a pleasant little valley ... Phantasmagoria and other resources of physics, music, water, flashes of lightning, thunder, etcetera would be used in turn and ...” This is not the castle of 120 Days .... It is a castle in which many more, an almost infinite number of days will be passed; did you know that Fanon said, in Wretched of the Earth, I can’t breathe long before Eric Garner did? I didn’t til just the other day. I guess it’s been a long time since breathing was easy, if it ever was.
And you may ask yourself
How do I work this?
And you may ask yourself
Where is that large plume of smoke coming from? (We burnt their villages
They burnt ours
And you may tell yourself
This is not my mud hut!
And you may tell yourself
This is not my beautiful planet!
Letting the days go by, etc etc
Letting the days go by, etc etc
Same as it ever was
Same as it ever was
Same as it ever was
Same as it ever was
Same as it ever was
Same as it ever was
Same as it ever was
Same as it ever was
Water dissolving and water removing
There is water at the bottom of the ocean
Under the water, etc etc
Human societies have built one large dam (15+ meters in height) every day, on average, for the past 130+ years. We have diverted river water to secure food and power and the ability for a few of us to enjoy total fuckedupness ... Approximately 1.1 billion people today do not have access to safe drinking water, and 2.6 billion are without adequate sanitation; another 1.7 billion people are living in areas where groundwater is being extracted faster than it can be replenished. The giant Ogallala aquifer in the United States once had an average water depth of 240 feet; today it is 80. Did I ever tell you the story of the mud hut? I read it in Ghetto, by Broomberg and Chanarin, it’s told by a man named Aza, who lived (at the time the book was written, who knows now?) in Lukole Refugee Camp, Tanzania: “My neighbor began building his house two months before the rains. I didn’t like him much so I didn’t tell him how stupid he was. After the first heavy rain his kitchen fell down so he began cooking in the bedroom. Next the bedroom caved in and the whole family moved into the last remaining room in the house. By the time the rains had stopped his whole family was sleeping under a plastic sheet.”
Joy writes from the “Côte des Morts”:
“The only trace of too many towns and villages:
“Clustered scorch marks
“Empty circles on the earth
“No wonder Pilate asking ‘what is truth? ... would not stay for an answer’
“The militias swept the place
“I found one object:
“A bent piece of wire maybe six inches long
“Kinda like a work by Richard Tuttle, but mostly not ...”
Steve says:
“I once had a hound I took to the tidal pools in Palos Verdes
“I saw him bound ahead a couple hundred yards
“As I got closer I could see he was rolling around in the carcass of a seal
“Just covered in gore”
Michael’s house has burned destroying his library
He says:
“I want to build a wall of broadsides
“A book I can walk in …”
So I make him one
So we dance
We dance
Michele says:
“According to statistics the most depressing day’s the 24th of January”
Francoise says:
“Did you hear about Gladys Murphy?”
Vicki’s crying again
I haven’t seen Paul since his mother died
In a room outside the Music Library someone plays a pretty mean piano
Someone else says:
“That’s the theory …”
I read spine labels from Alpha Liar to Eternity
Pine needles scatter on the surface of the new-fallen snow, make
Perfect no-patterns somewhere between Klee and chaos theory:
A photo by Bohnchang Koo
(From the “Pencil of Nature” series)
That’s important too
Joy’s letter continues:
“Rain washed away the soil
“The mass grave opened and out rolled the bodies
“Like pages in a book I couldn’t stop reading
“That night I dreamt I held a dead man to my breasts
“Milk wouldn’t stop flowing”
Michael says:
“How fragile we are”
I wash my face and neck and when I get in bed and shut my eyes the dark flashes silver
Asleep I see Medusa coins
(Tongue protruding
Snakes hissing)
Awake I sit in the pale light with a mug of tea and a chunk of bread
I read the newspaper:
“... withdraws her money from the bank puts on her best jewels and buys a train
Ticket from Nashville’s Union Station to Chicago
“Days later her body is found by a ferryman and fished from the river ...
“Minus her fourteen hundred dollars and her diamonds”
Joy writes:
“A bent piece of wire maybe six inches long”
My friend the young photographer shows me a photo of a photo from the genocide museum
The dark young man looks right at us
We’re going to kill him as soon as we kick in his teeth
Someone says:
“Drop a coin into the slot of the food machine”
Someone says:
“A dream door into a peach blossom world”
Someone says:
“The people in that country wash and wash with disinfectant”
Anyway, the story goes that sometime in 1989, Russian scientists in Siberia had drilled a borehole some 14.5 kilometers deep into the Earth’s crust. The drill broke through into a cavity, and the scientists lowered some equipment to see what was down there. The temperature was about 1,100°C (about 2,000°F), but the real shocker was the sound that was recorded. They only got about 17 seconds of audio before the microphone melted, but it was 17 horrifying seconds of the screams of the damned. Convinced that they’d heard the sounds of hell, many of the scientists quit the jobsite immediately. Those who stayed were in for an even bigger shock later that night. A plume of luminous gas burst out of the borehole, the shape of a gigantic winged demon unfolded, and the words “I have conquered” in Russian were seared into the flames. As a final touch of weirdness, medics were reported to have given everyone on site a dose of a sedative to erase their short-term memory. Still, the borehole became known as The Well to Hell. I wish I could play it for you, right here, right now, but you can find it on YouTube. It sounds like some vaguely interesting noise music, made from a bunch of screams and static and overlapping loops. What can I say? Humans are so fucking ... uh ... I can’t even ... I can’t even ... but then again, anyone raised so that they could believe this thing suffered some form of abuse. And whoever raised them was probably also abused,
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17. 2, op. cit. p. 17.
CI Ibid., P. 19.
Ibidem
Ibidem, p. n
c Ibidem, p. 23
“Ibid., P. 76.
10 lbidem, p. 27
“Ibid., P.
I am aware how definitions work regarding these issues; but if my body situates itself in these notions as places to experiment with movement, they will be transformed into more fluid definitions precisely because the body becomes simultaneously a migrant and a border. No identity, only animality. To think about, but also to have gone through certain situations, experiencing the complexity of human interactions, moves me toward a question and drives me away from giving precise answers. I want to create spaces and hopefully a body that can oscillate and change direction, shifting the perception of fixed definitions. Usually I create a dictionary for each project I write. I feel the need to find a thin space or gap within ideas from which to start. Are we really going to start a war with Iran? “If you live in a timber-framed house dating back earlier than the eighteenth century, look out for scratchings on the bressumer beam, sometimes only very lightly inscribed at the top corners of the fireplace, like the scratching of a cat. Look for a repeated ‘W’ — thought to be a double ‘V’ for ‘Virgo Virginum’. Look for daisy wheels — a circular device with petals, or runic symbols — a ‘P’ incorporating a cross, or a ‘W’ incorporating a ‘P’. Look for two verticals with a ‘Saltire’ cross between them — a motif also much used on iron door latches and bolts and wrought iron firedogs.” As Alain Bertaud notes, there used to be a planning rule from 1950s China: “In the 1950s,” Bertaud writes, “China established a regulation requiring that at least one room in each apartment receive a minimum of one hour of sunshine on the day of the winter solstice, December 21 ... this boiled down to a simple formula: distance d between buildings is determined by the height of building h multiplied by the tangent of the angle α of the sun on the winter solstice at 11:30 in the morning using solar time.” One interesting emergent side-effect of the rule is that, by necessity, it had different spatial effects at different latitudes due to the curvature of the Earth. Chinese urban form, then, became a kind of diagram of the Earth’s relationship to the solar system: the distances between buildings, the layouts of rooms inside those buildings, the locations of windows inside those rooms, all taking their cue from a celestial source. That is why our stories from the oldest days tell about the time when all beings shared a common language. But that language has been long forgotten. So we learn each other’s stories by looking, by watching each other live. Me, I watch mosses. I have much to learn from them. They have messages of consequence. Like
Even angels are lazy now
They prefer escalators over stairs
Like
A bug falls into your chamomile
and disturbed as you are, you drink it.
Like
You thought the goblins carried you away
but a photo circulating from the latest round of trade negotitions has started to generate discussion about the stark difference between the aging US representatives and the more youthful Chinese contingent. Weibo users, as the New York Times noted, have been pointing out the contrast and the image’s relationship to a much earlier treaty with the US that has powerfully symbolism in China, the signing of the Boxer Protocol in 1901. One Weibo user, quoted by the New York Times, summarized the symbolism. “Over the past 100 years, American officials have gone from young to old, and Chinese officials have gone from old to young,” the user wrote. “This has a lot to do with the current state of the two countries.” As Vannak Anan Prum’s The Dead Eye and The Deep Blue Sea reminds us, “Even taking a shit was dangerous. We used a rope harness to hang over the stern of the fishing boat. One night I nearly died doing this when a rope broke and I barely caught myself from falling in. Another time a shark leaped out of the water trying to bite my ass.” So
I sing to the ferns in my window.
They are made of plastic.
Sometimes they sing back to me
“Leave us alone,” they hum.
And then something about
Butterflies in intensive care units
Susan want to write an honest sentence. The viewer sees a bowl of cereal and a spoon, its handle set to the right of an avocado green bowl, thick white mug of black coffee (half full) between bowl, place mat of mixed colors. Beside the place setting opposite a mussed-up cloth napkin. One end of the thread is bright silver, the other a tear above a tail of curling black ash. It resembles a tiny hockey stick. The sky is otherwise blue and clear. But wait, it gets worse. Around the same time they heard arguments in Epic Systems Corp. v Lewis, the Supreme Court considered Janus vs. AFSCME, which is designed to pull the rug out from under public-sector unions across the US. Janus, a free rider, ’s problem was with the idea that, tho he’d get all the benefits, he had to help pay for the union to bargain collectively on his behalf. What a dick. Which is to say specifically that, when Brassier says, in “Reason Is Inconsolable and Non-Conciliatory: Ray Brassier in Conversation with Suhail Malik”, which can be found in Cox, Jaskey and Malik’s Realism Materialism Art, that “not everything thinks: rationality is a metaphysical exception,” he makes a massive and bizarre mistake. Lacan, with some chagrin, confesses to a related one in his seminar of January 9, 1979, in Le séminaire, Livre XXVI: La topologie et le temps, saying that “the metaphor of the Borromean knot is, in its most simple state, inadequate. It abuses the metaphor, because there really is no thing which supports the imaginary, the symbolic, and the real. What is essential in what I am saying is that there is no sexual relationship. That there is no sexual relationship because there is an imaginary, a symbolic, and a real, this is what I did not dare to say. But I nonetheless said it. It is evident that I was wrong, but I simply let myself slide into it. This is disturbing, it is even more than annoying. It is even more annoying that it is not justified. This is how things look to me today, and this is what I confess to you. All right!” And Badiou too, admits to a third, noting recently that “Mathematics is not ontology [...] there is no proof, there is only description [...] I explain now, I confess now, this formula is only a propagandist formula, which is now condemned to a terrible fate. And naturally I participate immediately in this failure. OK, it’s not a question of that sort of formula [...] it has been a complete pleasure for me, to have many partisans, friends, of the false hypothesis that mathematics is ontology. I think it’s a moment to say that we were strong, we were good troops, but it was under a false flag, and we must change the flag. From the red flag, to a flag that is more red.”
The infected beach falls sky downwards
The city falls under the astral balls
The city sways from one side of the street to the other
The infected beach falls next to another infected beach
The police photograph the dying beach before it sinks
The city screams to the dying beach Stop! Being! Dead!
Because the beach is dead the city can now see itself as a helpless victim of history
After Plato threw the poets out of The Republic some were sent to countries where they kill you and others were sent to countries where they couldn’t give a fuck about the stupid shit poets have to say
The dying beach swirls in the wind
There are no rocks to sit on anymore
Did you hear the one about the man they found torched in a garbage can
Hello. What talks to you at night?
Are you haunted by the voices of the immigrants who suffocated in a truck abandoned on the side of the Arizona highway?
Did you hear the one about the refugees who could make the bus stop explode?
The refugees were waiting at the bus stop for the bus to transport them from one detention center to another
They were from New Orleans
They were from Mexico
They were from Rwanda, Iraq, Eritrea, Chicago, Detroit, Sudan, Guatemala, El Salvador, Cuba, Kazakhstan, Syria, etc.
They were from my neighborhood and when they came to your neighborhood their bodies appeared as fields of wheat in flames
A trick of the camera
They brought the refugees to the morgue and asked them to imagine their faces on the bodies of birds
It was a gesture developed in a think tank
Many plants live beneath the earth’s surface. Some of them eat meat. Some are trees which grow underground to escape fire. Then there is slime mold, neither a plant nor an animal, some of whom cause us to build hatches between planets, between universes, even, in one of which some Roman legionaries find themselves on an Incan spaceship. Why do they make us build hatches? So they can chat. Because even slime molds get lonely. The slime molds of Garrota, on the other hand, make no use of us. Why don’t they? Because they consider us not as phenomena in the real world, but as figments of their own collective imagination. Speaking of imaginations, I love how bonpon511 coordinate outfits. “Since we both have gray hair, we thought it’d be funny to match our fashion styles, so we started wearing clothes of the same color and patterns,” said Mrs. Pon. She was not looking at him anymore, Thibaut realized, but past him. His skin itched. He turned. Behind the windows of the nearest building, overlooking them, a slowly shifting universe of fetal globs and scratches unfolded. A morass of dark colors, vivid on a blacker dark. The shapes rattled. They tapped the glass. A manif storm. As everyone gathered watched the black virtue behind the windows, Thibaut felt the woman’s fingers on his own. He gripped hers in turn. But she did not want solicitude. She pried his hand open. She put something in it. Thibaut felt and knew instantly that it was a playing card. On the stones under the woman’s other hand she had written letters on the road with her index finger as a nib. Her nail was wet with black ink from somewhere. She had written two last words. Now where were you? Oh yes, the loneliness: “... the loneliness,” you continue, “that lets even lovers’ murmured intimacies never mean more than the wrong word for the thingamajiggy, the right word for which is always on the tip of your tongue ...” Could she be making you babble? Maybe she has a ray or a special little box or something! Or ... could this be neoliberalism’s doing? Now where were you? Oh yes, the loneliness!: “... that loneliness is why it’s such a consolation to imagine what you’re telling me. That a multitude of uh viewpoints ...” “Discretized transcendental unification upward supervenience totality sets,” she encourages. OK. Take your handwritten notes to a computer and open a writing document, Word or whatever software you use for writing. Click on the document to make certain it is ready to be used, then shut the screen light all the way off; this is to preclude our need to be watchful for typos. Position your fingers on the keys, have your feet flat, then close your eyes and type as fast as you can for five minutes; as soon as the mind forms full sentences, or follows a thread of an idea, type faster. At the end of the five minutes turn the screen light back on, then begin transferring the handwritten notes where you left off with the speed-typing. In other words this is better when it is one unbroken document. When you reach the midway point of the handwritten notes, shut the screen light back off, and repeat the steps for blind speed-typing. I usually earmark the midway page ahead of time, make an X or checkmark. When the blind speed-typing is complete, turn the light back on and transfer the remaining half of your notes. Print out two copies of this document. Hide one from yourself for a month. The other carry with you wherever you go and mark up with a highlighter. After the month has passed take the hidden copy and read backwards, last word to first. So Anna’s boyfriend got his head blown off over five dollars. We walk along the bridge where it happened, carrying a two-liter filled to the brim with various parts of our liquor cabinets. We swig and sway, we pass it back and forth, each pulling a cheek full, swishing it around, gulping loudly. We wipe our mouths on our arms. Across the bridge, down the street, is the church filled to the brim with blubbering people. It’s a world where girls like us are sent to eradication centers for personally sprouting flowers and mushrooms and forsythia bushes. The only light for miles at night comes from The Prophet’s tent. The only thing I believe in is the Holy Spirit because I’ve seen it. When my father is in women’s clothing he is the closest he will ever be to God. What angels. It begins with an unliftable fog. One man says and the other says no, volcanoes are not radioactive.
Once upon a time there were two bunny rabbits. They were
friends. One day they went ... to see the elephants jump over a
fence. But the watery grave wasn’t so tall. So they slipped. And fell.
And the little one laughed and ... the little tickie went wickety
wickety. The end!
Hang on a second.
Okay. I’m back.
Hey. Hi. Ha. Ah. Hi. There are some sound / art works, yes, but I can’t think of examples. Maybe I’ll try doing a CD post and see what happens. Loudmouthed twittering know-it-all ignoramuses, Jesus. I was going to say I love how Paris smells in the winter, but I think that smell is just my eyes sending a hallucination to my nostrils. My week ... What about yours, eh? Hi. Oh, duh, yeah, I was spacing just as I suspected. Thanks, man. Hi. I’m good. That sounds quite curious. Yes, getting the balance is super important, obviously. Yeah, I want a whole bunch of them. So do I! I mean not right now, but I’ve got the, whatever. Where do you get yours? Mine is always in a spot near my right elbow. Man, so sorry. No fair. Yeah. In the past when that happened, I asked my host, and they said there’s nothing wrong, so I don’t know why that happens to some people but not to others. Sorry. What’s your day like? Hi. Yeah. The best fairytales always go awry, but that’s no comfort. Thank you. Thanks! Big up! I utterly agree with you about chocolate records. Obviously. I think you will? Hi. Well, it can be. It always is for me, I think. It doesn’t seem so at first, but then you kind of loosen your mind a little, and the space gets really conducive. Me too. At school, and at home too. Where are they now? I completely forgot about those. Yeah, again, the 0 comments thing. Okay. But who knows. Also, he says, Goya (though the Kunsthistorisches Museum doesn’t have a Goya — which Reger is also mad about) couldn’t paint a hand. It’s so pretty, they said. So beautiful. There were lavender petals and dots.
Silence
Silence
Silence
I mean, I am not the adjudicator of who gets allowed in to the realness equivalent of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. I am immersed in octopus ink. Which is a way of saying that you are made of things that aren’t you, thus violating a fundamental rule of old-skool logic. Alan just told me about John James.
I’ll have some wet fibres then
better with which to speak in whistle register
it / want / not / them, whee
rlly?
no?
and have (some) peace, as if, well—
hair burns in a
still overlaid
with a soundtrack of speaking in an
A-flat-octave-6
World War 5
a ball of amber light at its end.
And Mrs Trilobite, fresh from the shale.
She’ll shake the nonsense out of us.
And in North East India the Khasi people still sing some hymns in Welsh. The “classical” feeling is not only structural.
So much hope in such moments
wherever they may happen
without reason or purpose, but there.
Like 150-year-old ivory carvings, plates, cups, and a blue glass sugar-shaker. These personal conditions, along with a lot of others including radio reports of the siege of Timbuktu in 2012, a historical martyrdom of resistance fighters nearby where James is living in France in 1944, memory of Bristol in the poet’s youth,
My grandfather worked in Pizza Express in Greek Street in 1904
Except it wasn’t Pizza Express then, it was Crameri
& Caruso’s Italian Coffee Parlour
And my grandfather was second-head waiter and my
Mother was not far off being born in Phoenix Street in
the tenements opposite the theatre, the tenements
that were there until the seventies, until that is
They were pulled down & something else was put up
in their place,
And the Italian anarchists of Dean St. & Clerkenwell
And the poem ends in a quite apocalyptic exhortation, addressed to a waitress in Frith Street (“the noise of the heart is a furtive claw” ...) A ghost pot is a lobster pot that breaks its mooring and floats away but continues to catch lobsters.
This struck me as both
Physiologically and psychologically apt.
A sailboat sailed by so beautifully
I stopped, for once, paying attention to the words,
All the flowers in the world it takes
To simply fall all around them
Saying, “Oh boy I can see you I
Mean me seeing you over there
Possibly doing that.”
Water drips on it.
Those were the days.
So are these. Or take Archilochus,
Do you know me? I said, and stared,
I’m the first person to write in the first person,
In other words, there’s comfort in knowing
Worse monsters than us exist
But only a monster would be okay
With that.
Which is to say that at the time I showed up, the neighborhood was more of an unnamed TAZ than it it’s become. This block in particular was the best place to bring a stolen car to strip. After you were done, you’d set it on fire to get rid of evidence. This ensured that every week or so the entire block would be tired, having been woken up by an exploding gas tank at 3am. It was also the block for quote unquote gentlemen to have clandestine meetings in their car. There was also a dealer / user who didn’t seem to own a shirt but definitely did have a machete. His highs would coincide with our great dane Sirius’s midnight walk. He would yell down the hill to us, “Sirius, you are the second sexiest motherfucker on this block.” During the gentrification transition, developers came and knocked down almost half the buildings and dug a deep pit for future townhouse foundations. But then they ran out of money. But then, you know the rest. So one summer afternoon we were all hanging out on the sidewalk in this newly upscale neighborhood when a car pulled up. The driver got out, walked between his car and the next, undid his pants and started peeing. I just stared all petit-bourgeois WTF til Scott said, “Oh come on, man. That’s my dentist.” I’m still not sure what sublime means, but it seems like it probably works here. Which is to say that it’d be good to read some practical books, just in case. Like How to Defuse an Old WWII Torpedo You Found on the Beach or DIY Tracheotomies in Under Five Minutes. That’s when the one bar fight of my life happened. Violence is almost never the answer, especially with soft poet hands. But this time it worked. I was more surprised than anyone. The bartender ejected the bro and his cackling backup singers. In addition to sea glass, it has ten-inch bolts that fall from the bridge directly above. Then I heard a voice from somewhere up there holler SHOUT OUT TO MY URBAN ANGLES SHOUT OUT TO THOSE WHO KNOW WHAT I MEAN WHEN I SHOUT MUCOUS IN MY PINEAL GLAND. It soothes and beautifies. It does not line the labyrinth with golden thread. Try this: the self is outside now, held in one hundred or one thousand communication receptors — a gigantic representation machine which is also a gargantuan gazing machine. You read about it in Anti-Oedipus. At the sight of the effects of colonialism and slavery, linear perspective gets all fucked up. What’s going on here? Like, one of these sonnets begins, a remix of “Pony” by Ginuwine plays while half a dozen beautiful black men strut on stage wearing translucent black housecoats, then pause with their backs to us before a slow twerking as half a dozen beautiful black women walk on stage in sharp alabaster tuxedos and surgical masks. And then on page 37, and it ends in the middle of an interstate rest stop parking lot. And then there's these other moments where it's really unclear who he’s talking to. Like, sometimes he says something as mysterious as ... like, why, exactly, at this moment, exactly, exactly at this moment, of all moments, am I having to hear a soundbite of Groundislava’s horrible “The Dig”? Why did they play that to close out the episode? To make us forget everything we’ve just heard, à la the neuralyzer in Men in Black? Though unsuccessful in their immediate aim (the dam was built, the land was gone), the visibility of the uprising brought Sámi rights into the Norwegian political mainstream and helped lead to Norway’s being the first to ratify International Labour Organization Convention 169, which protects the rights of the indigenous. Norway long ago ended its policy of ‘Norwegianization,’ a system of banning Sámi languages and clothing and assimilating Sámi children by taking them from their families and sending them to boarding schools. However, despite its image abroad as a peacemaking nation and beacon of fairness, the state continues to enact colonialism by subtler means, such as demanding reindeer herd reduction on the grounds of overgrazing — even while opening up the same land to corporate interests — where have I heard that before? Where doesn’t that happen? Reflecting on Norwegian efforts to assimilate and erase Sámi culture, artist Máret Ánne Sara made “Pile o’ Sápmi Power Necklace,” which consists of 200 linked miniature reindeer skulls, each with a bullet hole in its forehead. It’s part of “Pile o’ Sápmi”, a project motivated by the trial of her younger brother, Jovseet Ante Sara, who was ordered to slaughter almost half of his reindeer herd. In December, the supreme court in Oslo rejected his appeal. Other parts of the project include a pile of bloodied reindeer heads crowned with a Norwegian flag she dumped in front of Indre Finnmark District Court in Sápmi; and a curtain of bullet-ridden reindeer skulls hung in front of Oslo’s Parliament.
[Note: Sources: JBR; Michel Foucault, Psychiatric Power: Lectures at the Collège de France 1973-1974 (ed. Jacques Lagrange, tr. Graham Burchell); JBR; Talking Heads, “Once in a Lifetime”; Rivers of the Anthropocene (eds. Jason M. Kelly, Philip V. Scarpino, Helen Berry, James Syvitski, and Michel Meybeck; JBR; Oliver Chanarin and Adam Broomberg, Ghetto; JBR, “Empty Circles on the Earth”, from Travels to Capitals: Sun, at ZS, 25 Jan 05; Brian Dunning, “The Siberian Hell Sounds”, The Skeptoid, 24 Apr 012; JBR; Ceronica Stigger, “Vacina antropofágica”, at Academia.edu (after Google Translate and I got thru with it); Maria José Arjona, quoted in Cecilia Fajardo-Hill, “The Collective Body: Maria José Arjona Interviewed”, at BOMB, 21 May 018; JBR; LASSCO, quoted in Geoff Manaugh, “Wood from the Witch House”, at BLDGBLOG, 16 May 018 (these are apotropaic marks); Geoff Manaugh, “Cities of the Sun”, at BLDGBLOG, 18 May 018; JBR; Robin Wall Kimmerer, Gathering Moss: A Natural and Cultural History of Mosses; JBR; Nadia de Vries, Dark Hour, quoted in Jeffrey Grunthaner’s review of same, which is excerpted in “Hyperallergic Reads Nadia de Vries’s Debut”, at Harriet, 21 May 018; Hrag Vartanian, “The Decline of American Empire in One Photograph”, at Hyperallergic, 21 May 018; Vannak Anan Prum, The Dead Eye and The Deep Blue Sea, quoted in Christine Ro, “A Harrowing Memoir Illustrates Modern-Day Slavery on Sea and Land”, at Hyperallergic, 21 May 018; JBR; Nadia de Vries, Dark Hour, quoted in Jeffrey Grunthaner, “A Poet’s Minecraft Romanticism”, at Hyperallergic, 19 May 018; Susan M Schultz, “20 May 2018”, at Tinfish Editor’s Blog, 20 May 018; Matt Taylor, “The Supreme Court Just Declared Open Season on Workers in America”, at Vice, 21 May 018; JBR, who found the Brassier at Jonty Tiplady, e | d, which is also where I remember seeing the Lacan and Badiou, tho now I can’t find them there; Daniel Borzutzky, “Lake Michigan Scene Six”, “The Private World”; JBR, but see Stephen Baxter, Proxima and Ultima; Boris and Arkady Strugatsky, “Space Mowgli”, in Escape Attempt (tr. Roger de Garis), quoted in Istvan Csicsery-Ronay, Jr., “Some Things We Know about Aliens”, at DePauw University; JBR; Eimi Yamamitsu and Rachael Krishna, “This Japanese Couple Match Their Outfits And People Are Obsessed With Them”, at Buzzfeed, 10 Mar 017; China Miéville, The Last Days of New Paris; Jo Lindsay Walton, “What Love Became”, at All That Is Solid Melts Into Argh, 22 May 018; JBR; CA Conrad, “APPENDIX: (this is how I write inside (Soma)tic poetry rituals):”, at (Soma)tic Poetry Rituals, 22 May 018; Katie Jean Shinkle, Ariana Reines, Dennis Cooper, quoted in Cooper’s “4 books I read recently & loved: Katie Jean Shinkle Ruination, Troy James Weaver Temporal, Ariana Reines Telephone, Harry Mathews The Solitary Twin”, at DC’s, 22 May 018; Ed Winstead, “Writers on Artists: Thomas Bernhard’s Old Masters”, at BOMB, 22 May 018; Susan M Schultz, “21 May 2018”, at Tinfish Editor’s Blog, 22 May 018; Ariana Reines, quoted in Dennis Cooper, “4 books I read recently & loved: Katie Jean Shinkle Ruination, Troy James Weaver Temporal, Ariana Reines Telephone, Harry Mathews The Solitary Twin”, at DC’s, 22 May 018; JBR; Timothy Morton, “This Biosphere Which Is Not One: Towards Weird Essentialism”, at Academia.edu; JBR, per an email from Alan Baker, rec’d 23 May 018, approx. 9:01am PDT; Corina Copp, “Z Helix”, quoted in Wendy Xu, “One Poem by Corina Copp”, at Hyperallergic, 23 May 018; Lee Harwood, Peter Riley, Stephen Watts, quoted in Riley’s “Poetry Notes”, at Fortnightly Review, ? 014; Norman Fischer, “The Last Thing to Go”, at Norman Fischer Books, 25 Jan 015; JBR; Kelvin Corcoran, quoted in Peter Riley, “Poetry Notes”, at Fortnightly Review, ? 014; JBR; Brendan Lorber, “Manufactured Discontent” and interview, in “Poet of the Week: Brendan Lorber”, at Brooklyn Poets, 12 – 18 Jun 017; JBR; Juliana Huxtable and Anne Lesley Selcer, quoted in Selcer’s “Being desire: The scopophilic selfie in the écriture transféminine of Juliana Huxtable's 'Mucous in my Pineal Gland — OR Universal croptops for all the self-cannonized saints of becoming, a screen4screen tribute”, at Jacket2, 24 May 018; Ari Shapiro, Terrance Hayes, and Tess Taylor, quoted in “Terrance Hayes Speaks To American Racism In Latest Collection Of Poetry: about Terrance Hayes’ new collection American Sonnets for my Past and Future Assassin”, at NPR; JBR (this is the music which closed out the episode); Karen Gardiner, “Unpacking the Legacy of an Indigenous Uprising in Norway”, at Hyperallergic, 24 May 018]
