Linguistic studies in Egyptology, Assyriology and Biblical Studies harbour a persistent trope in which the inhabitants of the Ancient Near East and Egypt are believed to have visualised the past as in front of them and the future as behind them. Analyses of the spatial conceptualisation of time in language have revealed that the opposite is true of almost all modern cultures, with speakers seeing themselves as facing the future and the past as behind their backs. To date, only one language (Aymara, from the Andes) has been proven to employ the reverse orientation in its main spatial metaphor of time. Cognitive Metaphor Theory provides two spatiotemporal models that use different reference points — Event-RP vs. Ego-RP, also called Sequence vs. Deictic — and are therefore mutually exclusive. In modern languages, including English, key spatiotemporal prepositions / adverbs from the former model can stray into the latter while retaining their original temporal meaning. Taken literally, the resulting expressions indicate that the speaker is facing the past, an orientation that happens to align with the powerful KNOWLEDGE IS VISION metaphor. Lexical drift of this kind is also likely to have occurred in Egyptian and the Semitic languages. Correcting for the “mixed metaphor” problem permits ancient speakers of Egyptian, Akkadian, Ugaritic, Hebrew, etc., to have adopted the same spatiotemporal orientation as most modern people. However, very recent studies (2014–18) show that informants with a cultural or religious focus on the past tend to visualise past events as “in front of them” irrespective of the spatiotemporal metaphors in their language. Such mappings seem to be static rather than dynamic. It is therefore inappropriate to envisage ancient thinkers as walking backwards into the future or as sitting with their backs toward the source of the “river of time;” rather, we should imagine them stopping frequently on life’s path in order to turn about-face and contemplate the (temporal) terrain already traversed by their society. Which brings us by the commodius vicus of recirculation of the few limited ideas that live in my brain to Benjamin’s Angel of History, I suppose, and to wonder what is really happening here, what it is ain’t exactly clear, but to quote and/or paraphrase Zaina Alsous, text flattens into an orchestra of stolen petrified skulls, tombs made civic hand-drawn cattle splayed in spectrums of gray, there was a fixation of birds, there was a book of the dead named Birds of America, there was air, there was turpentine, and piles and piles of indentured coiling, there was an inquiry into how the green lawn occurred, she entered many cities she asked the tarot reader in New Orleans for clues: The corpses in you are damaged, he was holding in both hands
an unbalanced piece of wood that had been
very large once, like the limb of a tree:
this was before its second life in the water,
after which, though there was less of it
in terms of mass, there was greater
spiritual density. Driftwood,
he said, confirms my view — this is why it seems
inherently dramatic. To make this point,
he tapped the wood. Rather violently, it seemed,
because a piece broke off.
Which reminds me how I once saw Jalal Toufic give a Leslie Scalapino memorial lecture where he focused on sound & voice in film. It was a theoretically dense talk and now years later what I mostly remember is the phrase “diegetic sound.” It was the first time I’d heard the word “diegetic” and I liked the way it sounded. [Editor’s note: No matter how many times I look it up I can’t remember what it means.] There are some things I think I know about The Sound of Music, though: the movie takes place during WWII (I think someone told me this at some point — I’d assumed it was set in some inconsequential no-time). The film has a lot of children in it. They are maybe German? Are they Jews? Or Nazis? It’s hard to imagine a Hollywood movie about a bunch of child Nazis, so that’s probably not the case. The singing blonde woman is Julie Andrews maybe? — I can’t name any other film she’s in or anything about her (how do I even know her name?). Is the phrase “the Nazis” more insulting than “Nazis”? Does the grass in The Sound of Music appear in only that one scene, or is it a constant theme? Do the characters spend much time outside? One of the things I hate most about working in an office is how little time I get outside. In talking about my new job to friends, I’ve caught myself saying “it’s not my dream job, but it’s fine.” I note that here to scold myself into setting an intention to develop a better response, one that knows the phrase “dream job” is deadening, reeking, absolutely disgusting. Well, that was easy: “as far as jobs go, it’s fine” — that should do the trick. Is it using the word “as” twice as well as “go” that makes all the difference? If only every problem were easily solved by simply setting an intention, describing it in writing, and letting the brain do its thing. Or should the brain not get credit for that? Whenever I have a chance to talk with George I always wind up asking him questions like what is the brain actually made of? or how does an atom know where to go? and so on. Over sushi, Trisha tells me there’s Austria in The Sound of Music. Or maybe she said it all takes place in Austria? She also confirmed that it is for sure a musical (she was scandalized I didn’t already know this). Trisha also mentioned that as a kid she watched the The Sound of Music hundreds of times, wearing out the family’s laserdisc. That day at MLK park in Berkeley when all the Nazis showed up, it was nice to watch the 7-foot tall leather daddy taunting them. It was a warm day — he must have been hot in black leather chaps. It was terrifying to see so many Nazis in the park. Scrawny white boys who had never before left the fart rooms of their parents’ basements. Preppy milk-chugging white boys smirking in fascist fades and Fred Perry polos. Huge honky meatheads strapped to the gills in military tactical gear. Potbellied straight-pride cracker boomers with “house-wives matter” signs. Etcetera. For weeks after that chaotic day at the park, I worried that any visibly white person I saw was secretly a Nazi. I no longer worry about that, because, well, Trump, right? Which reminds me, millions of right-minded USAmericans are back outside, pandemic or no pandemic, they know their rights.
Anyway, look up “‘Thelma & Louise’ Ending Scene”
on your internet browser. Click into the video.
Track about two minutes before the video’s ending,
pause the video.
In a different browser window,
look up “Lion King Opening Scene Circle of Life,”
and skip the Disney intro, tracking about thirty seconds
into the clip, before the sun rises. Pause the video.
Put the two browser windows next to each other on your screen.
Press play on one, then press play on the other as rapidly as possible.
To this degree I can never speak of myself as a dazed green comet peering through an aperture of itself. Perhaps I am reflected squid-like to myself or perhaps I can easily a add to this list the Japanese Spider Crab, or the blue dragon as nudibranch, or Ctenophores that seem to flare then drift. Perhaps one can speculate that diamonds are blood spills alive with larvae wedded to protracted neon deserts on Saturn coldly burning, symbolized as trans-galactic particles that en-vein themselves. Thus any map of the cosmos can only be lighted for a time. I could speak of lighted oceans on exo-planet K2-18. But I don’t want to. Mandy died. Last night, I think. Mandy was an old friend of K’s. I spent time with her once, and met her roommate, who was a total shithead. I was glad when she got back to Ohio, then sad again when she lost her leg. I guess she’d been having heart problems. Death is so fucked up. Which makes for a good segue into this other thing I want to tell you … OK. Yesterday Trump walked around an N95 mask manufacturing plant in Phoenix. Dude was, of course, not wearing a mask. He never does. Even when standing next to a bin full of hundreds of masks, in a mask manufacturing factory, he still managed not to wear one. And so, watching a clip of Trump being told how the mask works to prevent the spread of the deadly virus, it’s hard not to imagine he is off somewhere in his head, thinking about what he’s going to have for his dinner (that would be fries.) “That’s great, that’s great,” says Trump, as a Honeywell employee describes how the mask traps air particles. “How many do you make a day, Ryan?” he asks, breathing his puke-breath all over the bin full of masks. Then comes his movie moment. As if to let us know what’s been going on inside Trump’s head all this time, a song begins to blast over the factory’s PA:
If this ever-changin’ world
In which we live in
Makes you give in and cry
Say live and let die …
Then, theories began circulating about the person who decided to play that particular song at that particular moment. Some thought it was Trump’s idea. Others put it down to someone else’s moment of pure genius. As one guy tweeted, “Whoever had the balls to blast out Guns N’ Rose’s ‘Live and Let Die’ can deejay any party I ever throw for the rest of my life.” By the way, as of 12:38pm, 6 May 2020, we the US of Amerikkka is up to 1,249,791 sick and 73,633 dead.
I said death don’t
have no mercy in this land.
Death will leave you
standing and crying in this land,
In this land.
Whoa! come to your house,
Won’t stay long,
look in bed find your brothers and sisters are gone,
death don’t have no mercy
in this land …
I wish we could do something to help each other. But that we feel that the five characters that make up the word “fever” — or indeed the word “smile” — are actually indicative of the illusory nature of the ownership of their senses, or of their history, which from another angle simply means the deleted histories. All the deleted histories. It seems that everything we once knew has been stolen from us, and now idiots are reciting it, idiots who don’t know how to close their mouths, and the sounds those mouths make are razors scratching exclamation marks into our chests. When people tell me I am losing weight I say so what the sun, the sun too is losing weight. It is the law of the cosmos. I actually do say that. After I say it I start to cry. I think about the wind and the insects that live there, the laughter of insects. Whatever. That’s ok. Each morning they break your arms. And all those other things. You don’t know what those things are. They are all complicated and wonderful and I love them, and all of our worlds are falling apart, and I would like to talk about that, about what we were asking, about phone reception in the land of the dead, and etc and other things. All of them are collisions, and your body is always inside every one of them at exactly the same time. “Defeat is among us, and war, and prophecy.” That’s a line from Muriel Rukeyser. I was thinking about it a couple of days ago, asking myself whether the words followed a sequence, or whether they could only be taken simultaneously. That is, were they like marks on a calendar, or were they a kind of cacophony, a form of sky, an enormous black sky at that, in which we are all basically like haloes or pinpoints or stars, and so to be destroyed. There are no simple answers to questions like that.
It is all porn especially the fairytale forests.
Here they are they have buried the refugees. Oh my it’s raining again.
Nasty old gods are digging the ditches …
It’s all visible now. Everything. It’s just that all the meanings have changed, and the names no longer apply. We lean against walls, our hands over our faces, and watch the parade. I roam around the town, reciting an old poem by Anita Berber: CORPSE. KNIFE. CORPSE. KNIFE. LIGHT. There are moments each evening when I think I can see that light. It shines inside all the rooms I have lived in, all those rooms and cities that we have always despised. COINS. MIRRORS. LIGHT. There are no people. There are no parades. Hugo Ball, of course, was a draft resistor, a refugee. I find that a lot more interesting than whatever happened with his “sound poetry.” It puts me in mind of a poem by Ingeborg Bachmann, where she speaks of exile, of feeling like a dead person, of languages that you can’t understand passing through you like ghosts, kind of like if you threw a brick at a window and both of them shattered, both brick and window, and the pieces then combined and mutated and split apart and cut across corporate time and un-lived time and un-dreamt time and, well, yeh, the catastrophe, whatever that is. We all know it’s happened. Most of us know that most of its light has yet to reach us. These electrical storms do not have to be nearby, and they do not even need to be natural. Either way they coax mushrooms into fruiting. Which is to say that
IN DARK HELL IN LIGHT ROOM IN UMBER AND CHROME I feel the swell of
smoke the drain and flow of motion of exhaustion, the long sounds of cars the brown shadows
on the wall. I sit or stand. Caught in the net of glints from corner table to dull plane
from knob to floor, angles of flat light, daggers of beams. Staring at love’s face.
The telephone in cataleptic light. Matchflames of blue and red seen in the clear grain.
I see myself — ourselves in Hell without radiance. Reflections that we are.
The long cars make sounds and brown shadows over the wall.
I am real as you are real whom I speak to.
I raise my head, see over the edge of my nose. Look up
and see nothing is changed. There is no flash
to my eyes. No change to the room.
Vita Nuova — No! The dead, dead, world.
The strain of desire is only a heroic gesture.
An agony to be so in pain
etc. etc., Michael McClure has died. In the old country
they ate the horses they rode on
and no one said anything stupid
like how life is both impossible
and happening at the same time
no one spoke thru the ground to touch
- god -
but that was the old country
where my mother is from
where you’re from
your mother studied my mother
your recreational sports came from our rivers
your houses were decorated
with objects so rare my people have only heard about them
in songs passed down by the one family member who befriended
a European traveler
whyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy me
yr people cried
while visiting the old country
where I have never been
a sudden bloom of algae
in the ancient lake
Nothing is explained: who we’re watching, where he is, why he lives like this, whether it’s real or not. Even the title is a mystery. In the film we see a man (whose name is Jake Williams, by the way) going about his lone existence: making coffee, having a shower, reading a book. Except nothing about this man’s life is ordinary. His house is a cross between a bric-a-brac shop and a municipal dump, every corner filled with old books and records, tools, farm machinery, skis, oil lamps, woodpiles. And around his small plot are decaying caravans filled with even more junk. His shower is a system of hoses and taps rigged up by the kitchen window. It doesn’t matter. There’s no one else around. Does Rivers’ film present Williams’ life as a fantasy of perfect solitude, of complete freedom in a land of do-as-you-please, with all the time in the world, or is he the last man on earth — a rural Mad Max scavenging through the detritus of a dead civilisation? Or something else entirely? In what you could call the film’s big special-effects sequence, one of Jake’s RVs magically levitates while he takes a nap inside. When he wakes up and opens the door, he’s in a tree.
Having never read Johnson’s The Book of the Green Man in full, I proceeded to read it all in one sitting, stopping only briefly to eat a handful of pretzel sticks dipped in peanut butter — the second of two small meals I ate that day. The letter seems to begin in a dream (“I was sitting beside you on a muddy riverbank, & woke with the scent of water & mud, we have been to parties, visited houses etc., there was a horse, there was fleetingly your brother … So the peach is rotting & beautiful — full of death but not dead, at least as seen” and so on). (“Every chemical substance upborne into my lungs / Each particular copy of war / / — These keys — / Explain / / The chronicle / Tells many lies / About change”). Did I mention that each leaf in that tree had an eye, not just something that looked like an eye, but an eye that could see? In my illness and low-blood-sugar-induced euphoria, I recognized that Earth — in complete inhabitation of its name — does the same. That’s when, at the junction of whatever / and everything else including some previously unknown Hildegard von Bingen’s fragments, crystallized in time but also the water (a version of water) / I came upon a wobble of light and a great startling mixture of different kinds of green. Six ravens. The rising moon is asymmetrical and paper-thin. Wrote some more about Pinky A and the time crystals. Stood beneath this light red and orange tree at dusk, when the light is transitioning into an alternative form of energy.
It was like the twisting of a dove
It was when the bird flutters at the back of your throat
It was very very sensitive
Something like plum pit syndrome
Something
Historical was happening to me
Many decapitations
Hélène Cixous on the cover of SPORTS ILLUSTRATED
A “beard” of boils
I remember when my father had boils
If I do not become a corporation I will never beat those assholes to the moon
But forget about that for a second. Earlier this week, a Twitter user posted a 15-second video of a monkey riding a tiny motorcycle down a narrow residential street in Indonesia. Just four seconds in, the monkey abruptly stops the bike and grabs a nearby child. As of this writing, the clip has racked up more than 34 million views and has appeared in seemingly everyone’s timeline at least once. It has also made its way onto Instagram and has materialized in so many different subreddits — more than 50 at last count — that some of the top comments are just complaints about the number of reposts. Twitter mostly made jokes, posted grainy-ass gifs, and wondered where the hell the mini-motorcycle even came from. There was also a significant amount of speculation that the monkey had been trained as a kidnapper and was stealing children for human traffickers, for organ harvesters, or for other unspecified nefarious purposes. But there were those, especially Indonesians, who recognized that no no no. The monkey was part of a performance called topeng monyet, which translates to “masked monkey” because if things aren’t weird enough already most of the time the trained monkeys wear tiny masks made from dolls heads. In in the opening seconds of the video, the monkey’s handler can be seen standing at the top of the screen, and it’s clear the monkey has a cord or a chain or something tied around its neck. When the animal veers too close to some people sitting on a bench, the handler yanks the restraint, the monkey grabs whatever’s closest — which happens to be the child. Eyewitnesses (I mean alleged eyewitnesses) said the kid suffered some “trauma” and had some abrasions on his or her forehead. They also said the monkey was collected by its handler and promptly beaten with a mallet that a musician, also part of the performance, had been using. And yes, this reminds me of the White House. By the way, it’s 9 May now, and we’re up to 1,321,785 and 78,615 sick. That’s up 70,000 and 5,000, respectively, in just two days.
America, I wake up wanting to vomit you from my gut.
America, I can no longer watch your snuff videos of black men
shot on the street for just being.
America, I recoil against you seven times a day, at the least.
America, I know the difference between contradictory assertions,
nestled inside the cage of a single sentence.
America, if I were Moses, I’d find a body of water to divide and
get the hell out of here.
America, I abhor your children in cages, your citizens who want their hair cut,
the pedicures an immigrant performs on you.
America, I hate the way you moralize work, then demand others
die from it so you can eat your motherfucking steaks.
America, I detest your gap between ordinary kindness and mass cruelty.
America, you turn wine into brown water.
America, you are one huge pool of blood, a spool of film
that keeps repeating itself.
Over and over and over and over … you suffer from the delusions of the insane, like in that David Antin poem, America,
you will be starved
you will be fed disgusting things
disgusting things are being put into your food and drink your flesh is boiling
your head will be cut off
you HAVE committed innumerable unpardonable sins
you are on fire
you have no brain
you are covered with vermin
you have stolen something
you HAVE
you have too much to eat
you have been chloroformed
you have been blinded
you have gone deaf
you have been hypnotized
you have been forced to commit murder
tho you haven’t exactly been FORCED
you will get the electric chair
people have been calling you names
you deserve these names
your blood has turned to water
insects are coming out of your body you give off a bad smell
houses are burning around you
people are burning around you
children are burning around you
houses are burning
you have committed suicide of the soul
go into all the places you’re frightened of
and forget why you came, like the dead
so what should I look for?
what should I do? where?
aside from you, great Foosh,
who is my friend? a little stone,
a lot of dirt, a terrible headache
and more than enough worry about …
This Hades is fluid, almist, no roof, no floor, stirred in endoexotempest, whirlpools, waves, clots n foam, dark winds, with uproarians n here it floes more oop. Its first floor, of stonebooks, mudbooks on top, woodbooks on top, cylinder books on top, the top, books, great sleeves or tubes circumset out-um for the vacuum: they might be sewers or suckers, I do’nt know.
I didn’t pay no attention,
I just walked and walked and walked,
and then I heard an animal, sounded like a huge dog,
and there was a huge dog and next to him a huge lady
wearing blue clothes,
and I decided I had to walk right thru –
I did
and the dog only snarled at me.
I walked and walked and walked
and I came to one only tree.
And I walked and walked and walked and walked.
And I walked and walked and walked
to the Nuclear Station: a shadow was sliding across the tiles of reactors. It’s Stendhal ghost, said a young man in boots, naked from the waist up. And who are you? I asked. I’m the tile junkie, the junkie of tiles and shit, he said. I dreamt that Earth was finished. And the only human being to contemplate the end was Franz Kafka. In heaven, the Titans were fighting to the death. From a wrought-iron seat in Central Park, Kafka was watching the world burn. I dreamt that a storm of phantom numbers was the only thing left of human beings three billion years after Earth ceased to exist. “Then a
figure” “appeared before me—” “a woman” “in a long dress” “standing
featureless” “in a dark space” “‘Welcome,’ she said,” “& stepped into”
“the light” “She was dark-haired” “but very pale” “I stared hard at her,
realizing” “that her flesh was” “translucent,” “& tremulous,” “a
whitish gel” “She was protoplasmic-” “looking—” “But rather beautiful,”
“violet-eyed” “‘What is this place?’” “I asked her” “‘It would be
paradise,’ she said,” “‘but, as you see,” “it’s very dark,” “& always
dark” “You will find that” “those who live here” “are changed”
“enough” “from creation’s first intent” “as to be deeply” “upset … “
“But you must really” “keep going now’” “‘Are those tents” “over there?’”
What strange bardo is this? Wash it with gasoline. Cough up a lung. Smear the stain across your forehead. Vapor trails across the sky. Out of which a bag of money falls and lands in front of a man named Graveyard, who picks it up. And takes it home. The money belongs (belonged?) to MisterMenu, whose wife, disgusted by his slovenly behavior (“I refuse to spend another night lying there in bed awake, thinking about those globs of jelly stuck to my floor”), has thrown it off their penthouse terrace. Which is way up there, on the 52nd floor. It seems that MisterMenu keeps the bags of money around the apartment because they offer “a specific comfort and solidity he’s been unable find anywhere else.” Soon we meet RealDeal, Mr. FlavorAdditive, and Uncle Parsnips. And others, one of whom we see settling into his special custom built PleasureForm erotognomic chair. Anyway, Flush with their newfound wealth, Graveyard and and his girlfriend Ambience finally have the chance to eat at a restaurant run by a celebrity chef:
They liked snacks.
All things salt and sugary.
They had SnookerChips.
They had Bango Nuts.
They had CheesySubs.
They had ToastedPepperWackies.
And FruityPatooties.
And LoopyCrisps.
And FudgieWudgiePudgies.
Their favorite.
A cookie inside a cookie.
After dinner they went to DoNotAttempt where they continued to binge,
on EarlyRunoffSoup,
Spatchcocked-GooneyBird with a HornyNutGremolata,
LickMyFingerlings,
JollifiedGreens,
BreadSpindles,
and WhereberryPie.
So yes, during the Alkaline Hydrolysis process, which is an alternative to cremation or burial, the corpse is placed inside a vessel and submerged in water, which is heated to about 305 degrees. Potassium hydroxide is added as a base. The liquid remains are preserved, for eventual donation to farmers and tree nurseries to use as fertilizer. “I think it’s wonderful,” Gazvoda told VICE News. “I mean, the alternative is we would either waste the human just by burying them and taking up land or we’d have to have their particles go up in the air. If you consider if even just a few hundred million people did it. Thirty gallons each. That's a lot of nutrients going back into the earth.”
[Note: Lloyd D. Graham, “Did ancient peoples of Egypt and the Near East really imagine themselves as facing the past, with the future behind them?”, at Academia.edu; JBR, with a little help from James Joyce and Buffalo Springfield; Zaina Alsous, “Naturalization”, at Poetry Daily, 6 May 020; Louise Glück, “Night School”, at Poetry Daily, 5 May 020; JBR; Alli Warren, “The Sound of Music”, in Panda’s Friend 5; JBR; Ted Rees, “The Rastafarian Cyclist”, in Panda’s Friend 5; Will Alexander, “Pre-Existing Planes and Fragments”, in “Poetics for the More-than-Human World: An Anthology of Poetry and Commentary”, at Dispatches from the Poetry Wars; JBR (Amanda Ryan, RIP); Poppy Noor, “Live and Let Die plays as Trump visits mask factory without a mask”, at Guardian, 6 May 020; Reverend Gary Davis, Hot Tuna, Grateful Dead, etc, “Death Don’t Have No Mercy” (memory quote, I probably have various versions jumbled together); Sean Bonney, various, at BLACKOUT ((poetry & politics)), 3 Dec 017 (hat tip to Jackie Wang, who posted Sean’s “Letter Against the Language” a few days ago, reminding me of … well … everything); Geoff Manaugh, “Fungal Lightning”, at BLDGBLOG, 3 May 020; JBR; Michael McClure, “For Jack Kerouac: The Chamber”, at Grist; JBR; Jenny Zhang, “I keep thinking there is an august”, at BOMB, 4 May 020; Jake Rose, “Two Years At Sea: little happens, nothing is explained”, at Guardian, 26 Apr 012; image: David Wojnarowicz, “Untitled (face in dirt)”, as embedded in in London Review Bookshop, “At the (virtual) bookshop”, rec’d approx. 6:32am PDT, 7 May 020 (the image is also on the cover of Olivia Laing, Funny Weather: Art in an Emergency); CL Young, “Book Review: Earth by Hannah Brooks-Motl”, at Center for Literary Publishing; JBR; Bhanu Kapil, “Walked”, and “Slight Blog Hiatus to Write About Pinky Agarwalia”, at THE VORTEX OF FORMIDABLE SPARKLES Bhanu Kapil’s always-never: blog, 5 & 6 May 020; Ariana Reines, and Robert Eric Shoemaker, quoted in Shoemaker’s “Review: A Sand Book by Ariana Reines”, at Entropy, 7 May 020 (and a little JBR); JBR; Jelisa Castrodale, “The Truth Behind Those Videos of Monkeys Riding Tiny Motorcycles”, at Vice, 7 May 020; JBR; Susan M Schultz, “Meditation 52”, at Susan M Schultz’s Blog, 7 May 020; JBR; David Antin, “A List of the Delusions of the Insane: What They Are Afraid Of”; Armand Schwerner, “Tablet VIII”, in The Tablets; Xul Solar, “This hades is Fluid …” (tr. Molly Weigel), in The XUL Reader: An Anthology of Argentine Poetry 1980-1996 (ed. Ernesto Livon Grosman); Essie Pinola Parrish, “Essie Parrish in New York” (as transcribed by George Quasha); JBR;Roberto Bolaño A Stroll Through Literature (tr. Laura Healy); Alice Notley, The Descent of Alette; image: Henk Wildschut, Rooted, at Rooted (photo of a refugee camp garden); JBR; Scott Ezell, from a poem seen in a photo of his typewriter, attached to an email rec’d approx. 8:58am PDT, 9 May 020; JBR; John Yau, and Stephen Wright, Processed Cheese, quoted in Yau’s “Lifestyle Over Life: Stephen Wright’s Vision of America”, at Hyperallergic, 9 May 020; JBR; Rialda Zukic and Michael Anthony Adams, “These Funeral Directors Are Dissolving Dead Bodies in Water to Help Save the Earth”, at Vice, 9 May 020]
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