Stay
us wherefore
in our search
for
tighteousness, O.
It’s all come
to
this: a
“trance of make-
believe ...
a condition
of gradual loss /
of
reality until
there’s only left /
this
shattering of
the world”, i
appears
in the
saliva of the
angel,
facing “my”
illusory sheets of
paper –
flapping loose
in the whiteness
of
dawn /
and about to
immerse
themselves in
the inky second
hand,
written or
wroten, adorned with
drunken
deletions, / like
a groomed lawn
in
the mountain
of my body,
like
the lukewarm
drug of the
Unicorn
who opens
its eyes amid
the
residues, amid
the interstices, amid
(the
double-play
of the Spanish
word
‘carne’ is
lost in the
English
translation). The
Unicorn? They laid
him
on a
circuit board … they
dropped
his skin
in a jar
of
honey. “What
did you say?”
The desert itself is algebra.
Watchful but not traumatized …
auto-focus
nanoseconds
a full white
cloud
to be
swaddled by blue
haze … hard young celestial airs.
fucking unspeakably
sensitive … “Only the purest of you will rule these luminous
mornings and only the sexy of you will understand my language.” “OK.
Let’s not
forget
the flesh.”
But what’s a
membrane?
Does it
operate like a
synapse?
It seems
one might try
to
detach from
the escapement into
escapeness ...
forming a
triaxial esemplasy [compare
Barth’s
“coaxial esemplasy”] ...
Now I really
don't
know what
I’m saying ... but
I
think we’re
on the same
wavelength … tok tok
tok tok
tok tok tok
tok tok
tok
tok
tok tok tok
tok tok
how many omens
[just] blinked off?
a tingling in the earlobes. A pain in the coccyx
on their land of human skins nothing
is settled not the strike
nor the stricken in the window
Nothing
Happens Twice.
Nothing happens twice.
Gravity
Only Looks
Like Repetition. Gravity …
Yet
there is
something inherently carnivorous
about
an audience,
the musician thought
as
the lights
dimmed. The comma,
The
comma,
The
comma,
The
comma,
The
comma,
The
comma,
The
comma,
The
comma,
The
comma,
The
comma,
shots of webs supposedly threaded by spiders in various states of intoxication.
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
yo, check out this ridiculous blow tube
A
= B =
C.
A =
C = B.
B
= A
= C. B
=
C =
A. C =
A
= B.
C = B
=
A.
Judging
by the
light, the light’s
late,
say between
5 and 6:30.
The
voice in
the park begins
intoning
a mad
litany, line by
line,
and I
to repeat it.
The
headless bronze
torso has no
arms
with which
to scratch its
ass
or fondle
its figleafed penis.
The
curious person
on the grass
wears
a watch
on each wrist.
One
watch dies
and then the
other.
He used
to think the
dew
I mean
the moisture deposited
in
minute drops
upon any cool
surface
by the
condensation of the
vapour
in the
atmosphere I mean
the
wires, the
rundown machinery giving
life
to these
dolls in a
labyrinth
where even
horror was poverty-
stricken
descended softly
from the heavens.
[Note: Sources: James Joyce, Finnegans Wake; Lew Welch, “Small Sentence to Drive Yourself Sane”; John Weiners, as quoted in Amazon blurb for Jake Berry, Brambu Drezi; David Huerta, as quoted in Amazon blurb for his Before Saying Any of the Great Words: Selected Poems (tr. Mark Schafer) (tip o’ the cap to my bros at Never Neutral) (my reduction of I to i is meant to notate the self as the square root of -1 (“the imaginary unit”), 3/3/09 being Square Root Day…); a review by Frederic Yarm at Amazon of Virgilio Piñera, Rene's Flesh (tr. Mark Schafer); Jake Berry, Brambu Drezi; Ann Weinstone, Avatar Bodies: A Tantra for Posthumanism. Back to the Otoliths project, this time working from the bottom: Michael Filimowicz, “Back Roads”; Alana Madison, “(Elevation)”. Detour. Chuck Richardson, email, 3 Mar 09. Back to Otoliths.Jeremy P Bushness, untitled; D. C. Porder, “are you the wind?”; Charles Freeland, “Uncooperative Floating Curios”; Mary Kasimor, “Contradictions of Trotsky”; “description” of an untitled piece by Katrinka Moore; Kristina Marie Darling, “The Spectacle”; Philip Byron Oakes, “Brocade”; Stu Hatton, “Seven Concentrations (4. Coding)”; Paul Siegell, “ARCHiVE SKYSCRAPE MiCROPHONE”; JBR, “Seventeenth Marcos López Light Poem”, “Fourteenth Marcos López Light Poem”]
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