This energy must contain a property and force infinitely superior to anything we know. We can conceive of a being which, just by raising its hand, can produce light, draw energy to it, push it away, and organise it. It is possible. If the elephant can live for 260 years, it is because the organisation of matter, in this form, allows for it. But why can we not imagine living as long, in a different form to the elephant? Without a trunk ... why not? Mayakovsky was a lover of animals, and yet the photographs that exist of him fondly cuddling his pet dogs are rarely reproduced. Meanwhile, the brooding series of photographs taken by Rodchenko one afternoon in 1925, which show a smouldering and, uncharacteristically, shaven-headed Mayakovsky have become iconic representations of the poet. In other words, we do not know if beings exist in other systems or galaxies, nor how they are constituted. What about the boneless bears in the valley? Their smell belying their beauty, their eyes knowing us from when we are beasts also. You telling me that is why it is fatal to look them in the eye. Giant birds also are nesting out there bigger than cows. TETRALOGOS, then, is conceived as a libretto. The whole book is 622 pages long. 1) The Overture (84 pages) introduces the main themes and goal: “to describe, via a montage of philosophical theories and of central references to music, the harmonic and contrapuntal amplitude of the epic of human life as a function of its sites which go from the Cavern to the Stars and the diversity of its stages and of its intrigues ...” 2) Book I (76 pages) is the Prologue. 3) Book II (132 pages) is the Organon, it articulates a theory of “reminscience” (sic). 4) Book III (the longest, 231 pages) deals with the Amplitude. 5) Book IV (59 pages) is the Ritorno, the “musical return from the Sky to the Earth.” 6) The Coda (15 pages) is entitled “For a treatise of speculative music (therefore effective without-music but not without ideally philosophical musicality).”
Meanwhile it is raining in northern California. In a tiny
village on the coast, Rod Taylor and Tippi Hedren are totally
concerned. They realize that something terrible is happening.
Each has been savagely attacked by a wild songbird within
the last twenty-four hours. Outside their window thousands
of birds have gathered in anticipation of the famous school-
yard scene. Tippi Hedren is wearing a colorful lipstick.
Jackie Kennedy bares her teeth. Behind and above her, the
muzzle of a high-powered rifle protrudes from a window. A little
man is aiming at Jackie Kennedy’s husband. The man is wearing
bluejeans and a white T-shirt. There isn’t a bird to be seen.
As he squeezes the trigger, the little man mutters between
clenched teeth, “Certs is a candy mint.” The hands of Jackie
Kennedy’s husband jerk automatically toward his head.
The Professor is noticing Ginger’s breasts. He thinks of
the wife he left at home, who probably thinks he’s dead.
He thinks of his mother, and all of the women he has ever
known. Mr. and Mrs. Howell are asleep in their hut, secure
in their little lives as character actors. Ginger shifts her
weight to the other foot. The intensity of the moment reminds
the Professor of a Japanese city before the end of the war.
I was standing over a cliff, looking down on a raging black river. There were no sounds; there was only blackness and stars. So yes, it was my cunt, too — not the velvet one, of course, but the center one with the hanged man attached to it. A screen of wrought iron covers the window; the house door is locked though the door of my room is open. All night long the light watches me with its unbiased eye ... I was carrying the tortoise in both hands, holding it out in front of me like an altar boy’s Bible or a divining rod as I walked around the periphery of the room. Each plate of its ruddy shell was distinct. It leaked as I carried it. More water came forth than a tortoise that size could possibly store. It was a classic suburban house of its era, single-story, L-shaped. This house, with its public rooms that opened one into another as though they were only distended passageways and its bedrooms appendix-like cul-de-sacs, had no center, but my psyche was stuck in it. The previous owners’ plantings all around it were strange, exotic, bottlebrush and artificial strawberry tree, a spruce the same powder blue as the corduroy pants boys wore then, succulents and other plants that were nameless, unrecognizable, inedible, with shiny leaves or spiky ones. One plant up a narrow side plot in perpetual shade bloomed annually with a single colossal lily that looked as though it were made of crumpled black leather. The term “a body of water” is apt, for here was a mysterious body thirty feet long, eight feet tall at the far end. So he has another shot of akvavit from the bottle on his desk, giggles, gives the figure a nice curly beard. And in his mythical cave sleeps Ogier the Dane who fought Bruhier the giant Saracen prince, according to the chansons de geste. Go on, read the chansons. Ogier of cut away part of Bruhier’s helmet, and with it his ear and part of his cheek. Seeing the blood, he did not immediately repeat his blow and Bruhier seized the moment to gallop off to one side to grab a vase of gold which hung at his saddle-bow and bathe with its contents the wounded part: the blood instantly ceased to flow, ear and flesh were restored quite whole, and the Dane was astonished to see his antagonist return to the ground as sound as ever. Bruhier laughed at his amazement. “Know,” said he, “that I possess the precious balm Joseph of Arimathea used upon the body of the crucified one whom you worship. If I should lose an arm I could restore it with a few drops of this. It is useless for you to contend with me. Yield yourself, and, as you appear to be a strong fellow, I will make you first oarsman in one of my galleys.” At these words Ogier attacked Bruhier again with more vigor than ever. Both struck terrible blows, and made grievous wounds, but the blood flowed from those of Ogier while Bruhier staunched his by the application of his balm. Then more hacking and bleeding and balming til Ogier finally won. Whereupon he went on to have many more adventures in far away places, until he did a Rip van Winkle with Morgana the Fay on Lodestone Island, for several hundred years. Upon waking up he walked all the way back to Denmark, where he now rests below Elsinore Castle, his beard grown through a marble table top. I learned this from a publication issued by Tolling Elves. Similarly, Shelley’s poetry is full of a sense of liberatory language as that which comes from a distant so great that it can barely, if at all, be heard: the spirit of Liberty in “Laon and Cynthia” speaks in a “strange melody / that might not belong on earth,” while in “Prometheus Unbound” we are told that we cannot hear if we can not hear “the language of the dead.” Unlike the “barely intelligible” communications of Damballah there is no comfort to be had. But that is just fine. Damballah does more than merely comfort. In Petro Voudoun his hissing is that which “is heard in the roar of the flames.” The suggestion, the metaphor (not only a metaphor) was that the intensity of a Coltrane solo was a carrier of the accumulated rage and misery of the past 400 years of black experience in the US, and that the compression of that rage that each note represented was such that it had actual use as a revolutionary weapon. That African-American music carried such an intensity of knowledge was not something unique to the Black Arts Movement: Ralph Ellison’s narrator in The Invisible Man has visions while smoking weed and listening to Louis Armstrong records. For Dumas, then, each note Probe played was that metaphor in the process of being turned inside out. He described it as “an atom stripped of time.” Dumas was a close student of Sun Ra, Ra in turn being the intellectual heart of the early phase of the Black Arts Movement, described by Amiri Baraka as a spiritual advisor to the Black Arts Repertory Theatre in Harlem. For Ra, music was metaphor for everything that exists, which itself is only the active sub-set, the detonator, of all that does not exist. Bassoon player James Jacson gives this example of the kind of instructions Ra would give to his players during rehearsal: ‘He once said to me, “Jacson, play all the things you don’t know! You’ll be surprised by what you don’t know. There’s an infinity of what you don’t know.” Another time he said, “You know how many notes there are between C and D? If you deal with those tones you can play nature, and nature doesn’t know notes. That’s why religions have bells, which sound all the transient tones. You’re not musicians, you’re tone scientists.”’ A Theory of Birds, then, opens with phrases stitched with commas that are both light and startling: a grammar-flux that produces the effect of something falling out of or off the page. ‘I entered through the empty cage, hips first.’ ‘Can the map eat?’ The questions that follow invert their cardinal nouns, reverting to zero each time the next one is asked. Alsous proposes a ‘collaboration with the dead’ but also a paradise of solar pathways and outcomes. A ‘previously’ as much as an ‘almost.’ A jar in France, a blonde hair in Fez: fragments in the shape of an ibis, a harp, a broken lantern, pinning them on a sky-red space, which also shakes — shakes so hard that letters lose their place. Or, as García Márquez put it, Columbus’s Diario, ‘a book that speaks of fabulous plants and mythological lands,’ was the first example of quote unquote magical realism in what became known as the Americas. Ergo, as Alsous notes, ‘While invading the [quote unquote] New World, Columbus writes of sirens in / his notebooks, evoking the half-women, half-birds of Jason’s / Argonauts. Every time I look for women, I become more bird.’ I ...
I didn’t know and nobody told me and what
could I do or say, anyway?
Sure, Yemeni hospitals have been bombed, in 2015,
and 2016, and 2016, and 2018. In war’s heightened fog
mistakes are bound to happen.
Sure, one million people have contracted cholera, the same illness that appears
in 10 cases a year in the U.S. Sure, international agencies have written
famine and crisis in spirals and one report briefly mentions mothers
unable to summon enough milk to fill the mouths of newborns.
Another describes the fate of a mother,
who used to sell boiled eggs in the morning, now
a ceiling of charred blood turned black,
and how do I know the sky I look to at night is not also a ceiling
of charred blood turned black,
and what could I do or say to the memory of this mother,
or the echo of neighbors who shared eggs in the streets of Sana’a?
In American college they taught me to use it’s complicated,
as a sign of intelligence ...
[etc, etc]
until no one remembers what you were talking about
to begin with.
No one told me that Yemen is Gaza is ICE contract is
concentration camp in Florence, Colorado.
Before another body is buried, a window is broken.
A window was broken. The window is broken.
I look everywhere for Fanon’s knife, waiting for the red locusts
to dance in the streets, after killing time.
In a high-school history class, white children raised
their eyebrows when I raised my voice.
I don’t know what they thought I was capable of;
I wish I was more capable of it.
Surrounded by bone, surrounded by cells,
by rings, by rings of hell, by hair, surrounded by
air-is-a-thing, surrounded by silhouette, by honey-wet bees, yet
by skeletons of trees, surrounded by actual, yes, for practical
purposes, people, surrounded by surreal
popcorn,
in other words, modern seismographs withhold all flourish. They are, appropriately, a measure of the force required to keep a mass still. Through a negative feedback loop a pendulum is held steady, and electronically, the results are presented to the user revealing exactly how much effort was expended to ensure that nothing changed in the confines of the device, that all remained still. We watch the price of calm bob and dip without logic, and tick away the expenditures.
That’s where we are
and why we buy our groceries
a day at a time
do you like the word crisis?
He only speaks in shrill modem tones now, or when mad, in a deep infrasound made into a perfect sine wave when it hits his gums.
Maybe that’s where it all washes up
Maybe that’s what’s stuck in my throat:
After Death — Before Christ — Common Era
Fructidor — Thermidor — Brumaire
Space Age — Information Age — Iron and Bronze
Years of the Tiger and the Rabbit
“I’m so happy to see you” — she says to the second, the minute and the hour
It’s seconds 4-8 we’re after.
Her brother was an extra in a film.
The Gangs of New York.
They asked him — can you speak English?
So what if he said sí?
They gave him “Angry Irish Laborer #12”
For ten takes they rioted.
For ten takes anonymous hands
cleaned and replaced the scenery.
I mean.
I Have HAD it With the World
I don't know about you but I have HAD it with the world.
huatvaeti hnagdc r iot wp oitbhl civairocnin — ogenicg round water burning
I haveh ad it withu rchinb ... isguised as
illegal U-tums at the GW Bridge
holdmgu p the commuteJ jkef ilterings teel planktont hrough a whale's gill,
bgruollosm cihrcalnet dolb ep1 ic1kly atc yluotbhu rru resmtst aoiwnsa
swings past your skull,
I havef uckingH ADi t
------
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better h.v m. g throuo c e O •
t I see nyoosom. tly wrong not e
B"ble
. E Iuuon . al 1
. 11 s who pa
Irwm Catu u thi. day
to 5 h one
That's when I approached the two Caucasians, one female, one male and noticed a red morphine stick on the ground and picked it up. Possession of a red morphine stick being against the law, I stuck my rifle pistol into the ear of the male Caucasian known as C. C had a mouthful of rice ants in his mouth at the time and he began to choke so I picked him up and performed the Heimlich maneuver on him. As I picked him out of the booth his arm knocked his bowl of rice ants onto the floor. Unknown to me a group of the ants crawled up my pants leg and after C stopped choking, I fell to the floor in a panic trying to get the ants off my leg. The female M informed a waitress who informed a dishwasher who grabbed a large can of ant repellent. The dishwasher mumbled something incoherent and we later learned through interrogation REDACTED. The dishwasher sprayed the ant repellent on my head, so I grabbed it and sprayed inside my pants leg. I did not know I was allergic to ant foam and my eyes puffed up into the size of tennis balls and REDACTED. The dishwasher was later found in a department store snorting lighter fluid. So yes, the “human of Mars.” “Red arts, red candies, red controls.” “I eat raspberries, binge on tomatoes, and dream of bleeding cows.” Thus in “Time of Tyranny,” tyranny infuses and is embedded in our time, and the floor all littered with human bits. You know that, you have eyes in the back of your many heads. “Coal is over. Forget coal,” says Jimmy Simpkins, who worked as a miner near Matewan, West Virginia, for 29 years. There is less coal to mine every year. Terry Steele, who put in 26 years mining near Matewan himself, emphasizes the need for renewable energy jobs to concentrate in Appalachia. “Build something where these people used to work in the mines, and good paying jobs, not having to work three jobs to make what you used to be able to make with one. We want other jobs for our kids to work at.” Perhaps if we weren’t homo sapiens sapiens, this would be brain-dead simple. The area of right triangle AOB is equal to the area of lune AB, isn’t it? The lune is bounded by segments E and F, where E is a segment of a circle whose midpoint is D — also the hypotenuse of right triangle AOB — and where F is a segment of the primary circle whose midpoint is O. If the circle is the foremost mythological figure known to humankind, then the lune is evidence of the circle's work. I mean, 9 is 3 times 3 and the final digit of the single progress between one and zero. 9 is never quite enough. Forty-five on the clock, 9 requests a quarter. It goes Sun | Earth | Moon. The order is entirely rearrangeable, the different sequences are identified as northern & southern eclipses, lunar and solar, as well as empty (sun earth moon). So yes, it is useful to consider the leaf as possessing a centripetal syllable, as in 5-1-5 (eye eee, ten with one in the middle). Between fives, the middled six in a sequence of eleven is the stem, a pivot where something shoots and holds or tumbles. When walking through the forest — field, alley, coalmine, supermarket aisle, etc. — count syllables by tapping your fingers against your thigh. There are many other valuable ways of counting to eleven. Do so how you feel comfortable doing so. Below is the anatomy of a symbolic leaf:
A — Margin (definite boundary)
B — Vein (transport vessel)
C — Petiole (connective stalk)
D — Blade (entire body-shape)
E — Midrib (strong central vein)
A, B, C — Vertices (angular points)
a, b, c — Sides (distances between vertices)
α, β, γ — Angles (degrees of separation)
Brave New World
cold wet stars
slender yellow thread
big red boom
one
one two
one two three
one two three four
one
After several minutes of gradually coming to my senses, I realized I wasn’t drunk at all but under the effect, not yet entirely dissipated, of the anesthetic, and under the impression that I had attended a wild party during which I drank so much that I passed out. When I returned to myself completely, I thought I could trace this illusion back to its probable source. Hadn’t I noticed the lighting fixture in the operating room’s large disc literally plastered with electric projectors aimed at my body laid out underneath? So it must have been this strong light coming from above, and the fact of being surrounded by various people gathered together as if for an anatomy lesson (my usual doctor, his fellow surgeon who conducted the operation, the anesthesiologist, and a nurse) that caused me to imagine ... well, the first time you see him, you barely notice him. He’s posing for a group photo, poking his head over the shoulders of two people you recognize. You have to see his face a few times before you begin to recognize him too, but soon enough you do. He’s showing up everywhere now, at a party with Sky Ferreira, in front of a media wall at a film festival with James Franco, on the beach with Justin Bieber. He’s slight and messy, but his face tattoo and rattail are distinctive enough to brand him somewhere between Jersey Shore and inzane_johnny. There’s mention of a Chad. You Google until you find a verified Instagram account with 100,000 followers. The bio reads “LOVExHATE // LIFExDEATH // ALLxONE,” and the handle is @ChadMansonOfficial. You start following Chad on all social-media platforms. He often likes and occasionally reposts articles about himself; Vice develops a beat. Along with the rest of the world, you slowly get to know Chad and his singular lifestyle brand, part edgelord, part corporate woke. The elitist one percent has destroyed the planet and defrauded the people, and the only way to cope is to lean into whatever means to liberation remain. He’s nonmonogamous, advocates for entheogens and their potential to treat PTSD, and vehemently distrusts both political parties. Your friends tend to shrug off the rumors about his entourage of younger women and their creepy orgies. You’re not sure if you buy his message, but media personalities of various stripes have found something to like about him, from Tucker Carlson to Cum Town. Then the Fader runs the headline “Chad Manson at work on debut mixtape produced by Kanye West.” You wonder when the first single will drop, but it never does. Instead, one morning, you wake up to a stream of push notifications. At a party at Franco’s house in Hollywood, along with at least six other industry personalities, actress Margot Robbie — no, Kate Bosworth — no, wait, Hilary Duff — has been hideously murdered by still unidentified perpetrators. Not quickly enough, police apprehend Chad Manson. Early reports suggest that Manson has been plotting against the cultural elite for years, coaxing stars like Ed Sheeran, Lil Xan, and the FuckJerry guy into his orbit. After a long investigation, detectives determine that Manson orchestrated the murders after hearing Kanye’s album Yeezus, reading its lyrics as coded messages from a powerful representative of the Black community about the coming armed battle against the white race. A reporter for the Free Press was for some ungodly reasons startled to find Manson both anti-Jewish and anti-Black. And when one interviewer tried to suggest that Manson was as much a political prisoner as Huey Newton, Charlie, perplexed, asked, ‘Who’s he?’” Vincent Bugliosi, prosecutor and propagandist, contributed to the confusion when he quoted a speech by Bernardine Dohrn, delivered at an SDS summit not long after the murders: “Offing those rich pigs with their own forks and knives, and then eating a meal in the same room, far out! The Weathermen dig Charles Manson.” This is the quote that no right-wing publication can seem to leave alone. But Bill Ayers, placing the quote back in the context of the speech for which he was present, refutes any ideas of its sincere support for Manson. The occasion and the subject of the speech was the recent murder of Fred Hampton, which the Weathermen assumed, not unreasonably, to be part of a racist government conspiracy curiously Mansonian in design. The comparison to Manson was meant to lament the media’s focus on the sexier story of the Tate-LaBianca murders rather than what to the Weathermen was the much greater and more politically significant crime. “This is what screams for our attention and our response,” Ayers remembers Dohrn continuing. “And what do we find in our newspapers? A sick fascination with a story that has it all: a racist psycho, a killer cult, and a chorus line of Hollywood bodies.” Dohrn’s juxtaposition of Manson and Hampton echoes in Joan Didion’s likewise of Manson and Huey Newton’s arrest for the murder of Oakland police officer John Frey. Both cases came about because of a deliberate police effort to target the Panther Party. The New Republic review of Didion’s The White Album explains that “Helter-skelter was Charles Manson’s design for Armageddon: by committing crimes like the Tate-LaBianca murders and leaving clues to throw the blame on black power groups, Manson hoped to force a police crackdown on the blacks who would retaliate with war against the whites.” If “a police crackdown on the blacks” was the first phase of Manson’s plan for race war, then the FBI was already years ahead of him. ANY examination of the Manson murders is incomplete if it ignores the US. government’s concurrent efforts to attack and undermine Black-power groups via espionage and violence, efforts made public in 1971 after the FBI’s papers documenting its counterintelligence programs were stolen and leaked to the press. Across five COINTELPRO programs, the FBI’s goals were broad but consistent. The FBI wanted to neutralize any challenge to the prevailing order, of which white supremacy was (and obviously remains) an inextricable part. The fantasy of white genocide that animated Manson permeates the highest levels of state power in this country. Manson may have been deluded enough to believe the Beatles knew who he was and cared enough about him to write him songs, but his racism wasn’t born of unique paranoia. Growing up in America in the middle of the 20th century, he could have picked it up pretty much anywhere. Kathy tells me that women in Texas these days are having plastic surgery to make them look like Ivanka Trump. Meanwhile,
Someone downstairs
Was retching
& up through the airshaft blew a baconlike
Breeze with notes of weed & a colorless
Wave came down through the orange
Mesh the super put up to keep out the pigeons
& doves. They beat their wings.
The voices from the television reached me.
They had to pass through at least three walls.
After reprising their phonemes I deduced
an ad hoc verbal code:
HABIA YA ALA
Takarkuna
guagu
dage neg itisega
boe bab
belabela olo
uarguen guilenay
aturimska ibloged
banegine gurgina
magatbali
bubadi baabak
arbaedse narmayeke
uisiye
uied
Abya Yala
A HOUSE OF BROKEN DISHES
IN A DESERTED FACTORY
USING ELECTRICITY
INHABITED BY CHILDREN AND OLD PEOPLE
A HOUSE OF PLASTIC
ON OPEN GROUND
USING NATURAL LIGHT
INHABITED BY PEOPLE WHO SLEEP ALMOST ALL THE TIME
A HOUSE OF BRICK
IN A HOT CLIMATE
USING CANDLES
INHABITED BY PEOPLE WHO SLEEP ALMOST ALL THE TIME
A HOUSE OF WEEDS
BY AN ABANDONED LAKE
USING ELECTRICITY
INHABITED BY HORSES AND BIRDS
A HOUSE OF WEEDS
IN A DESERTED AIRPORT
USING ALL AVAILABLE LIGHTING
INHABITED BY ALL RACES OF MEN WEARING PREDOMINANTLY RED CLOTHING
A HOUSE OF BROKEN DISHES
IN AN OVERPOPULATED AREA
USING NATURAL LIGHT
A HOUSE OF BROKEN DISHES
UNDERWATER
USING NATURAL LIGHT
A HOUSE OF TIN
A HOUSE OF STONE
IN DENSE WOODS
USING ALL AVAILABLE LIGHTING
INHABITED BY CHILDREN AND OLD PEOPLE
A HOUSE OF PLASTIC
ON OPEN GROUND
USING ALL AVAILABLE LIGHTING
A HOUSE OF PLASTIC
A HOUSE OF PLASTIC
A HOUSE OF WEEDS
A slow-moving ship
from which Karl Rossmann
saw the Statue of Liberty
as if in a sudden burst of sunlight.
The arm with the sword now reached aloft, and ...
Now Trump want to buy Greenland?
In fifty years, dogs from rival villages
have lost and won their wars.
The barren mountain stays on the barren mountain.
Jaedite water stays in the teapot.
The mansion stays on the map.
“A Moth Laid Its Eggs in my Armpit.”
Snakes / devour cake.
My home / used to have someone else living in it.
But nature doesn’t care about being covered in dust.
When have you ever heard of
wild animals complaining about too much dust?
Anyway, Bruce Boone and I went to the house at 2029 Hearst and asked the people if they would let us come in, because this was the famous house where Duncan lived with Hugh O’Neill and Janie O’Neill, and they let us in and Bruce chatted them up and I asked if I could use the bathroom. So I got in there and you know, flushing the toilet and everything, I started to peel away the damp paint on the wall on the other side of the bathtub — which was one of those standing tubs, and I was looking for those swans, and instead just this kind of wet plaster goo stuff came off under my nails ... S was now a radio, picking up transmissions from “ghosts.” As time passed by, he became smaller and smaller. Long after I left home to live on my own, he bought a black dog. Its belly was partly white, which contrasted with its dark body. The doggy’s name is Kuro, which means ‘black.’ Every time my father opened the door of the garden, the dog would stick out its tongue and wag its tail because it understood it was going for a walk. However, I never actually saw my father walking his dog. But if the dog wasn’t around, then neither was he. One snowy day after my father died, I took Kuro for a walk. As soon as I released his leash, he ran. I followed his steps ...
[Note: Sources: J Posadas, Flying saucers, the process of matter and energy, science, the revolutionary and working-class struggle and the socialist future of mankind (tr. David Broder); Rosie Carrigan, Mayakovsky (U of Sussex PhD thesis); JBR; J Posadas, Flying saucers, the process of matter and energy, science, the revolutionary and working-class struggle and the socialist future of mankind (tr. David Broder); Toni Morrison (RIP), A Mercy; Terence Blake, “Live-blogging Laruelle’s TETRALOGOS (2): Structure, Themes, and Questions”, at Agent Swarm, 8 Aug 019; Tim Dlugos, “Gilligan’s Island”, quoted in Dennis Cooper, “Spotlight on … Tim Dlugos A Fast Life: The Collected Poems of Tim Dlugos, edited by David Trinidad (2011)”, at DC’s, 10 Aug 019; Jenny Boully, Anna Kavan, Rebecca Solnit, various posts by Jackie Wang, at Giulia Tofana the Apothecary, 14 Oct 017 – 6 Aug 019 (which means something went wrong w/ my RSS feed); JBR; Anselm Hollo, The Danish Cartoonist; JBR; Sean Bonney, “Baraka and Surrealism”, “Time Negatives of Variable Universe”, at ‘round midnight, 26 Jul 019; Bhanu Kapil, Zaina Alsous, Raquel Salas Rivera, blurbs for Alsous’s A Theory of Birds, at Zaina Alsous; JBR; Zaina Alsous, “Apologies to All the People in Yemen (after June Jordan)”, at Glass: A Journal of Poetry, 2 Aug 018, and “Violence”, quoted in “riots and/or poetics [8/2019]”, at BLACKOUT ((poetry & politics)), Aug 019; Jack Collom, “Ecology”, at Poetry Foundation; JBR; Matthew Whitley, various, in Do You Like the Word Crisis?, at Commune Editions; JBR; Steve Hirsch, “I Have HAD It With The World”, Anselm Hollo, “from Guests of Space”, Evan Hundhausen, untitled, in {EMPTY SET} Summer Writing Program Journal Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics Naropa University 2000; JBR; Karla Kelsey, and Lyn Hejinian, Tribunal, quoted in Kelsey’s “Lyn Hejinian Imagines Life on Mars”, at Hyperallergic, 3 Aug 019; Anne Waldman, Dream Book of Fez, at The Lune; Michael Sainato, “‘Coal is over’: the miners rooting for the Green New Deal”, at The Guardian, 12 Aug 019; JBR; Robert Kelly, Jack Collom, Alan Mudd, Joseph Braun & Marielle Grenade-Willis, anon, “Various Moons, at The Lune; Michel Leiris, “I Felt Myself: An excerpt from The Ribbon at Olympia’s Throat, translated by Christine Pichini”, at The New Inquiry, 7 Aug 019; JBR; Stephen Piccarella, “Charles Manson Was a Republican”, at The New Inquiry, 5 Aug 019; JBR; Ariana Reines, “Running Nymph”, in The Sand Book; Edison Simons “from MOSAICS: LII (tr. Javier Taboada); JBR; image: found somewhere online; Alison Knowles and James Tenney, A HOUSE OF DUST, at A HOUSE OF DUST; Franz Kafka, Amerika (tr. Mark Harman); JBR (Google it); Tsering Wangmo Dhompa, “Exile: an invitation to a struggle”, at The The, 9 Nov 012; lines projected on wall behind Xi Chuan, performing at International Poetry Nights, Hong Kong, presumably translated by Lucas Klein, Ye Mimi’s “A Moth Laid Its Eggs in my Armpit, and Then It Died” (tr. Steven Bradbury), Régis Bonvicino, “Untitled” (tr. Odile Cisneros), quoted in Klein’s “Letter From Hong Kong” at Your Impossible Voice, ?2014; Xi Chuan, “Answering Venus (45 Fragments)” (tr. Lucas Klein), at Alligator 110; JBR; Kevin Killian, “Kevin Killian presents … Jack Spicer (1925-1965) *”, at DC’s, 16 Aug 019; Hajime Kimura, re his Snowflakes Dog Man, quoted in Robert Rissman, email rec’d 16 Aug 019, approx. 8:32pm PDT]
