With the Noose Around My Neck 68

            this was the first time I saw people burning ...

Whenever they pronounced words starting with m, their lips would disappear for a moment then, swollen, reanimate with incredible speed. In the time that’s passed since this encounter, I’ve thought endlessly about that moment, and therefore of the ontological status of values, but also the many different wastelands that we live in. I wish I had a better word than “values.” Beings are pleats or folds, into which all other beings are enfolded, into which, etc. In the past 12 months, in the Mediterranean, according to the latest figures released by the UN’s refugee agency, 4,337 of them are believed to have drowned. We have a problem, Houston ... oh, wait. The slave block is not a manmade creation to honor history; it is history. There is no question over the interpretation of the block — it sits in the precise spot where African arriving in Fredericksburg were sold. The question is what to do with all of this. Those who maintain that the block should stay where it is assert that rather than serving as a blow to racists, removing the block will give them the privilege of forgetting history — a privilege those shitheads do not deserve. I wish I had a better word than “shitheads.” On the other hand, tourists perform mock slave auctions atop this block, or otherwise disrespect it by sitting on it, standing on it, and taking smiling pictures of their family with it. I wish I had a better word than “shitheads.” We have a problem, Rohingya ... oh, wait. We have a problem, Mumbai ... Writing in 1921, Roman Jakobson cites this line, in his essay “On Realism in Art,” writes

        0j)fraff             )       carcen)                later)s flasp



        the forest




        next to the









That same year, I made a plan to take walks in the mornings with my roommate. Then she decided that the walks weren’t enough exercise for her and she joined a gym, telling me that it “became a kind of happy place for her, like Whole Foods.” That’s when my head would fill up with the sound of bees — bees made of wire, and as I concentrated on this sound, it would pull to a filament, an “essential surplus” — and what else is an essential surplus if not another definition of the Sublime? Or not. As Tommy Pico puts it in IRL,

        Kumeyaays knew
        a rounded Earth based
        on the curve of stars
        or didn’t, I’ll never know.
        It’s a dark part inside me.

Which I can relate to, or not, because I drive the Kumeyaay Hwy a lot these days, erupting from within : specks as small as pinheads & as large as peas appear all over his body, swelling more with each hour : these purplish bruises float to the surface of the skin & stay, like floating leaves : with each & every day many patients like him arrive, whose bodies are without wounds but slowly change into canvasses of specks : he has lost so much of his hair already : his eyelids are covered with bleeding specks : the inside of his mouth rots : the dust here is big. In the meantime the tightrope walker had begun his work; he had emerged from a little door and was walking across the rope stretched between two towers, such that it hung suspended over the market place and the people. Just as he was at the midpoint of his way, the little door opened once again and a colorful fellow resembling a jester leaped forth and hurried after the first man with quick steps. “Forward, sloth, smuggler, pale face! Or I’ll tickle you with my heel! What business have you here between the towers? You belong in the tower, you should be locked away in the tower, for you block the way for one who is better than you!” And with each word he came closer and closer to him. But when he was only one step behind him, the terrifying thing occurred that struck every mouth silent and forced all eyes to stare: — he let out a yell and leaped over the man who was in his way. This man, seeing his rival triumph in this manner, lost his head and the rope. He threw away his pole and plunged into the depths even faster than his pole, like a whirlwind of arms and legs. The market place and the people resembled the sea when a storm charges in: everyone fled apart and into one another, and especially in the spot where the body had to impact. But Zarathustra stood still and the body landed right beside him, badly beaten and broken, but not yet dead. After a while the shattered man regained consciousness and saw Zarathustra kneeling beside him. “What are you doing here?” he said finally. “I’ve known for a long time that the devil would trip me up. Now he is going to drag me off to hell: are you going to stop him?” “By my honor, friend!” answered Zarathustra. “All that you are talking about does not exist. There is no devil and no hell. Your soul will be dead even sooner than your body — fear no more!” The man looked up mistrustfully. “If you speak the truth,” he said, “then I lose nothing when I lose my life. I am not much more than an animal that has been taught to dance by blows and little treats.” “Not at all,” said Zarathustra. “You made your vocation out of danger, and there is nothing contemptible about that. Now you perish of your vocation, and for that I will bury you with my own hands.” When Zarathustra said this the dying man answered no more, but he moved his hand as if controlled by the flow of air or gasses that compose an atmosphere resulting from horizontal and vertical differences in pressure, air flowing towards areas of lower pressure. A situation that is, how can one say,

                we need 3-D

                like we need the word fuck

        we are slow moving creatures

                who plant plants backwards

        keep forgetting about the vicodin

        feel great in the morning though

                we have to

                BECAUSE WE HAVE TO

To quote Jessamyn Violet. Stuff like this confuses Z. So he went to work as a volunteer at William Robertson Coe Ornithology Library, which is housed in the Yale Peabody Museum of Natural History. This museum has one of the most comprehensive bird collections in North America. On Friday mornings Z would help skin birds for the collection. This is how he learned taxidermy. At some point, as she put it to me, she got interested in animals. This eventually led her to research the red-shanked douc langur, an endangered primate native to a small area of Vietnam near Danang City, and to learn more about the passenger pigeon, which went extinct when the last of its species, named Martha, died in the Cincinnati Zoo on September 1, 1914. Because she died before the age of Freon and refrigerated trucks, Martha was packed in a 300-pound block of ice. This, which is called skyglow, is commonly seen in the night skies of urban areas, where the stars are faint, and the horizon radiates from the city’s electricity. But I was too late. When I arrived, the only remainder of the cicadas were their thousands of skins left behind. I thought that I saw one cicada settled on a branch. When I reached out to touch it, it fell over like a corpse, a weightless carcass, as if to emphasize ... as if to emphasize ... I forgot what I was saying. “All eyeballs go to heaven.” “Geoengineering is sublime.” You can see X-rays of this condition on the Internet. There is a soft and hazy quality to the images: the bones, the dilated loops of bowel, the obstructions in question. I think it was called Pirate Dance. It was one of those dances with talking; Jill talked as she, her body, moved. There was no music. Sometimes Jill would stop talking and dance silently, with a delicate and controlled violence. She would start to talk about what happened to her on that ship, but her words would sort of ... drift off, and she would replace them with the ragged sound of her breathing and the clomping sound made by her feet. Yet reducing a body down to an urnful of ash — you’re still making something.

        And then one day the ship sailed away
        There were no more dreamers just sleepers
        in heavy attitudes on the dock
        moving as if they knew how
        among the trinkets and the souvenirs
        the random shops of modern furniture
        and a gale came and said
        it is time to take all of you away
        from the tops of the trees to the little houses ...

        And when it became time to go
        they none of them would leave without the other
        for they said we are all one here ...

        [And yes]

        The oval portrait 
        of a dog was me at an early age. 

        [And yes]

        Our star was brighter perhaps when it had water in it. 

        [And yes]

        Store clean rags in old pillow cases.

        Defend DACA.

        [This analog answering machine once belonged to Bernardine Dohrn,
        but the voice on the tape is Muhammad Ali.]

Which is to say that there are parts of the urban chimera that you can only really see out the window of a panting intercity train: the fast-coursing rivers of unused rail and mossy gravel, the heaped industrial shacks groping over each other behind barbed wire, the shockingly naked backsides of terraced houses in grimy brick and spiderweb-cracked plaster with their weirdly placed windows ... the buried secret of the nice stucco street. Soon it will be night, and the only thing visible through the train windows will be your own guilty face. I am guilty. I am sitting in someone else’s seat. See how practical questions become moral ones: if you really wanted that seat, you should have been on the platform early instead of wasting five minutes dithering over three types of layered salad at the M&S Simply Food in a drooling microcosm of the delayed-adulthood indecision that is already setting the coordinates for your wasted life and will make sure that your grave is unvisited and unmarked after you die. There are rules; if you can’t play by them then you have nobody else to blame. But trudging through the Gothic infinity of packed carriages, I find an empty seat. Reserved from Milton Keynes Central. And I sit down, knowing that it doesn’t belong to me and I’ll have to give it up, knowing that I am the most worthless creature on this train. In the seat beside me, a navy-suited creature reading the Financial Times will sometimes jab me with his elbow as he lobs himself peanut M&Ms. I hear the flickering neck-snap crackle of candy shells breaking, the damper meatier crunch of masticated peanuts, the slurp and slobber of liquefying chocolate as it gums up the unholy inside of his mouth. He wants me dead too; he knows I don’t belong in that chair, and he hates the fact that to an imaginary observer he might appear to be somehow on the same social plane as me. And me? I hate every one of them, the athletic young couple standing in the aisle nearby, the accusing eyes from the vestibule, my peanut-eating neighbour; they’ve seen my shame, and I want it to sprout tendrils and make them die. Behind me, things are also going badly. A newcomer, who boarded at Milton Keynes, short and brutal in a floral print dress, seems to have been allocated a table seat that’s currently being occupied by a family of four — fat gregarious husband, patient hijabi wife, children sucked face-first into their iPads — who also have a valid reservation. The Miltonian still expects them to move, children be damned. She’ll call a conductor. She’ll tell the authorities. When threats don’t seem to work, she leans down, arse bumping against elbows on the opposite row, to grab one of the small children from his seat. The kid screams and flails for his iPad. The husband roars and stands, swings a big broad wobbling punch, catches the aggressor just under her collarbone, and she staggers. The whole line of patient standing-room travellers tilts; I’m knocked forwards into someone’s sweaty shoulderblade. What happens next seems to coruscate in time. In the chaos of that sudden motion a sleek black camping knife tears through the fabric of the big healthy hiker’s rucksack, waiting, mechanically erect. His girlfriend, standing behind him, is knocked forwards, and it jabs deep just under her chin and comes out again, followed by a halting piss-stream of blood. There’s no sound. ‘Whoa,’ he says, noncommittally, as he rights himself; he still doesn’t know what’s just happened. She crumples dead. This carriage is not safe for me. As the first screams rise, and the panic of people crammed immovably in place spreads, I duck and sidle out back to the vestibule. My voyage begins. This was not, as I discover, the first death. They might have all started like that — accidental — but the killing made too much sense to end that way. In the rubbery intestine between carriages a sprawling clot of people has formed, a pearl around a corpse. The body flails helplessly as the train lurches from side to side, still being kicked and pummelled furiously; it’s already too disfigured to tell what its age was, or its sex. I don’t ask what crime the victim committed. I already know: they didn’t have the proper reservation. I move on, squeezing past. Sorry, I say. Sorry, they mutter in reply. The train is a linear Gormenghast, a succession of reclusive bubble-worlds, each of them with the same decor and the same grisly violence, each brutally different in what can only be called theme-and-variation ways. In the little restaurant car, children run and scream through the burst contents of bags of crisps and other people’s luggage. There’s blood crusting under their nails. They turn dagger-sharp eyes to me, and I move on. In the quiet coach bodies dangle silently from the overhead rail, mouths yawning in wordless screams. I bump my head against one with a barely audible thwock, and a lone impatient tut sounds out from somewhere behind me. I move on. I journey for a very long time, for what feels like years, pushing politely past the killing and the dying, fighting when I have to, fleeing when I can. I’m looking for something. A space where I can catch my breath, just a breath of air that’s not been made humid by sweat and frenzy. No luck. There are, I hear someone whisper, plenty of seats up in first class; you just need to buy a £12 upgrade. Impossible. By this time I’ve seen it myself: the drinks trolleys barricaded against the entrance, the sloping pile of corpses abutting it, every poor mangled idiot still gripping his credit card. I soon realise that this isn’t mere anarchy. This is the train responding creatively to its crisis, in the only way a privatised British rail service knows how. All the normal rules of decorum are still in place, the rules that let thousands of people travel amicably across the country while speaking as few words to each other as possible, the rules that give the reservation ticket its magical power and are inscribed in tiny polite jargon on its back — it’s just that the rules that ensure peace are being enforced by increasingly violent means. We are all good and valued customers, and we all have a right to be on this train. It’s just that there’s not enough room for us all. How else can we process our abstract equality? The marketplace will sort everything. The system is fair, I know it is ... There’s so much I don’t remember. Not the murder and the bloodshed – I will remember that forever — but more basic facts. Why was I going to Crewe? Why did I leave London and its nurturing stink? I paid, I think, twelve hundred pounds for my ticket. Sometimes I can’t help the vague disquieting feeling that there was someone else with me, that I was idly chatting in my stolen seat to someone important, someone that I knew but can’t now remember, until we reached Milton Keynes and everything started to become the same as it had always been. Sometimes, as I edged my way through cacophonous carriages, I’d put a hand against the windowpane and try to look outside, at scenes that felt wrong. Were we moving? Sometimes there seemed to be deserts outside, sloshing dunes in the blue twilight, running like water from vast buried scales, beneath this train gritted still by a million chattering grains of sand. Sometimes I saw the sullen fields of England crisscrossed by tracer fire, paratroopers tumbling strangled from invisible planes, and over the horizon Coventry burning. Sometimes the darkness outside was lit by a tiny pinprick of the noonday sun, burning cold to the faint peripheries of this faraway solar system, where the 19:26 Virgin Trains service from London Euston ploughed through sterile Hadean rock that had glittered lifeless for four and a half billion years, and under constellations unseen by humankind. At one point, I briefly locked myself in the bathroom, shortly before a furious minor tribe ripped out the door. I sat shivering on a toilet seat that pathetically begged with a coprophage’s masochism: ‘Don’t feed me wet wipes or sanitary products — they make me feel very poorly.’ I tried to connect to the onboard WiFi, and instead of a username and password, it asked me for the true name of God. This is not just an aesthetic problem (see Ashbery). There is a “natural impulse toward the bounded boundlessness of closure.” The bell rings, trading stops. But the world is “unfinished” (Hejinian) so trading continues. Both the rivers and their banks are moving. The poem remains incomplete. Even when we think we are at the end, there are decimals. Or do I mean syllables? I mean Aaaahhh! Aaaaahhh! Aaaah. Aaahhh. Aaahh. Aaah. Aah. Ah. a. Namaste. For music is an immigrant that crosses deserts at night and beds down beside the cactus. Speaking of which, the box the slave Henry Brown mailed himself north in was 3 feet long by 2 feet 8 inches deep by 2 feet wide and displayed the words “dry goods” on it. This small world had its own sky, land, people, animals, etc. etc., and although this world was [is] small, if you take the world’s train, you begin to see that the world is vast, because the train travels a meandering route in a hypnotic motion. “Always the beast has a remote heart.” “One of my intimates is covered by a film of strangeness and infused with an obscure breath.”

        Inside the boar’s a hound.

        Inside the hound a rabbit.

        Inside the rabbit a grey dove.

        Inside the dove ...

I pick up the flesh figurine that has emerged from the plastic beast and am amazed by its warm hands, a sign of good circulation. What then of the mountain? Once upon a time in a far-off land, there lived a Louis Vuitton the Third. For a summer job he worked at the Dairy Barn on Broadway, and there, quite by accident, he fell in love.


Something was off. King looked and saw dachshund had ossified, and then walked around the still body, it was just a front, with a stick from behind. Where was Dog? King tore his stole in sadness and started walking.

later still

The clouds raced together to form a pretzel. It pointed to something. The joke was something to laugh about — almost nothing, but the soul was painted over and over, like one of an old house’s electrical outlets, RED, then ORANGE, YELLOW, GREEN, BLUE, PURPLE, WHITE, PURPLE being the transformative, natural pivot, which is born ONLY WHEN the first element of the Zodiac and the last (ADVANCED WATER and (SOMA)TIC MIDGE)) bleed into each other. The videos are short and silent, and all but one are black and white. Some feature an instantly recognizable mushroom cloud. Others are more abstract: a vague bright swell and then nothing, or a huge opaque balloon of light caught between heavy skies and the earth. The aftereffects of these tests have long been a part of our lives — according to the CDC, radioactive materials can be found in the bodies of anyone living in the United States since 1951. To quote Gerry Loose, Virgilius Maro Grammaticus, and someone named Conrad,




























assena, semedia, numeria (nim, dun, tor, quir, quan, ses, sen, onx, amin, ple), metrofia (dicantabat, bora, gcno, sade, teer, rfoph, brops, rihph, gal, fkal, clitps, mrmos, fann, ulioa, gabpal, blaqth, merc, pal, gatrb, biun, spadx), lumbrosa, sincolla, belsavia, presina, militana, spela, polema



Therefore, what is true of the divisions and of the fall is not completely so for turbulence. When the ether was separated from the air by its lesser gravity, it tore itself from the tempests, immutable as the Pontus (which also flows), and seemed to enjoy a certain ataraxy. Now these troubled storms are the place both of turmoil (turbantibus, turbare) and of vortices (turbinibus). There is a distance between turba and turbo. The first designates a multitude, a large population, confusion and tumult. It is disorder: the Greek τυρβη (turbe), is also used of the mad dancing in Bacchic festivals. But the second is a round form in movement like a spinning top, a turning cone or vortical spiral. This is no longer disorder, even if the whirl is of wind, of water or of storms. In fact, the turning shifting movement is that of the stars, of the heavens, now and originally. The world in its globality may be modelled by vortices. The origin of things and the beginning of order consist simply in the narrow space between turba and turbo, an incalculable population tossed by storms, by unrest, speaking of which, landlords are demanding rent tho Houston’s flooded, speaking of which, between Monday and Tuesday American Airlines raised the price of a ticket out of Miami to Hartford in the face of Irma from $159.20 to $1020.00, and Delta raised its Miami-Phoenix price from $547.50 to $3258.50, speaking of which, the US had the world’s highest microplastics in tap water contamination rate, at 94%, with plastic fibres found in tap water sampled at sites including Congress buildings, the US Environmental Protection Agency’s headquarters, and Trump Tower in New York. Lebanon and India had the next highest rates. Which means that shit’s everywhere. I mean, “I have over $87,000 and I’m ready — sorry, I have $83,897 dollars, right now, for Joel Osteen. And I’m ready to pray.” Did you know El Chapo founded HSBC and Wachovia? “Federal and state authorities have chosen not to indict HSBC, the London-based bank, on charges of vast and prolonged money-laundering, for fear that criminal prosecution would topple the bank and, in the process, endanger the world’s financial system.” This practice, by taking place in conditions of extreme mortality and in platforms that vary from paper to the digital screen, is what I start to call necrowriting ... and not in a good way. This distribution of death and wealth is grounded in the hegemonic etc. like who is the hero of this fucking epic? Etc. Do you have any poems about animals / favorite pets? I'm publishing a collection of poems/stories to benefit animals displaced by Harvey / Irma. It would be great to include your work. Thank you, Aileen.

[Note: Sources: Steven J Fowler, Incidents of Anti-Semitism #57, at The Bohemyth; Nicole Brossard, Mauve Desert (tr. Susanne de Lotbinière-Harwood), quoted in Dennis Cooper, “Spotlight on … Nicole Brossard Mauve Desert (1987)”, at DC’s, 30 Aug 017; Levi Bryant, “Wastelands”, at Larval Subjects, 31 Aug 017; Levi Bryant, “[My fall seminar ...]”, at Larval Subjects, 1 Sept 017; JBR; Saeed Kamali Deghan, “8,500 people lost in Mediterranean since death of three-year-old Alan Kurdi”, at Guardian, 1 Sept 017; JBR; David Caprara, “The ‘slave block’ in a town in Virginia: should it stay or should it go?”, at Guardian, 1 Sept 017; JBR; Mia Mullane, "No question: my Virginia town's 'slave block' should be removed from our sight", at Guardian, 9 Sept 017; Ian Dreiblatt, P Inman, quoted in Dreiblatt’s “P. Inman’s Written: 1976–2013”, at BOMB 131; Anna-Sophie Springer, excerpts from Ursula K LeGuin, The Word for World Is Forest, in The Word for World is Still Forest (eds. Anna-Sophie Springer & Etienne Turpin in association with Kirsten Einfeldt & Daniela Wolf); Laura Gill, “Forever Young, A Literacy”, at Entropy, 1 Sept 017; JBR; Joyelle McSweeney, “The Toxic and the Lyric I: On Losing My Hearing; The Infernal; The Sublime and the Virtual; Tuberculosis Bacilli”, at Fanzine, 31 Aug 017; JBR; Tommy Pico, IRL, quoted in Sarah Jean Grimm, “Sit, Scroll, and Fume”, at BOMB, 21 Sept 016; JBR; Mariko Nagai, Irradiated Cities, quoted in Spencer Dew, “A Review of Irradiated Cities by Mariko Nagai”, at decomP magazinE, n.d.; Rebecca Gayle Howell, “It’s Like This”, in American Purgatory, at SPD; Friedrich Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra: A Book For None and All (tr. Adrian del Caro); JBR; Andrea Applebee, “The Diagram Still Sketched on the Wind”, at Ditch, 14 Jun 012; Jessamyn Violet, “by a long shot”, in Organ Thieves, at Gauss PDF; JBR; John Yau, “Portrait of a Young Artist, from New York to Vietnam and Back”, at Hyperallergic, 3 Sept 017 (re Tammy Nguyen); Tammy Nguyen, re various issues of Martha’s Quarterly, at Passenger Pigeon Press; JBR; Tammy Nguyen, painting title, at Tammy Nguyen; “Geoengineering is sublime”: Tammy Nguyen, re Martha’s Quarterly 4, at Passenger Pigeon Press; Alistair McCartney, The Disintegrations: A Novel, quoted in Dennis Cooper, “Please welcome to the world… Alistair McCartney’s The Disintegrations (University of Wisconsin Press)”, at DC’s, 2 Sept 017; John Ashbery (RIP), “How to Continue”, “This Room”, “Soonest Mended”, at Poetry Foundation; JBR; Kyle Schlesinger, Let’s Drift, quoted in James Yeary, “announcing Let’s Drift by Kyle Schlesinger”, email rec’d 1 Sept 017; JBR; Sam Kriss, “Ram-packed: a horror story about rail privatization”, at Idiot Joy Showland, 30 Aug 017; Susan Briante, “Towards a Poetics of the Dow (excerpt)”, quoted in “Susan Briante: from The Market Wonders”, at Lemon Hound 3.0, 1 Sept 017; JBR; Samiya Bashir, Field Theories, quoted in Marcella Durand, “The Physics of Race, History, and Everyday Life”, at Hyperallergic, (2) Sept 017; Susan M Schultz, “4 September 2017”, at Tinfish Editor’s Blog, 4 Sept 017; JBR (see previous note; Brown is mentioned in passing by Durand); “Henry Box Brown”, at Wikipedia; Kim Parko, and Ana Božičević, quoted in Parko’s “Stars of the Night Commute by Ana Božičević”, at HTMLGIANT, 12 Oct 010; CA Conrad, blurb for his (Soma)tic Midge, at SPD; Emma Claire Foley, “Nuclear Renewal: Viewers can now browse footage of Cold War-era nuclear bomb tests on Youtube. What is the value of that access?”, at The New Inquiry, 6 Sept 017; JBR; Gerry Loose, “Gerry Loose: From ‘The Great Book of the Woods’ (with a note on its sources)”, at Poems and Poetics, 1 Sept 017; Conrad, and Virgilius Maro Grammaticus, quoted in “RFOPH, BROPS, RIHPH”, at Languagehat, 16 Dec 016; JBR; Michel Serres, The Birth of Physics (tr. David Webb, and, tho uncredited, Bill Ross), at Parrhesia 27; JBR, tho see Oliver Milman, “‘We don’t have anything’: landlords demand rent on flooded Houston homes”, at Guardian, 4 Sept 017, and Julia La Roche, “Travelers complain of steep airfares as they try to escape Hurricane Irma’s path”, at Yahoo Finance, 5 Sept 017; Damian Carrington, “Plastic fibres found in tap water around the world, study reveals”, at Guardian, 5 Sept 017; JBR; Beckett Mufson, “Rick from ‘Rick and Morty’ Prank Called Joel Osteen’s Church”, at Vice, 6 Sept 017; Ed Vulliamy, “Narcos season three and the lies we tell about the drugs war”, at Guardian, 6 Sept 017; Marco Antonio Huerta,From legalese into nothingness: A review of Hugo García Manríquez’s ‘Anti-Humboldt’”, at Jacket2, 7 Sept 017; JBR; Aileen Cassinetto, email rec’d 7 Sept 017, approx. 8:02am PDT]


San Diego Defends Dreamers (this photo from the San Diego Union-Tribune came out better than my photos did)


Yes, I think we can call it the Anthropocene (reposted from the Guardian)

Microplastic contamination has been found in tap water in countries around the world, leading to calls from scientists for urgent research on the implications for health.

Scores of tap water samples from more than a dozen nations were analysed by scientists for an investigation by Orb Media, who shared the findings with the Guardian. Overall, 83% of the samples were contaminated with plastic fibres.

The US had the highest contamination rate, at 94%, with plastic fibres found in tap water sampled at sites including Congress buildings, the US Environmental Protection Agency’s headquarters, and Trump Tower in New York. Lebanon and India had the next highest rates.

European nations including the UK, Germany and France had the lowest contamination rate, but this was still 72%. The average number of fibres found in each 500ml sample ranged from 4.8 in the US to 1.9 in Europe.

The new analyses indicate the ubiquitous extent of microplastic contamination in the global environment. Previous work has been largely focused on plastic pollution in the oceans, which suggests people are eating microplastics via contaminated seafood.

“We have enough data from looking at wildlife, and the impacts that it’s having on wildlife, to be concerned,” said Dr Sherri Mason, a microplastic expert at the State University of New York in Fredonia, who supervised the analyses for Orb. “If it’s impacting [wildlife], then how do we think that it’s not going to somehow impact us?”

A magnified image of clothing microfibres from washing machine effluent.
 A magnified image of clothing microfibres from washing machine effluent. One study found that a fleece jacket can shed as many as 250,000 fibres per wash. Photograph: Courtesy of Rozalia Project

A separate small study in the Republic of Ireland released in June also found microplastic contamination in a handful of tap water and well samples. “We don’t know what the [health] impact is and for that reason we should follow the precautionary principle and put enough effort into it now, immediately, so we can find out what the real risks are,” said Dr Anne Marie Mahon at the Galway-Mayo Institute of Technology, who conducted the research.

Microplastics can attract bacteria found in sewage, Mahon said: “Some studies have shown there are more harmful pathogens on microplastics downstream of wastewater treatment plants.”

Microplastics are also known to contain and absorb toxic chemicals and research on wild animals shows they are released in the body. Prof Richard Thompson, at Plymouth University, UK, told Orb: “It became clear very early on that the plastic would release those chemicals and that actually, the conditions in the gut would facilitate really quite rapid release.” His research has shown microplastics are found in a third of fish caught in the UK.

The scale of global microplastic contamination is only starting to become clear, with studies in Germany finding fibres and fragments in all of the 24 beer brandsthey tested, as well as in honey and sugar. In Paris in 2015, researchers discovered microplastic falling from the air, which they estimated deposits three to 10 tonnes of fibres on the city each year, and that it was also present in the air in people’s homes.

This research led Frank Kelly, professor of environmental health at King’s College London, to tell a UK parliamentary inquiry in 2016: “If we breathe them in they could potentially deliver chemicals to the lower parts of our lungs and maybe even across into our circulation.” Having seen the Orb data, Kelly told the Guardian that research is urgently needed to determine whether ingesting plastic particles is a health risk.

The new research tested 159 samples using a standard technique to eliminate contamination from other sources and was performed at the University of Minnesota School of Public Health. The samples came from across the world, including from Uganda, Ecuador and Indonesia.

“We really think that the lakes [and other water bodies] can be contaminated by cumulative atmospheric inputs,” said Johnny Gasperi, at the University Paris-Est Créteil, who did the Paris studies. “What we observed in Paris tends to demonstrate that a huge amount of fibres are present in atmospheric fallout.”

Plastic fibres may also be flushed into water systems, with a recent study finding that each cycle of a washing machine could release 700,000 fibres into the environment. Rains could also sweep up microplastic pollution, which could explain why the household wells used in Indonesia were found to be contaminated.

In Beirut, Lebanon, the water supply comes from natural springs but 94% of the samples were contaminated. “This research only scratches the surface, but it seems to be a very itchy one,” said Hussam Hawwa, at the environmental consultancy Difaf, which collected samples for Orb.

This planktonic arrow worm, Sagitta setosa, has eaten a blue plastic fibre about 3mm long.
 This planktonic arrow worm, Sagitta setosa, has eaten a blue plastic fibre about 3mm long. Plankton support the entire marine food chain. Photograph: Richard Kirby/Courtesy of Orb Media

Current standard water treatment systems do not filter out all of the microplastics, Mahon said: “There is nowhere really where you can say these are being trapped 100%. In terms of fibres, the diameter is 10 microns across and it would be very unusual to find that level of filtration in our drinking water systems.”

Bottled water may not provide a microplastic-free alternative to tapwater, as the they were also found in a few samples of commercial bottled water tested in the US for Orb.

Capitalism in action

Yahoo Finance is reporting that airline customers looking to get out of the path of Hurricane Irma have been met with dramatic fare spikes for air travel tickets:

On Monday evening, John Lyons, a 53-year-old father from West Hartford, Connecticut, purchased a one-way American Airlines ticket from Miami to Hartford for $159.20 for his daughter to get out of Hurricane Irma’s path as the storm churns through the Caribbean.

On Tuesday, he was shocked at the spike in airfare prices.

‘I logged in and expected to see $160, and frankly if I had seen $260 I wouldn’t have reacted. And I logged in and saw, $1,020, and I about had a heart attack,’ Lyons told Yahoo Finance in a phone interview on Tuesday afternoon.

Lyons, who describes himself as an “amateur meteorologist,” likes to post weather reports on West Hartford’s Facebook page. Although Hurricane Irma poses no direct threat to where he lives, he has been following the storm’s developments.

‘I’m seeing the direct hit on Florida. My daughter is down at the University of Miami, so I called her and said, ‘I’m going to bring you home. If worst comes to worst, we waste money, and you don’t come home, and this thing misses you, and everything is fine.’ I logged in last night and saw $159.20 to be exact. I said you know what; this ticket is so cheap, I’m just going to buy it.’

The next day, he went back to look for a ticket for his daughter’s roommate, who is also a close family friend’s daughter. Shocked at the price increase, he said he even made sure that he didn’t click first class by accident and he also verified that the flight had pretty much the same number of seats available compared to when he checked last night.

‘American Airlines had the audacity to raise the rate $800. I’m sorry. I posted it. You know, I’m angry. I think it’s horrible what they are doing. I just think it’s horrible. I’ll leave it at that.’

Airlines have countered that they have not changed the algorithms that determine their pricing, and that the surges are a simple matter of supply and demand with scores of people trying to book last minute flight out of the storm’s path.

View image on Twitter

View image on Twitter

Shame on you @delta. Jacking from $547 to over $3200 for people trying to evacute responsibly? 


Ramiro Gomez, "The Custodian Is Present" (as found in a twitter feed) ... Support all immigrants ...



With the Noose Around My Neck 67

... how about you Sister Dylan ... Sister Dylan says there will one day come a cataclysm says

        oy vey says
        feel free to stay awhile & watch
        a whole new rite of
        hamburger pasties & gnostic
        murk shit cut with baby lax & groupon shopping sprees
        then add cream
        says, “I’m still stripping my barbies naked just to see how far they’ll let me take it”

says once, when I was only two, I gulped down too many special interest groups and got sick. My mother brought me the bucket, but I refused it. I preferred to let their excretions leak I mean what’s manlier than braving a forthright exchange w/ your own demon babies, cracking at their soft head seams but who can know? even in the biblical sense. I made a mirror out of crows’ tongues and goddamn it really glows, like maybe whatever genetic junk I’m made of is meant to you know, hardly anyone is violent, really. That’s why, in the stories, all the ghosts have teeth. Why Are You Crying? I’m crying because I want people to like me. It is not easy to understand the nature of the guru and understanding the nature of the guru can be bewildering. There is often bewilderment about the guru. One source of the bewilderment is that people think that the guru is an individual person and for most people the understanding that the guru is not a person has been foreclosed. The guru is not a person. And when people see and believe the guru is a person, such a belief will create illusions about the person whom they think is the guru, and their own relationship with the person whom they see as the guru will fall into various forms of the psychology of transference. Everything would already be at stake here, already the whole history as a kind of battle to the bottom of the master settings of tactility through an aspiring overkill of signatures, the gigantomachia peri tes ousias Plato was perhaps the first to describe, the battle of seismic proportions over what is, and the need above all to touch, and to touch it, now, the best, most quickly, the matter at hand, touch it, le toucher, Horatio, imagine, first of all, how many have been touched, at what points, and in how many different ways in history, like holding a sheet of screenshot out in the rain? But you want to know something weird? Glossing Steven Connor’s The Book of Skin Jackson writes that ‘although it covers the whole of the body, the skin in classical and medieval times was never actually considered to be part of the body.’ As for death metal, it’s perfect, as if the genre, invented decades ago, existed in a sort of limbo until it discovered its sole purpose as the soundtrack to a communal trash collection team. Tomorrow, when the next team play their jams, you promise yourself to wake with grace. And look at that, there’s a bonfire again on the strip, this time for the Tomato Fertility Festival. The chant of TO-MA-TO echoes throughout the neighborhoods. And even though it feels like pain, you don’t mind it. It has messages for you, which you can hear if you have the time to listen. And you do now. You’re allowed to feel. No one judges you or shames you and you won’t get fired. You are allowed to feel. You are encouraged to feel. You are free to feel. And there will be no penalties, no consequences for staying in bed all day, all night, and for however many days it takes for you to feel all the parts and moments of that feeling. You’ve had the longest day. Young people’s internal passages are coursing with fluids, while yours, as Robert Burton said in The Anatomy of Melancholy, are quite dry. Speaking of pronouns, I got a tarot reading from Alejandro Jodorowsky today. For my last draw I pulled La Lune. He told me to be it and to synchronize all three energies (passive energy of right dog, active energy of the left dog, and the scorpion). And not to “do it like a psychoanalyst! Do it like an artist! Is your analyst a man or a woman? Woman? Next time you see her tell her to take you in her arms and cradle you! No, you cradle her! See what she says to that! Heal your analyst! How much are you paying for it? Psychomagic is free!” Researchers also think it’s possible that over thousands of years the diamonds slowly sink through the Uranus and Neptune’s ice layers and assemble into a thick layer of their own around the core.

        ... which suggests the
        appropriateness of the bequest made in
        1474 by a widow
        “soul-baths” for pilgrims

        because, as he says in the poem about Hugh Everett

        anything that can
        happen is happening
        somewhere ...

        some for trophies some to flag
        in canvas imperial some to lie
        blinded by prospects of relics
        scarce quick to a lichen trail
        subsisting through the poo-jok
        welcome to anthropogenic gases
        our polluting breath one cloud
        after another sung oft & aloft
        tracers to cap data in cuilkuq
        and beyond this arctic haze by
        any other misnomer would smell
        as rank in source signature of
        Eurasian air the name spelling
        car lungs into the troposphere
        and albedo as the polar scalps
        warm to softly falling sulphur
        & carbons settling on cladonia
        rangiferina misnamed cryptogam
        or reindeer moss but still led
        through by radionuclides taken
        in along so-called food chains
        what price pristine now & ever
        wilds spent to a chemical sink
        so given over to written scree

Indeed, “is it” “Marxism for lichens,” or “Lichens for Marxists” that the poet is in search of? The lichens maybe don’t need Marxism, but Marxism may need lichens — or better still, something new that lives where these two spheres coalesce — a new symbiont species prized into consciousness here — “neither thermidor / nor reforestation can save us,” as Milne writes, which is to say that for Isidore of Seville all lithic substance is dense earth, but stones tend to be smooth and scattered (that is, they are individuals), while rocks are rougher and must be quarried. For the Bartholomaeus Anglicus (ca. 1203–72) and his English translator John Trevisa, stone is cold, dry, stable, dense, and always “moving downwards through its own heaviness and weight.” Metals are intimately related to stones and are often described as an especially watery version of them. Albert Magnus writes that all stone is formed of a combination of earth and water, with the former element dominating in the densest stones and the latter in the most crystalline. Ibn Sīnā, insisted that “pure earth does not make stone,” and Albertus quotes this pronouncement approvingly: stone is a durable record of the elements in union.

        These can never be confused with
        a typical lyric speaker despite
        the ergonomic ease afforded by the seat
        first devised for geriatric care.
        This is the chair’s democracy.
        Particularly this one, with its form-fitting mesh
        forsaking foam and padding,
        which cause overheating and cloud
        the sitter’s judgment.
        It’s recyclable, and that matters,

                         a projection of the high-desert landscape and transit
                             surrounding an old ice plant in the desert
                        requiring no other technology but a lens and a dark room;
                       inverted in this picture of a tiny fraction of the
                        with no search engine logo and copyright date camouflaged
                              to appear like a wisp of a stratus cloud—

which also bears a fascinating resemblance to the prophetic books (see Thomas Jemielity’s 1992 Satire and the Hebrew Prophets). These prophetic books took the form of hodgepodge assemblage: lists, prayers, parables, apocalyptic announcements, riddles, dialogues, monologues, predictions, and more, like the job posting in “Seeking” that calls for “Naturopaths to cure nonspecific symptoms. / Group polarizers. / Encryptors and motivational speakers / to attack The Hostile Network, form mesh-like others.” At “Table 45,” we encounter an app in development for users “to log dreams that might eventually be reenacted,” and the five “Case Study” poems that follow are sample dreams, all based in different kinds of dread, including one that features “a baker’s stall displaying hearty-looking loaves with reliefs of words on them.” The prophet tries to read one: it could say either PAN or PAIN, but the loaf is cut in half. So the next day the prophet goes back to the market and asks the baker what a new loaf says. He answers it spells HUNGER. Or was it HOMBRE, or HAMBRE? The prophet cannot recall. This sense of collectivity, of collectively implicated displaced persons, manifests in a wide and vivid range, from worried job applicants whose “English is not very well” to the Furniture Tester who “goes on sitting in uncomfortable chairs.” The other collective presence in the book is the hosts of the job fair, the Nature Theater of Oklahoma, so “Yes, flatten and section the sky into rectangles! And throw in the earth as well! See, for us, it could be objects. / Odd chairs. / An egg or a dream. / We followed contradictions and our intuition (carefully calibrating randomness.)” Our fifth speaker is Mamma Moon. Not Lord Moon but Mamma Moon, a beloved, cuddly, round, tender, always present and, as you will learn, always wise being who has a crucial role in this cosmos. She is also a brilliant scientist and philosopher. She is somebody who has her finger on the pulse. In fact, she is part of what enables the pulse of the cosmos to remain steady. Our sixth speaker is the goat. Not the Goat at Portsmouth. The twirling goat outside my window who once was a Sufi. Her argument is not premised on a rejection of the deconstructive insights that have helped us understand the politics of knowledge production. No, it’s premised on the fact that one morning in 1939, the staff of the Mississippi State Lunatic Asylum woke to a curious sight: a patient’s room was empty, and a mural of large, white seabirds commandeered the building’s brick façade. So it wasn’t the sight of the saucepans, it was the noise they made. Maybe Ingrid also remembered Sundays at home, her mother cooking in the kitchen with a clatter of pans that mixed with the Liszt, ‘Hungarian Rhapsody,’ that her father used to play, that, too was in her mind, making it tilt like a old skool pinball machine. The old story keeps the crowds agog: the writer and the actress, or the singer, D’Annunzio and la Duse, Miller and Monroe, Romain Gary and Jean Seberg, Sam Shepard and Jessica Lange, Phillip ‘Portnoy’ Roth and Claire ‘Limelight’ Bloom, the marriage of word and flesh, intriguing, puzzling, riotous. Hemingway? Maybe, if it comes down to it, the picture wasn’t dedicated to him at all but to one of her other men — Erich Maria Remarque, or Alexander Fleming who discovered penicillin? Jean Gabin, perhaps? Or to Mercedes d’Acosta? Or just to some nameless fan? She’s still laughing in the elevator and when, with the manager going ahead, she enters her suite, she’s amazed by what she sees: white lilies, on the night table, on the desk, the vanity, in the bathroom, in the entrance hall, everywhere white lilies. Yves paid tribute to his queen with a suite in white. After saucepans, lilies, after the hausfrau, the vamp. Pans and lilies – a good title if one day she wrote her memoirs; Eva Gabor, sister of the more famous Zsa Zsa, called her book Orchids and Salami. Lupe Velez was engaged to Johnny Weismuller, but she fell out with Tarzan, wanted to kill herself, but looking lovely, image before everything, even when dying, hours and hours of fixing her makeup and her hair. She had no luck at all, pills and booze upset her guts and so it was that they found her, in her loveliest frock, immaculately styled, powdered, bejewelled, virtually embalmed, but stifled on her own vomit with her head down the toilet. That’s the art of breaking a mood, a right-angle turn of mood, art upside down, the leftovers restored, and anyway a kitchen utensil is always handy: just think of John Cage.


        Hose fat
        Loom pee a dome

        There are seven hundred
        forty six thousand
        eight hundred and thirty one kinds
        of insects in the world, which is exactly the number
        of words in our
        language, entries & numerals from one of the weirdest
        places on earth ... but what a tram ride back
        (back to Chicago (in the evening sun, story in tact (quotes
        from Neruda,
        = waking
        like hair among wheat-spikes,
        I saw you born?

        Long LiV ... with this V of the Vulture at the guts is Vallejo in
        Michael Rossman’s translation (Rossman, one of the planners of
        Berkeley’s Free Speech Movement
        " " " " a moment in history
        " " " to a sense of history
        " " for the soul of the world,
        and in his jacket a dead spoon,

        but The Tao is not like anything,
        the Tao is like everything,
        the Tao is like a fish.  Maybe
        it is a fish, I don't know
        much about it, I’m learning
        to fish, I mean, a wordswerve could turn a century's
        subtitles for a second or two away from most governments, educational systems, first
        from quantum gravity then the singularity then property as idea then
        idea as property
        4kalpas 33” in which everything hums

        (what follows is “after Sandra Simonds”)

        Maybe the world will not be saved.
        It looks like a portal to another universe. Its commerce, its
        every case also
        moves into its geology
        and then Monsanto moves
        into some genetic pollution,
        clocks and wow, poetry should make you sweat.

        I want you to save
        something for me. If someone says
        “bitchy resting face,” I will tell that person
        "try to swim and get a close-up at the same time” because I am full
        of debt
        and also because sunlight scatters
        across this lake and just one beam
        is enough to make my body insane.

        The world will break three digits
        before anyone says “Pray for them.” Remember if you think a cartoon
        god can help them that also means this cartoon gave cancer to them, right?
        I think we all knew this. who is surprised? The desperate
        characters built this birdhouse out of a broken shutter.
        We’re broadcasting live inside a human stomach.
        They sing off key like me. There is no
        harmony but when the children clap their
        little hands, well, there is a ripe avocado calling my name.
        I really wish I knew who kicked the jack out from under the car I was working on.
        I am not not that you are a metaphor for tangerine taffeta.
        I wanted to walk around this lake
        like an innocent.

        How can the statisticians more perfectly zoom in on blame?

        Charity is that key. — This inspiration proves I was dreaming!
                from “A Season in Hell” by Arthur Rimbaud

        My mother would be a biker in a seriously awesome gang,
        And I, her devil’s disciple, treading her 100 proof wombwater lightly,
        would be happy as a corpse to bring back
        from the blue of the sky to her, the brutally severed heads of her enemies,
        where I polish up my own ancient chopped Harley in my little apartment
        in San Bernardino
        jangling when I'd turn my head toward the railroad tracks.

        My father would be a major league baseball player,
        and he would hit line drives to or at or past me as far as is will goes,
        and he will yell at the ump and the ump will laugh and so will everybody.
        He lets me behave with complete idiocy, he’s a great dad,
        where I fall back into about five pounds of weed.
        I betcha you betcha I betcha that he will say Oh, Johnny, no matter what,
        for I fall, I mis-take, I fail with his blessing.

        My sister would be a pair of swim googles
        to keep the mosquitoes from eating my eyes,
        And I, her swirling rumor, treading her too disruptive shutter of my digital,
        would make you aware you are a machine of flesh to bring back
        from the blue of the sky to her, her amalgam of tiny mechanisms and reactions,
        where I upon boarding, stare down at a supposed something
        that’s not in the aisle and step around it in my little bus</u
        jangling when I’d turn my head: B!tch without Brakes B!tch without Brakes!

        My brother would be a Twitter troll already setting bonfires,
        and he would be the product of someone’s neurosis as far as his will goes,
        the drama of the scene was clear from a good hundred yards.
        He lets me exist somewhere between being and meaning,
        where I fall back to an abandoned palace in Poland. ♥ those stairs!
        I barely thought I was smiling that he will watch a commercial for a
        new flying device,
        for I fall, I mis-take, I fail to remember that I already knew how to fly.

  1. Shouldn’t we stop eating tuna?

        Remember to breathe. Breathe in suffering
        and breath out blessings say the ancient dharma texts.

But I was thinking today about our conversation earlier in the summer. Exhausted, you lay your head on the kitchen table and said: “But what’s the difference between a monster and a cyborg? I need something to eat. Do you have any chocolate?” Opening the fridge, I said quietly and perhaps too seriously, trying to impress you: I was thinking today about what happens when you keep going in a car. This is something you can only do here. Wish for something. Did you ever do it? It is unclear to me what happens when you get to the Panama Canal. That is a tree (going), but also yourself. For this reason, the book’s first section weaves Rachel Jeantel’s testimony in the Trayvon Martin trial with Kendrick Lamar lyrics, fixed form and found poems, and personal artifacts, the second section centers on the audio of the dashboard recording that captured Sandra Bland’s encounter with that fucked-up cop, for this reason,

        On the way up the mountain
        On the way up the mountain I saw my face in a pile of trash
        I saw my face in the mule’s ass
        I saw my face in the pankekes the next morning
        My face was in the talk of death
        My face was in the pavement, etc.
        I watch myself breathe from the outside
        My mortal body slumps like a dog with its birdcage frame
        & the men toss me in the pickup like a bag of laundry
        They blast the radio, they cross town to bury my corpse behind the liquor store
        With broken glass & needles & light of the moon
        They say a few words, I say a few words
        They are basic instructions before leaving the tunnel
        It’s a 5’47” vimeo video

There is this tiny little town built into the side of a cliff. At the base of the cliff is a small tunnel. If it’s low tide, you can go through the tunnel to the beach on the other side. It’s full of rocks that the tide washes in, super smooth and piled up against the backs of the sea caves. When the waves lap and recede, it sounds like when you release the catch of the rack in Connect Four and all the discs come rushing out, because all the rocks are lifted just a little and then settle back down again when the water leaves. Apparently, the title was later changed to Sentential Metaphrastic. However, I don’t think that matters very much. “Nothing fades. The affective faculties dance ...”

        The diatomic numeral: phase three: I am amplified.
        Potential increases.
        Establishment controls vision.
        I am electro-biochemical today.
        Curves make me.

        He who was was a proud circle once.
        He who gave gave too.
        That is the method gained.

        See but where the cat goes.
        There where he goes Peril is.
        I have known it for textureless eons.
        A text-full, it hath a text-full of functions.
        See it as it flies.
        It has a square for safety.
        But take you care you naive questioners you!

        The hand is temporary.
        It signifies only a single lifetime.

        A doctor obviously has two heads.
        Today is an example.

        And those who do not, those who don’t — what of them?

        The results however have been extremely variable.

        But wet the percolation then.

        And I am the scribe said the longest of these.
        I will enter and depart.
        For mine, mine, hey, is a loud voice.
        The first words ... the last words ... are commanded by inner winds.

        I saw it, as they say, with mine own hallowed eyes.

        But Latin is the language of gossip.
        In it I can speak and not speak.
        In it I can write and not write.
        It has a trademark.
        It is known by the horse.
        It repeats its dosage.
        It moves by overwhelming impact over overwhelming impact.
        See it in its psychosocial phase.

        Such is their succulent organization.

                Which is to say that

                I have to


                Open the bruise up and let some of the bruise blood come out to show them

                An hourglass’s worth of sand

                And a magpie

                That builds a nest

                Of shrapnel of

                Old blunt rusted machetes





                Scraps of Mahmoud Darwish and Paul Celan

                Depleted uranium

                Klee’s Angelus Novus

                Nothing but a work of art from the age of mechanical reproduction

                And a sentence made by chance of twigs that reads

                And yet

                For all its indeterminacy


                And minimalism

                The figure or trace of the other

                Like the figure-beyond-figure of the other of



                And the other of “this” other

                (But which “one”


                The best and the worst

                Remains a moment

                (As Adorno would say

                A “truth-moment


                Whose theological overtones


                In psychoanalytic parlance


                Like a riddle

                Remain discernible or




                And some black plastic bits of an old LP

                Bits of the track with the lyric


                Open the bruise up and let some of the bruise blood come out to show them

                Come out to show them

                Come out to show them

                Cuh cuh cuh sho theh

                Cuh cuh cuh sho theh

                Cuh sho theh cuh

                Sho theh cuh

                Sho theh cuh

                Sho theh

        He sees the Photographer’s arms around an elm trunk then.
        One hand can be discerned: it trembles.
        Between her hands he images an equator
        her body a sphere of energy
        perhaps equal to the elm’s it
        bounds without meeting
        until knotted in a six-dimensional space.
        Blake closes his door
        for a long time turns a key
        in a delicate lock 
        and listens.
        A Mathematician, a Poet and
        the Engineer sit across a map table
        on the High Road
        to begin analysis of the ice.
        A Mathematician, a Poet and
        the Engineer
        Walk into a bar ...

I mean, Breitbart using Taylor Swift lyrics to defend Trump is the most 2017 thing possible. Besides, perhaps, the Mayweather-McGregor fight. Which is to say that one can only pose the question What is philosophy? late in life, with the arrival of old age and the time for speaking concretely. In fact, the bibliography on the nature of philosophy is very limited. It is a question one poses in a moment of quiet restlessness, at midnight, when one no longer anything to ask for. One asked it before; one asked it ceaselessly, but too indirectly or obliquely; the question was too artificial, too abstract. One was not seized by it, rather one set it out and dominated it in passing. One was not sober enough. One had too much desire to do philosophy, one did not wonder what it was, except as a stylistic exercise. One had not reached that point of non-style where one can finally say, “What is it I have been doing all my life?” Which is to say that the pertinent intensive traits of old age are a “faux-sovereign liberty” and an “immense fatigue.” As küçük İskender puts it, wounded electricity. And yet ... and yet ...

        (I carry a zoo in me) 
        the suitable lung  
        ergo metal is happy  

        so the seagull panics
        even the air is fake
        ergo and ‘and’

        and ‘and’
        and ‘and’
        ergo this sore is also the viral strain of light

Speaking of which, there were people breaking limbs from walking around while wearing those dark eclipse glasses while others “built pinhole projectors and looked through the pinhole at the sun.” And multiple patients at one California urgent care clinic who didn’t have special glasses on hand apparently instead chose to smear sunblock in their eyes. But wait, the main revelation, and indeed the point of the research itself, is that 26% of those who removed their own public hair or had their partners do it reported that they had sustained “at least one injury” while doing so. “Three per cent of the time adults are coming into the emergency department with a genitourinary injury, it’s with a grooming injury,” said Benjamin Breyer, a urologist, and co-author of the study. Far be it from me to attempt a John Oliver-style monologue here. The injuries varied from cuts, which accounted for 61% of accidents, to burns from hair-removal creams, which took up 23% of the reported injuries; 2.5% said they needed surgical intervention to drain abscesses or close sutures, for example.

[Note: Sources: JBR; Dylan Krieger, “5 poems by Dylan Krieger”, at Atrocity Exhibition, 27 Jan 016; JBR; Alina Stefanescu, “2 poems by Alina Stefanescu”, at Atrocity Exhibition, 31 Oct 015; Rudolph Bauer, “Pure Vision and the Vision of the Guru: A Phenomenology of Bewilderment”, at Academia.edu; Jonty Tiplady, “Touching the Bottom: Sarah Jackson, Tactile Poetics: Touch and Contemporary Writing (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2015)”, at Academia.edu; Anon, “The Next Eclipse”, at The Next Eclipse, Aug 017; Justin E. H. Smith, “Punching Down”, at The Point, (?)20 Aug 017; JBR; Jackie Wang, “[The universe takes ...]”, at Giulia Tofana the Apothecary, 18 Aug 017; “Scientists create ‘diamond rain’ that forms in the interior of icy giant planets”, at Science Daily, 21 Aug 017; Joel Chace, “palmers”, “branches”, in Humors; Drew Milne, “Reindeer Lichen”, and Stephen Collis, quoted in Collis’ “Drew Milne Marxist Lichens”, at Jacket2, 21 Aug 017; JBR; Jeffrey Jerome Cohen, Stone: An Ecology of the Inhuman; Nathaniel Rosenthalis, and Mónica de la Torre, The Happy End / All Welcome, quoted in Rosenthalis’ “Who Cares What the Future Brings”, at Boston Review, 17 Aug 017; The Tantra Chronicles: Original Teachings from Devi, Shiva, Jesus, Mary, Moon Received by Ruth Frankenberg and Lata Mani; JBR, but see Logan Pearsall Smith, All Trivia, and Lata Mani, The Integral Nature of Things: Critical Reflections on the Present; Leela Fernandes, review of Lata Mani, The Integral Nature of Things: Critical Reflections on the Present, at Dark Matter: In the Ruins of Imperial Culture, Apr 014; JBR; Gillie Collins, “Knife, Paintbrush, Pen: on Elizabeth Lyons’s The Blessing of Dark Water, at BOMB, 21 Aug 017 (the escapee and artist was Walter Inglis Anderson); JBR; Jean-Jacques Schuhl, Ingrid Caven, quoted in Dennis Cooper, “Spotlight on … Jean-Jacques Schuhl Ingrid Caven (2000)”, at DC’s, 22 Aug 017; JBR, quote-paraphrasing the only slogan I can remember from Occupy); David Melnick, Men in Aida Book II, at Eclipse; Anne Gorrick and JBR, “Collab #2”; Bhanu Kapil, “Wish (2)”, at Poetry Foundation; blurb for Simone John, Testify, at SPD; JBR; Jennifer Tamayo, “from ‘You Da One”, at Poetry, May 014; Marty Cain, Kids of the Black Hole, at SPD; JBR, but see “Basic Instructions Before Leaving the Tunnel” at Reality Beach 1; Amie Beach, quoted in an interview with Reality Beach, at Reality Beach 1; Lionel Ziprin, Sentential Metaphrastic, at UBuWeb/Aspen 9; JBR, “Autopoiesis LXXI”, at ZS, 14 Nov 017, the original source note to which reads in part “I … them: Daniel Hamm, whose voice is the basis of Steve Reich’s “Come Out”; Straw … hair: Andréa Lauterwein, Anselm Kiefer/Paul Celan: Myth, Mourning and Memory; And yet … decipherable: Hent de Vries, Minimal Theologies: Critiques of Secular Reason in Adorno & Levinas (tr. Geoffrey Hale)”; Allen Fisher, “Black Bottom [extract]”, at lyrikline; JBR; posty, tweet, 25 Aug 017, quoted in Alanna Bennett, “Breitbart Is Tweeting Taylor Swift’s ‘Look What You Made Me Do’ Lyrics”, at Buzzfeed News, 25 Aug 017 (saw it over an app so have no link); JBR; Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari, What is Philosophy (tr. Terence Blake), and Terence Blake, quoted in his “OLD AGE A TRANSCENDENTAL REALITY: Notes on Deleuze and Guattari’s WHAT IS PHILOSOPHY (6)”, at Agent Swarm, 26 Aug 017; JBR; küçük İskender (tr. Murat Nemet-Nejat), quoted in Peter Valente, “Peter Valente: Fragmentary Improvisations of Yearning: küçük İskender’s souljam”, at Poems and Poetics, 25 Aug 017; Issa; küçük İskender (tr. Murat Nemet-Nejat), and Peter Valente, quoted in Valente’s “Peter Valente: Fragmentary Improvisations of Yearning: küçük İskender’s souljam”, at Poems and Poetics, 25 Aug 017 (“ergos” courtesy of JBR, who for some ungodly reason is enjoying reading about Hellenistic logic (which didn’t use ergo, of  course, but which was syllogistic)); JBR; Steve Cooper, “Sunblock On Eyeballs – New Level Of Stupid”, at 101.9 KING, 26 Aug 017; Eva Wiseman, “The bald truth about shaving off pubic hair”, at Guardian, 27 Aug 017]


White Suffering


Ramiro Gomez, Las Meninas, Bel Air, 2013 (Artwork © Ramiro Gomez, photo © David Feldman/Abrams)


With the Noose Around My Neck 66

 But I did have a student say a funny thing this week. She was looking around my office at the artwork, at the stuff, and she said “You are so relaxed and nice. I'll bet you live next to a pond.” And later one of our student workers who is from the Dominican Republic fawned over a baby, which she compared to a Chicken McNugget. Which somehow reminded me of Joyelle saying, “When we’re feeling a little down here at Action Books headquarters, when kicking against the pricks has left one or the other of us a little bled-out and anemic, and our crepe-de-chine dancing shoes soiled, the dejected one will turn to the other and say, “Are we going to go all the way, Blaise?” And the other will say, “Yes Jeanne we’re going to go all the way.” You may perhaps object that “the community” lacks community. No way. Call me. Call me at one a.m., crying so I can hear mucous over the line. Meet me for noodles. I’ll listen to your whole deal. Call me when you get to California. I’ll drive four hours south through hellish stop and start traffic on the 5.

        “another woman” “in uniform” “from above ground”
        “entered” “the train” “She was fireproof” “she was gloves, & she”
        “took” “the baby” “took the baby” “away from the”
        “mother” “Extracted” “the burning baby” “From the fire” “they

        made together” “But the baby” “still burned”
        (“But not yours” “It didn’t happen” “to you”)
        “We don’t know yet” “if it will” “stop burning,”
        “said the uniformed” “woman” “The burning woman” “was crying”

        “she made a form” “in her mind” “an imaginary” “form” “to
        settle” “in her arms where” “the baby” “had been” “We saw
        her fiery arms” “cradle the air” “She cradled air” (“They take your
        children” “away” “if you’re on fire”)

        “In the air that” “she cradled” “it seemed to us there” “floated”
        “a flower-like” “a red flower” “its petals” “curling flames”
        “She cradled” “seemed to cradle” “the burning flower of” “herself gone”
        “her life” (“She saw” “whatever she saw, but what we saw” “was that flower”)

        “The black gems spoke now” “They were purple-black”

        “amethysts” “among them” “small purple lights —”

        I livestreamed it
        to myself         with my own fucking eyes
                            & then GIF’d that shit
                                    out thru the
        temporary autonomous bouncy house
        with the tinfoil canopy

        Oh yeah yeah yeah yeah eelgrass
        Oh yeah yeah yeah yeah metempsychosis
        Oh sharkbite

        It ain’t no way-ay-ay-ay this rosebush palooka
        holiday sandwich
        you know
        like random ice cream like

        Oh fuck





        Proudly and gallantly and fulsomely and methodically and
                monumentally and incidentally and

        We need

        Hailed by penis puke poobah necrolab

        Broad stripes

        Dandy acres
        Bracketology, a bracelet made from her teeth
        Frame moment frame
        The beating heart boils and becomes greater in size
                burns fat, builds muscle
        A spiral galaxy or a rock hen
        Boulevards made of paper, a nightmare facsimile

        “‘I will find” “that place,’ I said &”
        “became an” “owl again” “contracting lengthwise,” “spreading
        “becoming” “wings & eyes —-” “such a lightness —-” “I felt hardly

        “I began to fly” “along the” “bloody river,” “corridored river,”
        “looking into” “the darkness” “for any trace of”

        “And someone else” “in bandages,” “someone
        wound with” “strips of white gauze —” “like a mummy —” “wandered up
            & down,”

        “up & down this” “heart river—” “a man,” “a tall man,” “who would
        scream or weep” “or cry out” “these words or” “a variant:” “`Where is”
        “my body,” “my sacred” “body?” “Where is my corpus” “sagrada?...’”
        “Cardboard,” “bottles, faeces,” “unnamed dirt blacknesses” “were

        “upon the platform —” “the river” “itself” “was plain,” “unlittered,”
        “glittered redly,” “red, black & silver” “beneath the” “occasional

There are many voices that no one can hear. The highest voice lives above my third eye and is my teacher. One calls me and tells me, “our phones let them know when we use the ladies room.” I know what they’re going to do to me. Either I’m hearing it or I know it. So on the way home the Dave Matthews Band “Crash into me” comes on and dad gets a text message about a car crash and there’s something funny about these new cell phones. And his new fancy car is pure Zuckerberg, Apple and like a Warhol model. So yeah, things on Facebook “like” themselves. And just like that I vampire their interrogation giving them word salad. But the salad is too real. I swear that the cops use the Guantanamo methods cause in the room they put me in the radiator smells like chemicals. One’s 8-bit body was so symmetrical with a black ghost eye drawn on the left side and right side inward and identical like invisible mantis pinwheels. Everything becomes a blur. And the photo comes out on a secret fb group ‘cause someone believes plants are angels and has been nursing a fern named Sigma for 4 years. Another code cracked I think and the meme is out. Do my memes help? Where do you go when you die in hell? There’s always the jailhouse toilet bowl. I put my head in it to drown myself. It was peaceful when I sucked the water into my lungs and I get close to passing out when they come get me. Something in me says they wanted to see how long I’d drown myself for. I get drugged with I don’t know what. The cops take off their face and show their vampire tattoos. Onward I go saying short one liners thrown into the depths and they fish it out of me and my poem’s opening line changes from “stabbing balloons with tarot swords” to the silence of the Danny DeVito mirror with no shaving razor allowed. But with whatever the fuck drug they gave me cause I’m buzzing all over and it doesn’t feel altogether bad. And I start thinking but I see my news feed on the cell walls. So “Way” looks like Michal Bolton, wears a trench coat and reads “Silence of the lambs”. So around that time they let me watch television locked in the chapel. Of course I had the right to do that on the second day if I knew the chapel existed but there you go. My ignorance. Anyway the TV is nothing and I don’t know how to operate it, so I unplug it and start playing the piano. This chapel is creepier than the cell ‘cause their library is walls of bibles and the murals are major disturbing. So I go on camera and broadcast the deadname and my biographic debris. Serendipity. My lawyer’s name is Wesley (my dead name) and through the magic of television I say my cues and the Judge puts me on house arrest. So we all go to McDonald’s and I eat shit that tastes like gold. All this time my family calls me she / her pronouns and my preferred name. I’m back to transitioning plus I have my hormones again. So yes, my name is Wesley Norris; I was born a slave on the plantation of George Parke Custis; after the death of Mr. Custis, Gen. Lee, who had been made executor of the estate, assumed control of the slaves, in number about seventy; it was the general impression among the slaves of Mr. Custis that on his death they should be forever free; in fact this statement had been made to them by Mr. C. years before; at his death we were informed by Gen. Lee that by the conditions of the will we must remain slaves for five years; I remained with Gen. Lee for about seventeen months, when my sister Mary, a cousin of ours, and I determined to run away, which we did in the year 1859; we had already reached Westminster, in Maryland, on our way to the North, when we were apprehended and thrown into prison, and Gen. Lee notified of our arrest; we remained in prison fifteen days, when we were sent back to Arlington; we were immediately taken before Gen. Lee, who demanded the reason why we ran away; we frankly told him that we considered ourselves free; he then told us he would teach us a lesson we never would forget; he then ordered us to the barn, where, in his presence, we were tied firmly to posts by a Mr. Gwin, our overseer, who was ordered by Gen. Lee to strip us to the waist and give us fifty lashes each, excepting my sister, who received but twenty; we were accordingly stripped to the skin by the overseer, who, however, had sufficient humanity to decline whipping us; accordingly Dick Williams, a county constable, was called in, who gave us the number of lashes ordered; Gen. Lee, in the meantime, stood by, and frequently enjoined Williams to lay it on well, an injunction which he did not fail to heed; not satisfied with simply lacerating our naked flesh, Gen. Lee then ordered the overseer to thoroughly wash our backs with brine, which was done. After this my cousin and myself were sent to Hanover Court-House jail, my sister being sent to Richmond to an agent to be hired; we remained in jail about a week, when we were sent to Nelson county, where we were hired out by Gen. Lee’s agent to work on the Orange and Alexander railroad; we remained thus employed for about seven months, and were then sent to Alabama, and put to work on what is known as the Northeastern railroad; in January, 1863, we were sent to Richmond, from which place I finally made my escape through the rebel lines to freedom; I have nothing further to say; what I have stated is true in every particular, and I can at any time bring at least a dozen witnesses, both white and black, to substantiate my statements: I am at present employed by the Government; and am at work in the National Cemetery on Arlington Heights, where I can be found by those who desire further particulars; my sister referred to is at present employed by the French Minister at Washington, and will confirm my statement. Dear Angel of Dust.

[Lights fade up: a car has crashed into the Berkeley Art Museum and though no one is behind the wheel, the headlights are still shining.]


JIMMY JAY (security guard). Ms. Trix! Did you hear the crash?

MAY TRIX (curator). Yes—I came running to see if—(pause)—well, never mind.

JIMMY JAY (as he spots the car). Whoa, dead ride!

MAY. Jimmy Jay, what has happened here?

JIMMY JAY. Sorry, Dr. Trix, let me start at the beginning.

MAY. The eternal cycle of starting at the beginning.

JIMMY JAY. At approximately eighteen fifty-five, —

MAY. When? Tonight?

JIMMY JAY. Yes. Tonight a male suspect was seen crashing his car, a late model Chevy wagon, into the concrete wall of the Berkeley Art Museum and Pacific Film Archive, interrupting the premiere of Maya Deren’s Medusa Haiku. The car door cracked open, reported Miss Deren, and the driver staggered away, possessed, she believes, by the divine gods of Haiti.

MAY. Colorful report!

JIMMY JAY. He hasn’t yet returned. Though he left behind—oh, never mind.

MAY. What?

JIMMY JAY. I don’t know what you want me to say. Dr. Trix!

MAY. Jimmy Jay, have you heard of riboflavin?

JIMMY JAY. Did somebody say I did?

MAY. Tell me, have you met our Matrix artist Dan Flavin?

JIMMY JAY. I am a janitor, Dr. Trix. I mean, literally, a janitor. And my wife—

MAY. Yes?

JIMMY JAY. —is a janitor’s wife.

MAY. Then answer me this, have you heard that scientists here on the Berkeley campus have invented a replacement for—

JIMMY JAY. For me? Like, a robot or something?

MAY. No!

JIMMY JAY. A robot janitor?

MAY. No!

There’s a more than critical criticism that’s like seeing things — a gift of having been given to love things and how things look and how and what things see. It’s not that you don’t see crisis — cell blocks made out of the general meadow, where each has their seat assignment, so while I was in the lavatory on a domestic flight a while back I put a tissue paper toilet cover seat cover over my head. I took a photo. The image evoked 15th-century Flemish portraiture. I decided to add more images made in this mode. Except it wasn’t a stage, but a basement. Except it wasn’t a basement, but a rehearsal space lent to him by a small nonprofit arts organization. Not a rehearsal space, but an interrogation room. Not an interrogation room, but a soundstage for filmed re-enactments. Not a soundstage but a fake Baghdadi neighborhood staged for counter-insurgency training exercises. Not a fake neighborhood but an intersection in the Financial District on the night of March 23, 2003. Not an intersection but the holding cell funded by the Department of Homeland Security. Not a warehouse-turned-holding cell but a warehouse-turned-club where the after-party takes place. Not an after-party but an opening at a well-funded art museum. Not an opening but a fundraiser for the small nonprofit arts organization. Not a fundraiser but an academic conference on politics and aesthetics. Not a conference but a boardroom meeting on tax-deductible philanthropic donations to nonprofit arts organizations. Not a boardroom but a bedroom, after an argument between lovers. Not a bedroom but a bunker, dug into the cold, cold ground. Not a bunker but a book, each line redacted except for the numbers. Not a book, but the fire made from its burning pages. Except the fire was painted on an enormous screen, propped across the back horizon, so that the set gave off an ambience that is part desert war-scape and part reality TV. Which is to say that

        the gods build houses in each district
        but they can have houses here and there, high up
        like eagles and low, moles. The gods accrue nature
        around their houses like mantles, or padding, or

a field of amorphophallus titanums, which require between seven and ten years of care before they they unleash their awesome scent of rotting meat. Their bloom is our spectacle, lasting only about a day but spurring a public frenzy every time. When the New York Botanical Garden’s corpse flower was set to unfurl in July 2016, the organization set up at 24-hour live cam so that anyone could track it. Ditto for one in DC, and for one at Indiana University. Ecbatane was still trembling with the pleasure of its feasts. Now its poets, its musicians died. Now a child was pushed into the waiting room, holding against his chest a small paper flag of which he would say to the chief that he kept it day and night under his shirt, the old man then appeared, kissed the child’s forehead, bending down towards him; next, at a sign of his hand, the aide-de-camp opened a cardboard box, took out a stick as fat as a lollipop, painted with the national colours. Now a child, the son of a slave, but freed by a priest who was sodomizing him, as a payment for his generosity was pushed by the priest in front of the chief, and said aloud that the old man smelled of urine: the chief was deaf, he fondled the cheek of the child, who was given a stick, which he placed at once between his legs. Mine will grow quickly, mister Your Excellency, while yours diminishes in length and power. As he saw that the child was taking pleasure in talking to him, the chief had him given two big glass marbles which the child squeezed on each side of the stick he held between his legs. The chief, dazzled by a ray of light, turned back, took the arm of his aide-de-camp and disappeared inside a swarm of widows. At night, lying over the child, the priest was catching him by the throat and hitting his temples with his fists; the child bit them, spat into the priest’s eyes; the latter, seated at the edge of the bed, threatened to sell him as a slave again; the child said he was hungry, the priest took him in his arms, down to the kitchen; a young man crossed the small garden, knocked at the glass door: Open, open, they’re after me. The child touched the key, the priest pulled him away; gunshot, the young man collapses against the lit up glass; the patrol invades the kitchen; the blood, around the young man's head, shines under the moonlight, the priest serves drinks, a soldier noticing the ring at the child's lip: This one too belongs to them? Drink with us, priest. You, pour the wine. And in the same time he catches the child by the waist, pulls him and pricks the child’s bare torso with the point of his dagger and pinches and twists his nipples between the thumb and the index; the child struggles, rolls against the open door, his hair dipped in the blood; the priest strokes the soldiers’ badges, has the meaning of the symbols explained to him, his hand quivers on the cold metal; the napes and cheeks of the soldiers smell of wind and ice. The child, set on his feet again, stands behind the priest, his breast covered with scratches, holding the pitcher of icy cold wine, bloody curls at his temples. Priest, sell your brat to me. Give me your brat, priest, or I shout that you’re hiding rebels, and you’ll die frozen in the far North. So when it rains the women stay in the summer house. They hear the water beating on the tiles and streaming down the slopes of the roof. Fringes of rain surround the summer-house, the water that runs down at its angles flows more strongly, it is as if springs hollow out the pebbles at the places where it reaches the ground. At last someone says it is like the sound of micturition, that she cannot wait any longer, and squats down. Then some of them form a circle around her to watch the labia expel the urine. The women frighten each other by hiding behind the trees. One or other of them asks for grace. Then they chase each other in the darkness, ill-wishing the one who is caught. Or else they search gropingly, scenting the one whose perfume is to be honoured. Amomum aniseed betel cinnamon cubeb mint liquorice musk ginger clove nutmeg pepper saffron sage vanilla receive homage in turn. Then the wearers of these perfumes are chased in the dark as in blindman’s buff. Cries laughter sounds of falling are heard. In dull weather the women may shed hot tears, saying that in the sunshine the roofs of the houses and the walls are of quite another colour. Mist spreads over the water over the fields about the houses. It penetrates through closed windows. Someone arrives to visit the house. She cannot see it. The huge paintings in vivid colours disappear behind orange vapours. Then she slumps to the ground demanding to be entertained. They tell her in great detail the story of the woman who, speaking of her vulva, used to say that thanks to that compass she could navigate from sunrise to sunset. Some of the women swim letting themselves drift toward the last splashes of sunlight on the sea. At the most luminous spot when, dazzled, they try to move away, they say that they are assailed by an unbearable stench. Later they are seized with vomiting. Then they begin to moan as they strain their arms, swimming as fast as they can. At a certain point they collide with the floating decaying carcass of an ass, at times the swell of the sea reveals sticky shapeless gleaming lumps of indescribable colour. They say that they shouted with all their might, shedding many tears, supporting under the arms and groins one of them who has fainted, while the vomit accumulates around them on the surface of the water. Hearing the rifleshots, Dominique Aron says that the bird is still flying, the hare still running, the boar the deer the fox the wart-hog still afoot. It is possible to keep a watch on the surroundings. If some troop advances up the road raising a cloud of dust the women watch its approach shouting to those within for the windows to be closed and the rifles kept behind the windows. Anne Damieii plays, Sister Anne do you see anything coming, I see only the grass growing green and the dusty road. At evening a horse harnessed to a cart goes by ...

[Note: Sources: Anne Gorrick, email rec’d 12 Jun 017, approx. 6:06am PDT; JBR; Joyelle McSweeney, “I Want to Go All the Way”, at Poetry Foundation, 16 Apr 014; Sesshu Foster, “How Is the Artist or Writer to Function (Survive & Produce) in the Community, Outside of Institutions?”, at Harriet, 1 Aug 017; Alice Notley, The Descent of Alette, quoted in Lara Glenum, “‘I see’ ‘with my voice’: The Performance of Crisis in Alice Notley’s The Descent of Alette”, at Jacket 35; David Buuck, “Clearing a Space in the Frequency Jungle”, in Noise in the Face of; Michael Ruby, “You Keep Me Hangin’ On (for Diana Ross and the Supremes)”, “Ain’t No Way (for Aretha Franklin)”, “The Star Spangled Banner (1) (for Jimi Hendrix”, in American Songbook; Anne Gorrick, “A Table Filled with Interest”, at EOAGH, 11 Aug 017; Alice Notley, “The Descent of Alette, at Lynx: Poetry from Bath; Hope Lyca Youngblood, “4/7 Vampires”, at EOAGH, 14 Aug 017; JBR; Wesley Norris, quoted in Roger Gathman, “Take down the statue to Lee, put up one to Wesley Norris”, at Limited, Inc., 14 Aug 017; Nathaniel Mackey (memory quote); Kevin Killian, “New Light on Riboflavin”, at Floor 3; Fred Moten, “necessity, immensity, and crisis (many edges/seeing things)”, at Floor 1; JBR; Nina Katchadourian, “Seat Assignment”, at Floor 1; Juliana Spahr and David Buuck, “the Side Effect”, at Floor 1; JBR; Andrea Brady, “Synthesizer”, at Floor 2; JBR; Claire Voon, “Painting the Pageantry of the Corpse Flower”, at Hyperallergic, 16 Aug 017 (re “Megan Marrin: Corps; continues at David Lewis (88 Eldridge Street, Lower East Side, Manhattan) through August 20”); Pierre Guyotat, Tomb for 500,000 Soldiers (tr. Romain Slocombe); JBR; Monique Wittig, Les Guérillères (tr. David Le Vay)]

September 2017

Sun Mon Tue Wed Thu Fri Sat
          1 2
3 4 5 6 7 8 9
10 11 12 13 14 15 16
17 18 19 20 21 22 23
24 25 26 27 28 29 30
Blog powered by Typepad