I don’t know its provenance / back story, but perhaps my favorite line in all poetry right now is “some cunt’s stole ma dog.” Poor K-punk. It almost felt as if I had cursed myself by XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Add to that layer upon layer of fizz, crackle, hiss, white noise. The hauntological discontinuum < > XXXXXX and that XXXXXX < > the reference plex. It’s no accident that hauntology begins in the Black Atlantic. “Ghosts” ... Replicants? (“YOUR EYES RESEMBLE MINE ...”) (As to the necromantic aspect of sampling: remember when Keith Leblanc sampled Malcolm X?) My complaint is not that things aren’t what they used to be or that they’ve changed out of all recognition — it’s just the opposite — my complaint is that things are exactly what they used to be, which in a different sense also means that they are XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX not XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX I think. There’s clearly XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX a XXXXXX Yeah, XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX a “blank.” What did that give them? Well, I tried to answer that question because of what I was just describing — it’s really just the point that Neoliberalism systematically XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXX a XXXXXX XXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX. Yeah, XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXX destroys XXXXX and so I titled a chapter in Capitalist Realism, “All that’s solid melts into PR.” This requirement has become libidinized. I mean, is there anything more boring than being addicted to XXXXX XXXXX XXXXX and now, we’re all on XXX We don’t even blink anymore. Literally.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX they
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX That’s what I meant by the secret sadness of the 21st Century. OK. So, in the only episode I can remember. Sapphire and Steel find themselves in what seems to be a 1940s’ roadside café. The radio is playing Big Band jazz. Another couple is sitting at an adjacent table. The woman rises, saying: “This is the trap. This is nowhere, and it’s forever.” She and her companion then disappear, leaving spectral outlines then ... nothing. Sapphire and Steel freak. They rifle through the few objects in the café, looking for something they can use to escape. There is nothing, and when they pull back the curtains, there is only a black starry void beyond the window. The café, it seems, is some kind of capsule floating in deep space. Ooo-eee-ooo, right? There are no Vienna Actionists living in my building. But I saw a haint once. A lucky thing for us all I was able to capture its image. You may say to yourself, “Surely it will stalk your dreams as vengeance for this trespass!” but don’t worry, I shall not fear. Crossing this astral plane once took as much energy as such a low level spirit could muster. It did leave me with these words, tho:
Never the heart’s inflation
Will once ever stop
Only NOW goes pop.
The matter of dispute becomes trickier and curiouser if we have to play at being ‘we’, or ‘I’ and adopt our own occasions as props, or indulge any other pronominal whimsies beyond endurance; and of course Stokes’ combination of Kleinian psychoanalysis with meticulous study of quattrocento stone architecture, Piero della Francesca, Giorgone, Michelangelo, Turner, and Cézanne led to a bewilderness [sic, and by that I am saying bewilderness is precisely what is meant] of lines sketches a sequence of events, what Beckett’s Molloy calls the mythological present. But that does not quite work. But it is fruitless to speculate. ‘My hands and feet are already lost / in this country, with the immediate / sadness which no one has to believe’. Other sections of the poem stage a third figure, captured as a fly, which is really good but really melancholy.
Yellow strip in the aperture.
Turner’s volcanic ash, in a way.
The gardener sure has a nice contract.
Wet lozenge eyes.
By extension the pulley.
The simian vine.
But whose fucking Elysium is it.
Somebody had to pay. To cheer myself up, back in Hackney I walked up to B&Qs in Lea Bridge Road to buy a power drill. Returning home along the cycle path which doubled as a footpath towards Upper Clapton, a cyclist approached shouting “get out of the fucking way you stupid cunt!” One little nudge was all it took. Straight into the path of an oncoming lorry. Splat! It wasn’t my fault, it was just one of those things. I used my walkie-talkie to call emergency services, but it was too late: the cyclist was dead. It’s bad when that happens. But not all bad. Things like this make me want to reflect. This is how human progress is made. As human beings, we are unable to advance from what faces us without such a process. Dialectical analysis allows political and scientific development. You won’t find much dialectics in here, but hopefully it may feed into a dialectical process somewhere along the line. However, my first coherent memory is of the day nursery I was placed in at the age of two. I hated the fucking place. As soon as I got there at nine o’clock every morning, the jailers would sit me behind a table with the other kids and give me a small plastic car or other toy to play with for the next hour. Later, at eleven, the staff would put us all to bed for an hour and expect us to pretend to sleep. Fortunately, I can’t remember what the rest of the day was like. That’s when I became attracted to the glamour and squalor of political radicalism, hanging out once a week at the Autonomy Centre set up in Wapping by Crass and, when that closed down, at its successor, the Centro Iberico, a disused school in Westbourne Park squatted by Spanish syndicalist civil war veterans. However, most of our fans, not realising we were playing, didn’t show up, leaving us to play to a handful of headbangers. Harrison arranged for some of them to attack us after the show and we duly received a good ass-kicking. At a certain point in the growth process, then, the wall takes over the entire site. There is still an inside and outside, but sometimes the outside is deep inside the site boundary or vice versa. At that point I realized I needed some sort of roofscape to make it read as a city and not just a thick squiggly thing. That’s when I turned to Google’s autocomplete feature to give me suggestions on what programs [spatial functions] a rooftop might support. I worked my way from A to Z pretty much accepting whatever suggestion Google’s autocomplete gave me and started designing parametric definitions that could implement that program on a number of different sites along the wall’s top. The various social and architectural functions include, for example, a Rooftop Antenna, Rooftop Bar, Rooftop Cafe, Rooftop Deck, Rooftop Exhaust, Rooftop Film Club, Rooftop Garden, Rooftop Hotel Pool, and so on. But you know what the Maghrebian surrealists say:
“Un beau vers est un ver à soie” (a beautiful verse [vers] is a silk worm [ver]). That’s because many “corpse(s)” don’t give up the hope of “making dust.” But the same can be said of anything, not just metaphysics. Metaphysics is not the point, the system is the point,
wavering rotating through
visor options after the thirteen hell drives
taken care of.
Does Chomsky actually say ‘threat of survival to survival’ at this point?
Print Octagon Layout and Safari Modal Track.
And income inequality is so now lopsided that eight men now own the same amount of wealth as the poorest half of the world’s population. Half = 3.6 billion, by the way. And the world’s 10 biggest corporations together have revenue greater than the 180 poorest countries combined. These findings by Oxfam, from a report titled An economy for the 99%, was released Sunday as the globe’s natural born killers traveled to Davos, Switzerland, for this week’s annual meeting of the World Economic Forum, also known as “Let Them Eat Cake.” The study found that those eight richest men (and yes, they are all men) have a net wealth of $426 billion. The eight men are Bill Gates ($75 billion, source of wealth Microsoft); Amancio Ortega ($67 billion, Zara); Warren Buffett ($60.8 billion, Berkshire Hathaway); Carlos Slim Helu ($50 billion, Telecom); Jeff Bezos ($45.2 billion, Amazon); Mark Zuckerberg ($44.6 billion, Facebook); Larry Ellison ($43.6 billion, Oracle); and Michael Bloomberg ($40 billion, Bloomberg LP). But only God can make a tree. Immediately after the inauguration, then, Trump appeared on the White House balcony, dressed in the purple robes of a Roman Emperor and leading a blind, toothless lion on a gold chain. Those who voted for him filled the White House lawn, willingly submitting to intercourse with a purple-assed baboon. “Plenty more where that came from,” he tweeted. Pence and Kushner, unable to contain themselves, rolled on the floor in sycophantic convulsions saying over and over in unison, “You’re killin’ me chief! You’re killin’ me!” Trump appointed that baboon and a few of its cousins to fill Supreme Court vacancies. So henceforth the proceedings were carried on by screeching simians; shitting and pissing and masturbating on the table and not infrequently leaping on an attorney and tearing her to shreds. Then Trump instituted a series of contests like Miss Pussy and a whole series of new shows on reality TV, designed to promulgate the lowest acts and instincts of which the human species is capable. “I’ll make those cocksuckers glad to mutate”, he would say, looking off into space ... The list goes on making predictions for the possibility of a man eating the flesh of his neighbor, his companion, and his own body, then different parts of his own body — hands, feet, penis — followed by all sorts of fruit and vegetables, organic and other materials from the environment, such as bricks, straw, and leather, and so forth.
If he eats his own flesh: he will walk with a disturbed mind.
If his friend eats his face:
If he eats the eye of his friend:
As for Minamata’s cats, they had begun to walk backwards, their brains destroyed. This unusual feline behavior was not caused by the bomb, but by mercury poisoning. So Clinton talked to the blade when he poured the rum over it. The cutting metal edge of the knife was Ogou’s favorite dwelling. In Africa metalworkers were Ogou’s priests. But now let’s talk about TECHNOPAL 21st CENTURY, a technology originally invented by the Mayans with the help of aliens from Harvard. It uses neural nets supplemented by actual chicken-brain matter and nacho cheese spread to supply some way massive processing speed. And now we have the first alpha version of the VR bandana, which Cyber-Vato will now demonstrate.
El Naftazteca: What do you see, carnal?
Cyber-Vato: I’m in a car, driving down the road! No, somebody else is driving me.
El Naftazteca: What is he wearing?
Cyber-Vato: He’s wearing a blue uniform and dark glasses. He seems like a cool guy.
El Naftazteca: Get his attention, tap him on the shoulder.
Cyber-Vato: I can’t move my hands. (scared) They’re handcuffed! Coño! That’s a cop, take this pinche helmet off me! [...] This is too real, ese! Change the program!!
Maybe I can put this more simply: I don’t hate the rich because they have more than I have. I hate them because their fortunes are founded on historical violence, and maintained by continual violence in the present and into the future. Our future. And now for the furious and obscurantist footnoting because I know actually no-one gives a shit: this argument, however obvious it might sound, does lead into important questions of Marxist-intersectional metaphysics. It is a challenging book, arranged in 42 five-page sections, each of which is written in fast-paced and fragmentary style characterized by erratic spacing, abrupt shifts between verse and prose, and thematic leaps. To quote Lorenzo Thomas, “all poems are produced by some force out there which then focused on some individual to collect the sound and words.” This is not to privilege the poet; it is a job description which implies keeping oneself attuned. It is to privilege forces, whether ineffable and musical, or sociopolitical, or what’s more likely some combination of them. Following this, we can imagine that the “magic” Notley is attempting to conjure in her work is not part of some esoteric system, but the visibility of relations, voices, and stories (and, in the abstract: the idea of relation, the idea of voice, the idea of story) which have been marginalized as non-objective and therefore unreal. The idea of measure, in this context, is not reducible to a new way of thinking about metrics and authorship, but is related to the immeasurability of experience, insofar as the fate of one is related to the fate of many:
“those are the measurements of fate
your fate is comprised of the whole
worlds measure and thats why and thats why the world
must be cared [for]
no matter what else
is happening to you.”
The trailer for the film is 7 hours 20 minutes. The whole film lasts 30 days. There is no dialogue. There are no cuts. When I look back at one of my notebooks I come across a note, “find Gil Ott.” Who told me that? I never found him. I had left Milwaukee in a cloud of Oldsmobile exhaust. In the late 90s I returned in a sad state to collect myself. It was a humid night. I didn’t know anyone named James so every time I wanted to write “I” I wrote “James.” These are not so much glosses as attempts to read along with it, to chart what that experience is like.
‘Your anus closes up on my tracheotomy’
‘speak to me’
‘trill to me’
We might think of the by-now famous lines at the opening of Hot White Andy, its
buy for eat, then fuck for buy, then ruminate for fuck’
A urethra is replaced with an ear canal — the appearance of a halo, a dying star. Now the poison that was dripped in is sucked out.
‘Lots of coloured Os and asterisks’
‘live at the
Late Dilated Ileum motorway service station
Now the marmoset comes in, as St Lucy’s attendant. The ‘spirit’ (or is it the ‘wiffleball’?) as a leech which has multiple brains like a committee ‘re-electing itself.’
The marmoset is now being sawed up, a hydra-choir appears on stage with ‘you’, twelve of them for twelve tones, ‘you’ are cutting their heads off, ‘broken up for parts’. The ocean or the sea comes in occasionally — as, earlier, ‘above the waves, under the sea’ — here, a ‘swimming float’ connected to the earlier (swim-)bladder tied to the rock. A desolate lake. ‘Fucking drone music.’ So
who exactly is meant by us or we or what we our
does not move even at the speed of
snapped plastics or named
in grief that
that you would not be fucking bent by shall
we say conditions
away from how to be just
sad sparklers of rage as we swam
through in brief forever
a whirring speck of
excruciating crystal to rip us open by
our own means
the people I love are under siege
did I not love them this is still a war
Which is why the Panthers’ Breakfast Program resonates again with me. The program provided a free, hot, and nutritionally balanced breakfast for any child who showed up. To quote from the Dr. Huey P. Newton Foundation’s The Black Panther Party Service to the People Programs:
By 1969, there were hundreds of breakfast programs throughout the country. A top government official was forced to admit, “The Panthers are feeding more kids than we are.” As was the purpose of the program, many groups, individuals, and organizations have taken the example and initiated programs of their own. Many Panther breakfast programs have been completely taken over by such groups and are functioning on their own. Guidelines for setting up a program in any community that needs one follow:
The minimum requirements for facilities and equipment include a building capable of holding at least fifty people such as a recreation center, church, or office building, and each facility must be equipped with kitchen equipment. Kitchen equipment includes a stove with at least four burners and an oven, and an adequate amount of large restaurant-size pots, pans, and serving utensils. For the purpose of serving a large number of children on a rotating basis with speed and efficiency, there must be an adequate amount of eating utensils such as cups, plates, napkins; plastic knives, forks, and spoons. A minimum of 1,600 of each unit should be on hand to start a free breakfast program in any large poverty-stricken area. The facility must be equipped with tables and chairs to seat fifty children at one time, and also there must be some room for seating children who may have to wait for a short while before eating. There should be ample space to hang or place the children’s coats, coat hangers, and so forth. There must be ample waste disposal units on the premises. Usually two or three thirty-gallon garbage pails will be sufficient for each day’s operation. Ample refrigeration and/or freezer space must be available for storing perishable foods. There must also be a reception table set up with a sign-in book in which accurate records may be kept of names, addresses, and ages of the children who participate in the program. There should be a minimum of ten persons working on a breakfast program. Their duties should be defined as follows:
2 persons on traffic control helping the children across the streets
1 person doing the sign-in book operation (eye eee, receptionist)
1 person taking wraps (coats, hats)
4 servers and table attendants
Funds for operating a free breakfast program can come from a variety of sources, such as local merchants in a surrounding community, private donors, foundations, churches, and other venues. Having the program operate out of a church has the advantage of the tax free status of a non-profit organization. With the church receiving the donations on behalf of the free breakfast program, letters soliciting funds and goods may be mailed out. People working with the program may openly solicit donations from businesses in the community, giving those who donate a receipt so they can legally claim their donation as a tax exemption. The best way to involve community members in the program is to let them know about the program and what its needs are. This may be done by contacting the parents of the children at local schools and other places where children congregate. These parents may be asked to volunteer one day per week to work in the program or perhaps go out and help solicit funds or food for the program. There should also be community meetings held to explain the program and to recruit volunteers. The program will raise consciousness without anyone saying a word simply because the people will be participating in a program they put together themselves to serve themselves and their children. The consciousness of the children will be raised in that they will see someone outside the structure of their own family working in their interest and motivated by love and concern.
That way, if worse comes to worst, they can have each other’s backs as the earth unbearably warms. A circle that is a process has been shown to be a spiral, and so then not a circle at all. But ok guys put down your busy life. Those switches are dials on the dams of this alchemical river. This is not a drill and and and and this is not a metaphor. Dig it. Nothing is as big as a horse except another. Wanna hear something fucking great? A team of researchers from the Netherlands, the UK, the USA and Hong Kong report that people who use profanity are less likely to be associated with lying and deception. So yes, maybe I will be reincarnated as a lobster after London has flooded, maybe I will find a nice rock formation to squat near Victoria Park. I mean, I often wish I could go to the residency in Iceland, Wyoming, etc. There’s no Reykjavik or Laramie as such. Though of course there is. Yesterday, my mother cut silver wool and scarlet wool into particular lengths for a potential sculpture. All I do is read memoirs set in the 1970s and drink tea, or watch Game of Thrones with my son. Which is to posit that we are ideas who walk on two legs and enter the department flashing footnotes on our foreheads. So yes, we knew the man on the unicycle was talking about art, even if he did not. Is that the same as to say that a quartz rock placed in a stream to attract salmon amounts to false consciousness? Luckily, I never smelled the odor of death, the way the children in the camps or elsewhere had to smell it. Smells are fundamental. But as early as five-and-a-half or six years old I did see photographs from a book produced by two of my uncles who had fought in the Resistance. They were images of a degraded man. So I guess that means something. The mountainous areas “look like moonscapes but with beautifully coloured rocks.” The radio cooks them in a sauce of feverweed and mariposa lilies. It’s a new kind of radio. The forehead folds into a toaster and when the bread pops up the eyes tend to close. They’re important. Just walk around them if need be. They’re not going anywhere. When I hold them close to my body I can feel their pulse. Most of them are covered in hand cream. No one knows what it is, where it comes from, what to do with it. Where does it come from? It helps. It has an unmistakable smell. Because the coffee is locally roasted, and volcanos spew fire, meteors streak the sky. The spirit contains nothing. Nothing. I had to. The hangovers were excruciating. It was a colorful time. What happened? Shit I don’t know. I think of Charles Laughton laughing maniacally as he swings back and forth on those giant bells in Notre Dame. Sky sloths!
Gdroblboblhobl gbl gl g
Man with a strange hat sitting on an ancient television
View from above
View from above
Looking down from above
Let’s close our eyes
Let’s choose the afterimage
Total sale: $7.00
A rectangular bit of card stock, one side cut to a point, printed with the following text:
Out of cardboard,
out of bounds,
out of marmalade,
a biplane ascends.
out of sight,
out of it
I quite like the Hafner trio though
But then again, regrets are stupid, and exile is a matter of living on a diet of medieval bread. And the “flight of scarlet pigeons”?? They are more like phantoms than little men. Tiny grains don’t seem capable of hurting anybody.
Hello, hello, hello, hello
Hello, hello, hello!
With the lights out
It’s less dangerous
Here we are now
I feel stupid and contagious
Here we are now
And I forget
Just what it takes
And yet I guess it makes me smile
I found it hard
It’s hard to find
Oh well, whatever, nevermind
Hello, hello, hello, hello
Hello, hello, hello!
The empty hand of innocence
Transfusing street of the sorrows
And children of the wood
Hounded, shredding all veils
And winding all sheets of the dead world droning
Overturning tables laden with silver sacrificial birds
Beating goat-skin drums
Advancing with hands out-stretched
And we keep filling them with mercury nitrate, asbestos
Baby bombs blasting blue
Scavengers picking through the ashes
Children of the mills!
Children of the junkyards!
Sleepy, illiterate, fuzzy little rats
Stoned out of their shaved heads
Forgotten, foraging, mystical children
Foul-mouthed, glassy eyed, hallucinating
Hello, hello, hello, hello
Hello, hello, hello!
Hello, hello, hello, hello
Hello! Hello! Can Anyone Hear Me? hELLO? hello? CAN ANYONE HEAR ME??? hello hello. can anyone hear me? hello hello. can anyone hear me? Hello, hello, can anyone hear me? (please pull string tight for better reception). Right, that seems to be working ... Hello!!! ... Hello!!! ... can anyone hear me? ... Hello!!!! ... is there anybody there? Hello? Hello! Can anyone hear me? I’m I’m not sure how I got here or where this is. Is anyone hello, hello can anyone hear me I’m crying out hello, hello can anyone see that I’m about to HELLO? HELLO!!!! CAN ANYONE HEAR ME? SASUKE! (waving hands in face) HELLO! HELLO!? CAN ANYONE HEAR ME!? CAN ANYONE HEAR ME THROUGH THIS BOX!? I KNOW YOU CAN SEE ME! IT’S AN INVISIBLE BOX! HELP! WHY WON’T YOU HELP ME! ... hello hello hello hello hello hello hello hello hello hello hello hello hello hello hello hello hello can anyone hear me? hello hello ... Hello? Hello?? Can anyone hear me? For God’s sake let me in out of this terrible downpour ... Hello? Hello, can anyone hear me? Can someone tell me where our base is? How do I get to the ...” Hello! Hello! Can Anyone Hear Me? hello, hello, can anyone hear me. Hello ... hello, can anyone hear me? I’ve Hello ...? Hello ...??? Can anyone hear me????? GUNSHOT. I got him!!! hello !! hello !! can anyone hear me. Time Stamp, Hello, hello, hello, can anyone hear me? Hello. [0:05-0:09] Hello Hello! Hello! Can Anyone Hear Me? Hello? Hello! Can anyone hear me? This is an emergency. Can you hear me? Sinclair? Sind sie das? Warum rufen sie an? My God! Neville Sinclair is ... is ... Hello? Hello? Can anyone hear me? This is Senior Citizen Mr. Invisible, the lowest level of corporate consideration in l’histoire ... Hello. Hello. Can anyone hear me? Hello, Hello. Can anyone hear me? Boom brake. Hello Hello can anyone hear me? RING!!!!! Hello, hello, can anyone hear me, LOL. “Hello! Hello! can anyone hear me?” No Unauthorized ... Hello, hello...can anyone hear me? Have 194% I ceased to exist? Have I become invisible? Sybil, Sybil, Sybil ... 194% can you see me? ... Ummm ... hello? Hello? Can anyone hear me? Yeah, they’re us, we can hear you. Loud and clear. Okay, umm, could you like help me ... Hello hello? ... can anyone hear me ... this is Dr Brian Orac Oblivion, I wish to speak to Mr Gant on a matter of great urgency! hello Hello HELLO can anyone hear me? Are we forgetting exactly where we get oxygen from? HELLO? Hello? Can anyone hear me? Carbon Dioxide+Water+Light Energy = Glucose+Oxygen+Water ... Hello? Hello? Can anyone hear me? Gods! Whomever takes care of this node must be out at the moment. Nothing but salt crystals on the floor ... Hello ... Hello ... Can anyone hear me ... We’re lost ... 48 survivors ... We’re on an ... island somewhere ... a whale’s back ... an overturned boat ... We need help ... We are ... hello hello can anyone hear me pink floyd · Hello?!? Hello?!? Can anyone hear me?! ... my head is about to roll off my neck my face is a ... I think I’m dying ... I haven’t left my house ... Hello? Hello? Can anyone hear me? :-). The test protocol could be a lot easier. “Hello? Hello? Can anyone hear me?” In a whisper, Suzu explained to Stake, “It’s a Ouija phone.” “Ah.” He nodded ... hello, hello
For example, the pole in the desert is the Tao symbol.
For me, it is a sundial. And I wanted to try to film the
scene at noon because I remembered a Sufi story.
It tells of a person who, standing at a given point
and facing a given direction, would cast a shadow
which would point to the site of a hidden treasure.
He went to that site. He dug and dug, but found nothing.
And his shadow began to shorten until at noon until
Why is your face ensnared in a spiderweb? Are those dots on the wall a map? What are those rectangles? Tell me about your Garbage Book. That tree has a halo. That baby is crying. Itim, the title of the series, is a Filipino word that translates to dark; black. I know: those rectangles are angel wings. Either that or an X.
[Note: Sources: JBR, email to Jonty Tiplady, 15 Jan 017, approx. 8:20am PST (re the suicide of Mark Fisher); Jonty Tiplady, “rest (far) from peace Mark Fisher”, email rec’d 15 Jan 017, approx. 2:52am PST; Mark Fisher (RIP) (may we all ...), a mashup of his “Phonograph Blues”, at K-punk, 19 Oct 06 and “Mark Fisher”, at Highway 2 (an interview from 2015); JBR; Mark Fisher, “An Extract From Mark Fisher’s Ghosts Of My Life”, at The Quietus, 28 Aug 013; JBR; Justin Lieberman, Hopi Basket Weaving; JBR; Justin Lieberman, Hopi Basket Weaving; Nicola Masciandaro, “bewilldereliXir”, at Academia.edu; Adam Piette, “Review of: R.F. Langley, Complete Poems, edited Jeremy Noel-Tod (Manchester: Carcanet, 2015)”, at Blackbox Manifold 16; JBR; Corey Wakeling, “Gravel is Extraordinary”, “Rectangular Window”, at Blackbox Manifold 16; Rob Dellar (RIP), Splitting in Two – Mad Pride and Punk Rock Oblivion, at Association of Musical Marxists, ??? (I can’t read the date, probably March 011); Andrew Kudless, and Geoff Manaugh, quoted in Manaugh’s “The Walled City (10-Mile Version)”, at BLDGBLOG, 13 Jan 017; JBR; Habib Tengour, “Mahrebian Surrealism”, quoted in Jerome Rothenberg, “Habib Tengour: Maghrebian Surrealism [Essay & Manifesto]” (tr. Pierre Joris?), at Poems and Poetics, 14 Jan 017; Sydney Grew, “Translator’s Preliminary Remarks”, in FWJ Schelling, Historico-Critical Introduction to the Philosophy Of Mythology; Jonty Tiplady, Angel of Yo; JBR; Kim Hjelmgaard, “Study: 8 people have same wealth as world’s poorest half”, at USA Today, 15 Jan 017; Joyce Kilmer, “Trees” (memory quote); JBR; William S Burroughs, “Roosevelt After Inauguration”, at Presidential Writings; Zainab Bahrani, Rituals of War: The Body and Violence in Mesopotamia; Tim Flannery, Here on Earth: A Natural History of the Planet; JBR; Leslie Marmon Silko, Almanac of the Dead; JBR; Guillermo Gómez-Peña, “Naftazteca: Pirate Cyber-TV for A.D. 2000”, in The New World Border; Jacob Bard-Rosenberg, “On Jeremy Corbyn’s Populist Turn”, at Prolapsarian, 16 Jan 016; Steven Zultanski, and Alice Notley, Benediction, quote in Zultanski’s “The Measure of Anger: On Alice Notley’s ‘Benediction’”, at Los Angeles Review of Books, 25 Dec 016; JBR, but see Dennis Cooper, “Day spent in preparation for the December 31, 2020 showing of Ambiancé, a 720 hours long film”, at DC’s, 16 Jan 017; Stacy Szymaszek, “I’m Trying to Wreck Your Mind, That’s All”, at Harriet, 16 Jan 017; David Grundy, and Stuart Calton, quoted in Grundy’s “Notes on Stuart Calton – LIVE AT LATE DILATED ILEUM (Manchester: Drentpaper, 2015)”, at Streams of Expression, 15 Oct 015; Timothy Thornton, “Against Everyone”, at June 2016; Kev Nicholls, “[Disaffected and exhausted ...]”, at June 2016; JBR; The Dr. Huey P. Newton Foundation, The Black Panther Party Service to the People Programs (ed. David Hilliard); JBR; The Dr. Huey P. Newton Foundation, The Black Panther Party Service to the People Programs (ed. David Hilliard); JBR; Dolly Turing “Illusion: Cheat Code Layer” at June 2016; Kesh St Hewind “[Nothing is as big as a horse except another ...]”, at June 2016; JBR; “Frankly, we do give a damn: Study finds links between swearing and honesty”, at Science Daily, 17 Jan 017; JBR; Caspar Jade Heinemann, “they have no evidence that asylum Europeans or Eastern seekers are responsible for reported reductions in the swan population”, at June 2016; JBR; Bhanu Kapil, “New Page”, at Was Jack Kerouac a Punjabi (deleted post, deleted blog); JBR; Susan M Schultz, “[Everything in creation is dependent on method]”, “[It isn’t the quantity of metal that matters, but the quality of alloy ...]”, at Tinfish Editor’s Blog, 11 and 15 Jan 017; Pierre Guyotat, Dennis Cooper, Roger Clarke, quoted in Cooper’s “Spotlight on … Pierre Guyotat Eden Eden Eden (1970)”, at DC’s, 17 Jan 017; John Olson, “Trigger”, “The Eyes of Baudelaire”, “Tawny Again”, “Nostalgia”, at Talisman 45; Jonty Tiplady, email rec’d 18 Jan 017, approx. 1:34pm PST; Edwin Morgan, “Loch Ness Monster” (draft), postcard, University of Glasgow Special Collections; JBR, ekphrasis practiced on Edwin Morgan, Scrapbook 12 (MS Morgan C/12), postcard, University of Glasgow Special Collections; Tatsumi Hijikata, Costume en Face (tr. Sawako Nakayasu), quoted in Ugly Duckling Presse 2015 catalog; Jennifer Nelson, Aim at the Centaur Stealing Your Wife, quoted in Ugly Duckling Presse 2015 catalog; Robert Fitterman, Rob’s Word Shop, quoted in Ugly Duckling Presse 2015 catalog; JBR (it’s a real thing; sorry I can’t credit the author, whoever she/he is); Stuart Calton, piece of paper slipped into a chapbook I ordered from him; Robin Purves, “On Sean Bonney and Arthur Rimbaud”, at Academia.edu (a review of Bonney’s Happiness); Jerome Rothenberg, “Divagations (1)”, looks like something I printed off the web; Amanda Laughtland, “Disthymia”, a postcard sent me by Eileen Tabios; Kurt Cobain, and Patti Smith, “Smells Like Teen Spirit”, her version of on Twelve; JBR, Flux, Clot & Froth; JBR, ekphrasis practiced on some artwork at Filipiino American Artists Directory and at web sites the directory links to)]