Which
“... intervene in what is considered as consciousness wrought from ...”
“... extracted from the field replete in itself ...”
“... this darkening being its endemic component of entropy ...”
“... not unlike the fate of migrating lemmings attempting to swim through slate ...”
“... a blinded apogee of instants ...”
“... Coming Forth by Day ...”
“... according to the latter’s power to hold us by hypnotic penetration ...”
“... convening as abstract witness to extra-solar activity ...”
“... a glossary of dunes ...”
“... a corporeal cartography ...”
“... a susurration ...”
“... but as psychic spirals that clarify that which post-exists ...”
“... that which is already known to tend to de-exist ...”
“... that exists via complex ...”
“... squared at one level, flattened or cir-circular at others ...”
“... via aggrevation ...”
“... so every jot of the ...”
“... Because implication does not function as cataract, it quietly stuns our livingness with its ...”
“... sans proximal interaction of how they interact with one another ...”
“... Say, if a vibration from the cells evinces spontaneous clarity ...”
“... This in turn evokes a higher range of capability where forces are no longer constrained by Euro-centric pyschic origin ...”
“... so that false and telling estrangement ...”
“... nor dazed occlusion, nor exclusive excuse ...”
“... into the ravine of oneself according to the living realia that rises above ...”
“... and reveal itself via a charged utopian compost ...”
“... etc ...”
Then Richard texts to tell me about Tom Clark, hit by a car on one of his nightly walks round Berkeley,
Let fate have what is fate’s and allow
This spirit to slip through the difficult
Nets with the devious fingers of
A wild wind,
which is a bit from TC’s “The Domestic Life of Ghosts,” which reminds me of the time Mike Ross knelt beside me on Venice Beach making up verses Tibetan Book of the Dead-style to get me thru the great whoosh of some very strong weed. I was flat on my back. What ho, old chap, gravity is indeed working. In this sense, then, we are figments, complex phantoms who are fed upon by the vapour of mystery. And here’s the thing: fantasy — specifically English-language fantasy — used to get this. When I read Le Guin’s A Wizard of Earthsea again last year, I was struck by the fact that none of the stuff Ged learned at Roke made any sense. OK, it was all about names. To figure out the names of things, wizards basically had to experience enough to understand them, and disengage with their preexisting assumptions — and then, apparently, they had to cross their fingers and wish really hard. Because magic was an experiment whose results were never repeatable, never predictable, and even the most accomplished wizard could only make an educated guess about what would happen any time magic was used. And in fact, magic itself could change as its caster changed. It was an intuitive thing, not an empirical thing, and an intuitive wizard could build a spell out of guesses — or leaps of faith — based on nothing more than gut feelings. Also, feelings mattered. Bring the wrong feelings into a magic-working and it could all go pear-shaped. Why pear-shaped? It’s apparently old Royal Air Force slang having to do with flight patterns gone awry. Anyway, I imagine there will be some who take issue with the narcomancy used in the Dreamblood books, even though that’s a little more systematized, because it’s partially based on stuff Jung thought up during a psychotic break. Well, we’ll see.
I prefer the ear
to the throat, calling choice
what’s ancient, trained
to chew on the cork like it was mine to do with
The epigraph belongs to Gloria Gaynor
the green pervades
Soul sings always the entre nous in the voice of Curtis Mayfield
in the light
the light
Which is presentaneous
With that light I sense my soul once again becoming drunk!
as Catherine of Siena once wrote
The things words want to move through
Geraniums all up
in that shit
“While we’re alive,” we kept
repeating, kissed our lips raw
That’s represented in the mural
and THAT is history condensed on a single wall
TEXT is my strange misreading of EXIT
EXIT is my strange misreading of TEXT
[T] [E] [X] [I] [T]
Last night we discussed it with the window open
Click
Click
... Then ...
Click
Wingless
Protein milagros
Light’s blood’s music’s itinual wheel
We’ll drive to some waterfalls
Lo and behold!
We’re driving right now
I’m afraid this might make sense
You know
Be a letter ...
Last week at the park
a small crowd gathered
around two protein milagros who sat
on a bench
feeding pigeons
one protein milagro was short and round
with pale skin. The other
tall, dark, and bony
“We are identical twins!”
they shouted in perfect unison
everyone believed them
Click
Click
... Then ...
Click
I’d rather hear the [soil] than an estranged drivel
and everything is all good
on no sleep
Our military base is now a national recreation area
The Weather is Happening All Around Us
“I’m channeling some heavy shit!”
A beautiful afternoon in the Coast Range near the ocean 35 years ago
A confluence welling
The verb of the everpool
The water has boiled
It’s green tea now
This is an ongoing simulacrum of occurrences
in World0
a very long white cloud
of days among the living
At the Meanwhile (burst open like a sun)
under
the sun
the soundtrack
the olives
I used to eat my lunch under the olives
now that spot is filled with smoke
Because if today is the end of the world
who would dare stop dancing?
Outside on the lake
the frogs are
transmitting the new codeword to each other
Do not disturb the ant
One of every six people in Kerala have been directly affected by this year’s floods. Over 400 people have died, and over a million are now in relief camps. Why? Unbridled greed involving the denuding of forest land for mining, illegal development of resorts and homes for the wealthy, illegal construction that has blocked all natural drainage, the destruction of natural water storage systems, the blatant mismanagement of dams, have all played a huge part. And now, as the waters recede, what do we see strewn everywhere? We see plastic. Plastic plastic plastic. OK. The night before the 2017 eclipse, a march led by musicians took over the main strip in Carbondale. A hundred or so people clapped in time and sang “Negra luna,” a song from a musical tradition rooted in resistance to colonization. A banner at the front of the march declared “this empire, too, will be eclipsed.” In seven years, a second total solar eclipse will be visible from the same place. The two paths of these eclipses make an “X” across the so-called United States, intersecting in Makanda, only eight miles away, ooo-eee-ooo. But the book is not about weirdness, not ooo-eee-ooo weirdness, at least it’s a call. It is meant for those who hear it. We’re not trying to argue. We are writing for those who have all the arguments and reasons they need. Consider this a flare shot into the momentary night of the totality: for those who are looking, for those who are sending out flares of their own, for those who may have caught sight, through an accidental glance, and recognize a part of themselves in what they see. I mean,
Leave the amp.
Miserere. Pity the sound-system!
OK.
It’s old. But
Welcome to the village, he sez.
It’s a quiet life around here, you know.
Altho’ it is very quiet,
sheep there are, safely grazing.
A widow could safely walk (sez Bede)
but there is not much room,
in fact it is a strictly average windowsill,
with models
models of things
The thing from the churchyard
that was found with its hand missing
in the excavation
undertook on the north side
called
several times
wanted converse
about your assumptions
regarding exocultures.
It seemed angry.
Then I got a call from Human Rights Watch. And talked to a nice young woman about Judge Kavanaugh, and what a piece of shit he is, and why he’d be a disaster for the LGBTQ+ community, and why I had no money, and then I told her the Bill Griffiths line from the same poem I’ve just been quoting, “Well, yes, I so seem to have brought some scrap of entrail in on my boots,” and then I read an old article on Public Books which begins, “Austria’s most famous asylum rises on regular terraces up the shallow slope of Vienna’s Gallitzinberg hill. Seen from the south, the asylum’s 60-odd buildings appear to merge, presenting a continuous facade of white walls and glistening windows crowned by an onion-shaped golden dome. The Lower Austrian Provincial Institutions for the Care and Cure of the Mentally and Nervously Ill ‘am Steinhof’ — Steinhof for short — was an immediate sensation when it opened in 1907. Excitement centered on the project’s lead architect, Otto Wagner, doyen of Austria’s forward-thinking architects and an early member of the Secession, Vienna’s Jugendstil art collective. But the mere scale of the project drew attention too: Steinhof exceeded every other asylum in Europe in both sheer size and number of beds. Spread out over more than 1,100 acres, Steinhof had enough space for five thousand patients, including separate pavilions for ‘quiet’ and ‘noisy’ patients, for ‘first-class’ — eye eee, paying — and indigent patients, for the merely ‘nervous’ and the criminally insane. But Steinhof was not simply big, nor simply stylish. It represented a novel turn in thinking about both illness and physical space. At Steinhof, Wagner married architecture with medicine, applying modernist design solutions to diseases believed to stem from modernity itself.” OK. And
aow “le beau reste”
as our French sisters say ah oui!
where do we go from here?
Round the page
We’ll just go gamboling round the page once again
and then
let’s kill
all the bad guys
let’s have
all the good guys
over for dinner
“What’s for dinner?”
WHAT DID YOU LIKE ABOUT IT?
GETTING HIGH TOGETHER
TALKING LIKE LITTLE ROBOTS
THAT WAS SOOOOOOOOO FINE
I didn’t wear any shoes and that was very un-nurse like
Once we used a small fluffy yellow Christmas tree as an energy swisher
And so over the course of the next two decades, he embarked on a series of five “One Year Performances,” followed by Thirteen-Year Plan (1986–1999) — before abandoning artmaking altogether. These works were strictly disciplined and required contracts that were signed, witnessed, and certified by a lawyer. In his first piece, One Year Performance 1978–1979 (Cage Piece), the artist spent a year confined inside a cell-like room, making no contact with the outside world save for a friend who delivered food and clothing and removed his waste, and a small audience that came to witness the performance every three weeks. During his year in that cell, Hsieh did not speak, read, write, listen to the radio, or watch television. He had a friend take a series of photographs to document the performance; they show him sitting on his cot, staring lifelessly at the ceiling, his hair growing long and disheveled. With little time to recover, Hsieh followed Cage Piece with One Year Performance 1980–1981 (Time Clock Piece), in which he — again for the entirety of a year — punched an office timecard every hour, on the hour, essentially depriving himself of any prolonged period of sleep or activity. Later, he said, “It was like being in limbo, just waiting for the next punch.” The next piece he worked on can also be read through the lens of class and inequality. Titled One Year Performance 1981–1982 (Outdoor Piece), the work took him onto the streets of New York, where he lived and slept for a year, never entering a building or shelter, except for the time he was arrested for vagrancy and had to appear in court. Next, he and Linda Montano performed Art / Life: One Year Performance 1983–1984 (Rope Piece), the manifesto to which read: “We will stay together for one year and never be alone. We will be in the same room at the same time, when we are inside. We will be tied together at waist with an eight-foot rope. We will never touch each other during the year.” Hsieh even commuted with Montano daily and accompanied her to her teaching job. His final yearlong performance was One Year Performance 1985-1986 (No Art Piece); during which he unaffiliated himself with art in every way possible: he did not create any art, didn't talk about art, didn't look at anything related to art, didn't read any books about art, and did not enter any art museum or gallery. After that he had one more piece in him, the eponymous Tehching Hsieh 1986-1999 (Thirteen Year Plan), during which he declared, "Will make Art during this time. Will not show it publicly." This plan began on his 36th birthday, 31 December 1986, and lasted until his 49th birthday, 31 December 1999. At the end, on 1 January 2000 he issued his concluding report, “I kept myself alive. I passed ... December 31st, 1999.” The report consisted of cutout letters pasted onto a single sheet of paper. And that was that. “I don’t have other things to say,” he explained in one interview. This is why he bought a copy of Motor Maids across the Continent (1917), which tells the adventures of four young women, chaperoned by their matronly aunt, driving from Chicago to San Francisco. Along the way, they keep encountering Blaise Cendrars, whose Complete Poems Padgett translated. Cendrars got all the lines from Gustave Le Rouge’s 18-volume, serialized science fiction novel, The Mysterious Doctor Cornelius (1912-13) (“... and we wished to show our appreciation by giving her a little membrane.”), which always make sense within this fantastical place, where, at one moment, the Motor Maids are driving through “flat, monotonous wheat fields,” where “to the right and left of them stretched a large green haircut yielding great waves of heat.” Are we supposed to think of “wheat” when we read “heat”? The morning mists still clung to the citizens of Salt Lake City when The Comet flashed along the quiet back streets. How good it seemed to settle back among his comfortable cushions and hasten to leave this stinking town. At the wheel, Billie looked straight in front of her. Her heart was unquiet and her gray eyes troubled.
So what if there was an attempt to widen
the gap. Reel in the scenery.
It’s unlike us to reel in the difference.
We got the room
in other hands, to exit like a merino ghost.
What was I telling you about?
Walks in the reeds. Be
contumely about it.
You need a chaser.
In other words, persist, but rather
a dense shadow fanned out.
Not exactly evil, but you get the point ...
Now or never,
to build into the poem a packed humanity
with cuts below the furnaces of reason
in which the 21st century, like a baleful shark eye, rimmed with fire,
gazes upon its hideous justifications,
feels warmth for its wounded, then wounds them again ...
But there are no rats, no mice, hardly any roaches to drink from puddles, carry the substance in sippy cups to their young. Despite the blood the floors are clean, the walls hung with familiar paintings. In one, a girl seems to writhe on the bed, a cat’s fur stretched like orange taffy until it blurs. “Many victims feel this way.” The scent of the old man’s breath inhabits the stuffed chair he sat in. He was a very careful man and we care for him. What dreams his ashes have at the top of the ridge near the world war bunkers, finally able to fly from the broken need of his blood. But how can he reclaim his blood, and where put to it inside? There’s a broken fingernail, a sore thumb, a cut on his ankle. Which brings us to Picasso’s Dream and Lie of Trump, one of the panels of which portrays DT as a “jackbooted phallus,” waving a sword and a flag; another depicts the him eating a dead horse, with
silver bells & cockle shells & guts braided in a row
followed by
cries of children cries of women cries of birds cries of flowers cries of wood and stone cries of bricks
cries of furniture of beds of chairs of curtains of casseroles of cats and papers cries of smells that claw themselves
of smoke that gnaws the neck of cries that boil in cauldron
and the rain of birds that floods the sea that eats into the bone and breaks the teeth biting
the cotton that the sun wipes on its plate that the gangsters hide in the footprint left imbedded in the rock.
Which brings us to the uncanny prescience of his The Burial of the Count of Orgaz in which we find names like Don Rat and Don Bloodsausage, and lines like
next morning at dawn there were fires and worms up every ass hole.
Which there surely were and are. Woolstyn’s previous installations have included 132,000 knives and forks, 7500 ice-cream containers, 45,000 carrier bags, a selection of trees from Ash to Silver Birch as well as a reproduction Welcome to Las Vegas sign reading, after Gramsci, PESSIMISM OF THE INTELLECT / OPTIMISM OF THE WILL. Let me quote the whole thing: An Open Letter to Spike Lee from the Young People of the Charlottesville Attack. Dear Spike Lee, On Sunday, August 12th, we sat at the corner where, one year ago, a white supremacist named James Field committed murder and hurt many of our friends. We held each other and shed tears remembering the power and pain of that day. Riot police who laced the streets looked on. Two days later, some of us sat in a theater watching your latest film recount that attack. We saw some of our own faces. We couldn’t really watch. You cast us in your film, Spike Lee. So we thought you might want to know what we think of it. We can’t speak with certainty about your intent in making Blackkklansmen. But it seems you hoped to speak to our political climate in which an awareness of white supremacist organizations in Amerika has been made unavoidable. Maybe you intended to revitalize or contribute to this awareness with your film. Maybe you just saw dollar signs. Regardless, it’s clear to us that you chose the wrong story. Your story [...] was about a group of police who tried to fight racism through infiltrating the Ku Klux Klan. Here’s a story we’d like to tell you: The same weekend that your film grossed $10.8 million parading oh-so-relatable cops as protagonists against racism, many of us who were in the streets fighting white supremacy last year, were back in those streets of Charlottesville again. Both this year and last, we were met by a force who sought to control, suppress and attack us. And it wasn’t just the ones who showed up with hoods and torches. Most of them wore badges. Let’s break it down even more clearly: In the lead up to the Unite the Right Rally of 2017, the Charlottesville community responded to a permitted demonstration organized by the Ku Klux Klan. The police were there too. Armed with shields, bullets and batons, they escorted the Klan to the rally that took place in the shadow of Stonewall Jackson. They created walls to ensure the Klan would not be disrupted. They senselessly arrested any counter protester they perceived to be out of line. Finally they deployed an orange gas that made skin feel like fire to disperse the demonstration of nonviolent counter-protestors. The crowd chanted “Cops and the Klan Go Hand in Hand” until the air was too thick with gas to breathe. No one from the Klan or their supporters, even ones who threatened and instigated violence, were targeted by the cops. Did you know that, Spike Lee? Even if you did, it doesn’t seem you were interested in showing this face of the police. Instead you fabricated a fiction where black peoples’ aims for liberation, safety and self determination from the forces of white supremacy are shared with the police. So, Spike Lee, we are asking that you contribute a portion of the profit that you have made from Blackkklansmen in order to fund the longevity and continuation of our work — work that has enhanced the relevancy (and profitability) of this misguided film. We recommend $219,113 — the amount that the NYPD is paying you to collaborate in their ad campaign [“aimed at improving relations with minority communities,” — ed. Nuff said.] ...We ain’t mad at you Spike Lee. We just want you to do the right thing. With Sincere Respect, The Uncredited of Blackkklansmen. I understand that this happened in Portland, too: police protecting white nationalists from the rest of us and not vice-versa. See, for instance, Christopher Mathias and Andy Campbell, “Violent Proto-Fascists Came To Portland. The Police Went After The Anti-Fascists,” August 5th and 6th, 2018, in the Huffington Post. Which bring me to another link I wanted to write about, how many eons ago Brian Eno was hired to design new acoustics for London’s Chelsea and Westminster hospital, part of an overall rethinking of their patient-wellness plan. “The aim,” the Evening Standard explained, “is to replicate techniques in use in the hospital’s paediatric burns unit, where ‘distraction therapy’ such as projecting moving images on to walls can avoid the need to administer drugs such as morphine.” This is already interesting — if perhaps also a bit alarming, in that staring at images projected onto blank walls can apparently have the same effect as taking morphine. Or perhaps that’s beautiful, a chemical testament to the mind-altering potential of art amplified by modern electrical technology. Either way, Eno was brought on board to “refine” the hospital’s acoustics, much as one would do for the interior of a luxury vehicle, and even to “provide soothing music” for the building’s patients — which is why I remain convinced that middle-budget home developers all over the world are sleeping on an opportunity for distinguishing themselves. That is, why not bring some Brian Eno-type in to design soothing acoustics for an entire village or residential tower? Imagine a whole new neighborhood in LA designed in partnership with Dolby Laboratories or Bang & Olufsen, down to the use of acoustic-deflection walls and carefully chosen, sound-absorbing plants, or an apartment complex near London’s Royal Academy of Music with interiors acoustically shaped by Charcoalblue, or a SilentHomes™ development constructed near freeways in New York City — or, for that matter, in the middle of nowhere, for sonically sensitive clients, of whom I am one, the more urban yet the more silent the better. “In space no one can hear you scream,” you know what I’m saying? I’m saying Sgt. Kodjo Asante watches his fucking step. He watches it when pitted against well-funded private armies running on profit and ideology, against ragged makeshift ones driven by thirst and desperation, against rogue Darwin Banks and the inevitable religious extremists who — almost a quarter-century after the end of the Dark Decade — still haven’t stopped maiming and killing in the name of their Invisible Friends. His steps don’t really falter until twenty-one months into his tour, when he kills three unarmed children off the coast of Honduras. ZeroS has risen from the depths of the Atlantic to storm one of the countless gylands that ride the major currents of the world’s oceans. Some are refugee camps with thousands of inhabitants; others serve as havens for hustlers and tax dodgers eager to avoid the constraints of more stationary jurisdictions. Some are military, sheathed in chromatophores and radar-damping nanotubes: bigger than airports, invisible to man or machine. The Caçador de Recompensa is a fish farm, a family business registered out of Brazil: two modest hectares of low-slung superstructure on a donut hull with a cluster of net pens at its center. It is currently occupied by forces loyal to the latest incarnation of ... well, it doesn’t matter, because that’s just background, or foreshadowing, Welcome to the Wonderful Anthropocene Era, etc. Differences in the maintenance energy requirements of individual species therefore potentially predict extinction likelihood. If validated, this would comprise an important link between organismic ecology and macroevolutionary dynamics. To test this hypothesis, the BMRs of organisms within fossil species were determined using body size and temperature data, and considered in the light of species’ survival and extinction through time. Our analysis focused on the high-resolution record of Pliocene-to-recent molluscs (bivalves and gastropods) from the Western Atlantic. Species-specific BMRs were calculated by measuring the size range of specimens from museum collections, determining ocean temperature using the HadCM3 global climate model, and deriving values based on relevant equations. Intriguingly, a statistically significant difference in metabolic rate exists between those bivalve and gastropod taxa that went extinct and those that survived throughout the course of the Neogene. This indicates that there is a scaling up from organismic properties to species survival for these communities. Metabolic rate could therefore represent an important metric for predicting future extinction patterns, so he decided at some point to see whether he could write a work, make a work, that would use the form provided by transcriptions of ancient, let’s say, Babylonian clay tablets and such, to take that and, in a sense, create, create a whole mythology and culture, by means if these Tablets that he would make himself, you know, “simple dots mean untranslatable, little crosses mean missing section, brackets with a question-mark inside them is variant readings” — you might read it this way — and, “whatever is in brackets has been supplied by the scholar-translator” — A little note — “Most large fragments are the results of horizontal breaks. This tablet ... however is vertically fractured” — and so forth
“When does the man sacrifice his hands?”
“Does the man wipe his belly with sperm?”
“Does the man put good leaves under his testicles..?”
“Like the world, a five-year-old’s bloody [ ]”
“Like a frog stops with small stones, small white stones ...”
and what you get there, I mean, every word in that is basically Milton’s, although Milton never put them in that particular order and may have had many other words between them, between words that now are next to each other, but, he does an interesting thing, he left the spaces resulting from the white-out or black-out (whatever color he used to take out what he didn’t think was so interesting) so that the page has this incredible air in it, I mean it looks like it was shot through with, I don’t know, empty space, and these words hover in it. So what he did is spend, I think a couple of years going over the book page-by-page and making each page ino a little painting. In other words, not just knocking out words, you know, or taking out phrases, or ... telescoping words into one another, but, actually, making each page work as a picture, and leaving the words in, and, furthermore, trying to preserve some kind of ... It’s a very weird story-line — and the main character, for some reason, because those four letters occur a lot in the text, the main character’s name ends up being Toge, T-O-G-E. So it’s like The Adventures of Toge Page number 12 here — On the left in the image ... it’s like a meadow, there’s flowers, and the text says, “Condemned to Life. This good book book for nobody” —and then it says “Meaning losing its meaning, when it follows any picture of the part of a half of a picture. Details are not representation. Question whether the book is this. It is as if it is and exist in the purposes it does” — or, the facing page says, “Moral moral moral moral moral.” Maybe it said “amoral” at some point ... “She getting laden with gvalk, and frunk, and painful interest” — Pardon me? It’s a great surreal Western, actually. The two pages here are from ... sort of a diary, diary-poem, it’s a parody essentially of a diary poem ... So, as, for instance, [from “Stag Skull Mounted”] on the 3rd of June, 1970 — “this is my handwriting” — June 5th was even sort of more purer in a way, just (the word) — “word” — and June 6th elaborates a little bit on that. It says “word a / a the /the the ...” And then two entries for the 10th which, you know, that “8.06 PM, it seemed that the word ‘poem’ would suffice but then, about an hour and a half later, it became apparent that this would be much better if it read ‘poem / poem.’” And nineteen days passed before the word “organic” found its place in this work. A music-inspired rhythmic carpet, Chant provides strong graphic lines in an adaptable color palette. Natural shades of white, black and hemp create a stunning contrast in artful luxury floor coverings. Available in our standard sizes of 3x5, 6x9, 8x10, 9x12, 10x14 and 12x16. Custom sizes, runners, squares and rounds available; contact us or Request a Quote for more information, especially about the river that lives in every cell,
jolifanto bambla o falli bambla
cork
thoi
presp
gadji beri bimba glandridi laula lonni cadori
perq
großiga m’pfa habla horem
gadjama gramma berida bimbala glandri galassassa laulitalomini
olin
rubs
egiga goramen
gadji beri bin blassa glassala laula lonni cadorsu sassala bim
higo bloiko russula huju
atpiques
gadjama tuffm i zimzalla binban gligla wowolimai bin beri ban
hollaka hollala
tracted
o katalominai rhinozerossola hopsamen laulitalomini hoooo
anlogo bung
gadjama rhinozerossola hopsamen
immathace
blago bung blago bung
bosso fataka
bluku terullala blaulala loooo
ü üü ü
zimzim urullala zimzim urullala zimzim zanzibar zimzalla zam
schampa wulla wussa olobo
elifantolim brussala bulomen brussala bulomen tromtata
hej tatta gorem
velo da bang band affalo purzamai affalo purzamai lengado tor
eschige zunbada
gadjama bimbalo glandridi glassala zingtata pimpalo ögrögöööö
wulubu ssubudu uluwu ssubudu
viola laxato viola zimbrabim viola uli paluji malooo
— umf
tuffm im zimbrabim negramai bumbalo negramai bumbalo tuffm i zim
kusa gauma
gadjama bimbala oo beri gadjama gaga di gadjama affalo pinx
ba–umf
errit hist
not to mention Valeska Gert’s Pause.
[Note: Sources: JBR; Will Alexander, “Dx”, email rec’d 21 Aug 018, approx. 11:45pm PDT (for some reason Will forwarded a set of corrections and amendments he had originally sent to Janice Lee that concern a text text called “A Cannibal Explains Himself to Himself”, which Janice published at Entropy, 21 Aug 018); JBR; Tom Clark (RIP), “The Domestic Life of Ghosts”, at Poetry Foundation; JBR; Kathy Bloomberg-Rissman; Will Alexander, “A Cannibal Explains Himself to Himself”, at Entropy, 21 Aug 018; NK Jemisin, “But, but, but — WHY does magic have to make sense?”, at NK Jemisin, 15 Jun 012; Alli Warren, “A Yielding Hole for Light”, in I Love It Though; JBR, or, rather some of those I sampled to create a MS dated 2008 and forgotten about til stumbled upon today called Soul Sings Always the Entre Nous in the Voice of Curtis Mayfield; Arundhati Roy, “Arundhati Roy: The deadly flood in Kerala may be only a gentle warning”, at Climate & Capitalism, 23 Aug 018; The Next Eclipse, at ill will editions, 22 Aug 018; JBR; Bill Griffiths, “Decorating & Insurance Factors”, at Jacket 6; JBR; Bill Griffiths, “Decorating & Insurance Factors”, at Jacket 6; JBR; Kyle Walker, “Modernism, Heal Thyself”, at Public Books, 23 Aug 018 (a rerun, the article was first published 21 Sept 017); JBR; Anselm Hollo, “Fool’s Paradise”, in Braided River: New and Selected Poems 1965-2005; JBR; Linda Mary Montano, “Questions To Jena and Nina About The Whistle Performance”, at Linda Mary Montano, 24 Aug 018; Demie Kim, “The Performance Artist Who Went To Impossible Extremes”, at Artsy, 19 Dec 017, and Tehching Hsieh; JBR; John Yan, And Ron Padgett, Motor Maids Across the Continent, quoted in Yau’s “The Five-Star Delight of Driving Across America with Ron Padgett”, at Hyperallergic, 7 May 017; John Ashbery, “Climate Correction”, at Harpers, Aug 018; “Clayton Eshleman: For the Night Poem 8 Aug 2010”, at Poems & Poetics, 23 Aug 018; JBR; Susan M Schultz, “25 August 2018”, at Tinfish Editor’s Blog, 25 Aug 018; JBR; Wikipedia, and Pablo Picasso, quoted in Wikipedia; JBR; Robyn Woolston, “About”, at Robyn Woolston – Artist; Lucy Lippard, “Keynote”, at Robyn Woolstyn / News, 17 Jun 018; JBR; The Uncredited of Blackkklansmen, “An Open Letter To Spike Lee From The Young People Of the Charlottesville Attack”, at Go Fund Me; JBR; Geoff Manaugh, “Hospital Interiors / Dolby Suburbs”, at BLDGBLOG, JBR; Peter Watts, “ZeroS”, at Tor, 11 Oct 017; JBR; Luke C. Strotz, Erin E. Saupe, Julien Kimmig, Bruce S. Lieberman, “Metabolic rates, climate and macroevolution: a case study using Neogene molluscs”, at Proceedings of the Royal Society B: Biological Sciences, vol. 285, no. 1885 (29 Aug 018); Anselm Hollo, “Anselm Hollo on Modern Fragmentation June 25 1986”, at Allen Ginsberg, 20 Sept 015; “Chant Black”, at Tufenkian; JBR; Alan Baker, Riverrun (cf JBR, “A Transhuman Alan Baker in Blackpool”, at ZS, 25 Aug 018; a mashup of Hugo Ball, “Karawane”, at Poets.org, “Gadji beri bimba”, at Guardian, 31 Aug 09, and P Inman, quoted in Ian Dreiblatt, “P. Inman’s Written: 1976–2013”, at BOMB, 18 Mar 015; JBR]
