Sunday, December 2, 2012

b//27]=[D4|/!


Strata

Incantation:
i declare this sacred,
and it therefore shall be.




λ

father asks the distance
(are those waves breaking?) just before the horizon.

youngest brother—
merely sunlight through fog, dancing on main.

i fathom a rocky breakwater, froth
between green-slick stones.



i declare this sacred,
and it therefore shall be.




λ

littered
with sticks,
a feather crowns sand—

i commission a piece (of whom,
does he see my art, my pyramid
life scattered with jobs, would i have taught?)

& you record with ugly camera,
to set a monument within
my tastes— (to differentiate from one's own blood?)


λ

life
not one
can shoulder

a life pinched at the top,
age tapered acme of family--
short range of apices pushed higher
& eroding


λ

soot
returns
to root built
ten times below
th'angle of repose.

Old gold dog who, too,
soon lies down, sits,
hangs his head,
panting

shared

conscious,
a drop falls
from half-staff tongue,
waters feather, to
viscify foundation.


λ


three
jellyfish
undulations


λ


consider the crane-structure, stick-in-the-twosticks,
hazy ribbon of bark suggests cleaned up, cleared down, taken board-for-board.
scaffolding, showing my youngest how it stood alone for the first time, eroded by slight
breeze
& shrinking faster than is comfortable.

hesitation to calculate stepped thirds, twelve-degree
slope of the trinity, buddha, ugly ahura

left in place,
my inadvertent monument.




i declare this sacred,
and it therefore shall be.




λ

children, the base spreading,
rock coast to nyc, thin tribe of talent
to catch up to its brood,
upon reunion we ascend
even in bars,
even on the streets looking for Rico
& found in hotel rooms,
taxi cabs
& spaces no predecessors claim.


& this erudite & this a polemic & this the cure arranged just so,
this an offering a sacrifice a horrifying truthful testament,
this a child’s unknowing aesthetic ripped from him.

the trying to stuff it back,

& this sand//this dust only us.



i declare this sacred,
and it therefore shall be.

experiment 106: jellyfish

got a thing girl
for the mind but,
like the way we underline
makes me think something

up like in her ears
like keep sittin
in pools of money &
milk like silk
running in a fan

opens his loose robe
& the membrane
skin of the unsunniest

full of what she eating
don't think he'll love her
longer & yeah, she don't
need that.

1.1 edit

gra, gra— sonic penetration
jolt my spine into contortions
i am the marionette
death and car accidents
spew blood fuck death
murderpact silence disgustclickclickclick
grows moldy the spongebaby
iwartyou hairs contrast pallor
fat sloppy serbcroat
i am utrecht

Thursday, November 1, 2012

iii

 There’s lots of themes, but feeling, like, oppressed… A lot of things not personally happening to us, since the past record, but people we know, kind of profoundly influenced everything. Like, I didn’t think I could lose faith in humanity any more than I already had, but after witnessing some things, it just… the world is a dystopia. I’m one step away from being a vigilante. I’ve thought about it.
Alice Glass

Wednesday, October 24, 2012

Where is She? - Peter Cherches

     Where is she, I wondered, when she wasn't
there.  If she's not here she could be anywhere.  She
could be anywhere and not alone.
     I began to imagine the worst.  At every
imagining I thought I had imagined the worst, then I
imagined something even worse.  It got to the point
where my imaginings no longer included her.  I realized
that the worst did not encompass her.  As my imaginings
continued, as worst superseded worst, making the
preceding worst only worse, I began to forget her.  As
worst got worse, I forgot her more.  Things were getting
pretty bad, and I had almost forgotten her completely,
when she reappeared.

Saturday, October 20, 2012

experiment 122: the dope feels good

cunt ruin this messy feeling
my mole the cancer you pointed it out yeah
well who's livinwitit

see a window & a sink
a low sink what's that a toilet?
&mom, hey you lay down.

chart i need to progress
we'll have all the love
& yr lithe greasy body,
& its spinning out of control
&yr wet ugly hair...

Tuesday, July 17, 2012

Chirality - Rae Armantrout


Rae Armantrout

If I didn't need
to do anything,
would I?

Would I oscillate
in two
or three dimensions?

Would I summon
a beholder

and change chirality
for "him?"

A massless particle
passes through the void
with no resistance.

Ask what it means
to pass through the void.

Ask how it differs
from not passing.

Thursday, July 5, 2012

Maybe the miniscule city in the grass is a character. The idea that it may be vacant, as is the campus, which is not a college campus at all, but rather for something else, something State-sponsored. A break from electronics--the internet is down. No TV, no phones. Where is he and why are none of his peers there?  (He realizes his unique position; uses it to explore; has no peers.) The unsettling silence is not that but a comfort, and who knew?

Friday, June 22, 2012

Maine Seafood Company

by Matthew Dickman




(Salt)

A LOBSTER.
           Once out of the box
           The wooden box
           The metal box
           The box, the box, the box
           Dragged up from the salt

           Things don't feel too bad

           And then they do

           And then they don't

(And waves)

Shane Shane

ain't give no fuck
bout no qur leastside gal
got yr nutsup in a bun
&i saw yr hole
gimme somethin to talk about
like lovin shane,
wait for you three blk from home.

hit me withyr wet spot.
yknow, the real stuff ydon't claim
makin me hard to say much.
thinkin i love yr smart wrestlin
&we all saw yr hole--

Saturday, June 16, 2012

Sunday, March 11, 2012

From "Good Old Neon" - DFW

It's not what anyone thinks, for one thing. The truth is you already know what it's like. You already know the difference between the size and speed of everything that flashes through you and the tiny inadequate bit of it all you can ever let anyone know. As though inside you is this enormous room full of what seems like everything in the whole universe at one time or another and yet the only parts that get out have to somehow squeeze out through one of those tiny keyholes you see under the knob in older doors. As if we are all trying to see each other through these tiny keyholes.

But it does have a knob, the door can open. But not in the way you think. But what if you could? Think for a second -- what if all the infinitely dense and shifting worlds of stuff inside you every moment of your life turned out now to be somehow fully open and expressible afterward, after what you think of as you has died, because what if afterward now each moment itself is an infinite sea or span or passage of time in which to express it or convey it, and you don't even need any organized English, you can as they say open the door and be in anyone else's room in all your own multiform forms and ideas and facets? Because listen -- we don't have much time, here's where Lily Cache slopes slightly down and the banks start getting steep, and you can just make out the outlines of the unlit sign for the farmstand that's never open anymore, the last sign before the bridge -- so listen: What exactly do you think you are? The millions and trillions of thoughts, memories, juxtapositions -- even crazy ones like this, you're thinking -- that flash through your head and disappear? Some sum or remainder of these? Your history? Do you know how long it's been since I told you I was a fraud? Do you remember you were looking at the RESPICEM watch hanging from the rearview and seeing the time, 9:17? What are you looking at right now? Coincidence? What if no time has passed at all?* The truth is you've already heard this. That this is what it's like. That it's what makes room for the universes inside you, all the endless in-bent fractals of connection and symphonies of different voices, the infinities you can never show another soul. And you think it makes you a fraud, the tiny fraction anyone else ever sees? Of course you're a fraud, of course what people see is never you. And of course you know this, and of course you try to manage what part they see if you know it's only a part. Who wouldn't? It's called free will, Sherlock. But at the same time it's why it feels so good to break down and cry in front of others, or to laugh, or speak in tongues, or chant in Bengali -- it's not English anymore, it's not getting squeezed through any hole.

So cry all you want, I won't tell anybody.

Wednesday, March 7, 2012

my face, peeling from your face, a metacarpal branching, though nimionette, the suntatatrine voilicipetors. cuntoucious smellanifiques. funcking somolieresises... funcking faghats--

Volcanic Activity

Hey darling,

Want to come over & use my Volcano if you have anything (I, sadface, don't), then go shoe shopping? Or just shopping, or just Volcano, or just fist?

Love,
me.

Sunday, February 12, 2012

"a perfect—"

sobbing there, over nuclear war,
Bill had always said Clark’s money was damned.

his six cats
he, pointing at fish
in the pond
under his aluminum siding.

the past of too deep
to bear, they’ve said.
but the question of possession,
receptive—
the virus,
retroactive, by nature.
the goal itself retrograde.

She wiped her running nose with the pad of her thumb, wiped it on the side of the sofa.

Thursday, February 9, 2012

In this clip represent if they were in Saudi Arabia ... But we Saudis are not like this .. We are now in 2012 we are not living in houses without a roof in the desert and we are rich and we have developed such as America and the best and we are not in default which you thenk it (is true that we like Drifting Crazy )

اي سعودي و عربي لايك عشان يعرفو بلييييييز

Sunday, February 5, 2012

a long one: experiment 108 (edit)

Please, consider your screen-time a moment. What is it you're doing with it? Consider the raw hours spent staring & at what. Do you spend three or four hours there in front of the TV or on your laptop; are you fingering your phone on the subway? In a public setting where you're somewhat uncomfortable? Think about the raw time spent. Is it all day? You're not really moving during screen-time, even if you are. How much do you move and how long are you online clicking the red X in the corner of a box? "This is your meal. Enjoy it." Is this your main source of information, entertainment? You may be surprised to learn how many hours you spend staring at your own face in the mirror. Your expression often seems drawn & beaten by all that it's seen. Perhaps staring into one's own tired eyes that are like bruises in the corners around the nose is a culturally-acceptable addiction. Picture your own face. It is a mutated version of what your friends & enemies see. The hair you adjust to get it to look exactly the way you want is not distinguishable to anyone else. You are wrong to assume anybody notices anything about you — anything about anything, not even screen-time that sneaks past what you assumed also incorrectly to be your periphery. Is this your window to the world? Who is your provider? You catch those bloodshot bedroom eyes in your own head again. Forget why you switched the machine on again, why you are opening these windows. These windows have not yet been updated since your last visit. There is something wrong, but you forget what it is. No, you don't need any disconnect, do you? You can plug in to disconnect. A million holes to fill, to wreck bodies & ambition, to educate to paralysis. How long are you bombarded? How long are you sweetly averted? Does this have anything to do with eye contact with strangers? Would you rather send a text message? Think about the time in raw, concrete hours that you spend communicating. How much actual meaning is transmitted? Sentences? Paragraphs? Is your communication blurb-form or prosaic? Do you use words here, or letters? Think about when animals watch screens. Your view of the screen is mutated to appear captivating. The speed of light is with and without screen-time. You like your hair to be messy to the extent that it does not appear sculptedly so. Everyone knows but may not be aware. You feel safe with your photo-editing program. Take care of your television so that others may use it when you finally are able to purchase a flat screen. Or, maybe it was given to you. Maybe you were already able to afford it & you already bought it on your cell phone. You can go home now; it is already there. Your home is always with you if you carry your phone, looking at it as you trudge up the staircase in your unassuming building. Leave your old television on the curb for someone to pick up. When you found your very own TV as a child, it was discarded on the street in your neighborhood, just like yours is now. You could barely carry it home, but you did by yourself, and when you arrived you took it to your bedroom, happy to find that it worked almost perfectly upon plugging it in. Your mother was concerned but proud of your frugality and inventiveness. Your father patted you on the shoulder. He did not care one bit that it was in your room. You watched three movies alone in the dark that night. The racy scenes did not embarrass you as they did in the public//private setting of the living room. You bought your own universal remote control and switched from commercial breaks to music videos. You found a window under your complete control. Means of exploration. A complete language it taught you. You remember when as a teenager you broke your television. You discovered one later as a gift or an apology. The hours you spend looking through digital shots of you as a teenager. Your skin was taut, but less clear. Are your intentions news or pornography as they were then? What is the music in the background of this video, or is it a television show behind them fucking there? Clench your teeth and interrupt this for another. Connect your laptop computer to your television. You don't know these people & they can only assume, though they should not, what you do. Your teeth are jagged in your mind. Buy not on screen-or-any-other-time. The camera and screen do not notice your mind. They turn their heads away from you and film you and replay it to you. Did you really say that so many years ago & how can you delete it from screen-fact? You being a John or Jane is just buttons. They'll never know you're not the perfectly together screen being. They'll never know you're alone & not always, though you try and, for screen-guilt, to atone, awash with windows & friends & cameras & text messages, awash with all these raw people to your screen-things, your subjects, they know you within screens' windows. You are inside and the world is roiling and you are roiling right with it, but inside, and are also circling — computer to television to phone. You are alone inside physically and your ideas are tucked right up with those utterances of others in clouds. You enjoy the challenge of a new username. It is a new face of your styling. Your head cocked like that is alien & not attractive like you think. Your profile is 281 words of a manifesto thousands of pages long, right? Think of the raw count of words and emoticons — those that began and ended symbiosis, and those that meant nothing at all. The words that hacked at language, that misdirected, that were misread & their stabs into others through their screens. Intentional malfeasance as an art form in screen-time. You made your mother listen to this as she suffered, unsure what to say. Father had to work harder from then on to catch her gaze from her own baggy-eyed reverie. Your skin sags and appears translucent in blue flashes. You feel hollow but you grow fat. Your house is not glass but flat-screens turned outward with the volume up. Your existence manifests in tinny headphone noise outside the screen. Nobody has directly requested truth anyway. You are no longer that golden boy on the beach who is—what is he a surfer?—forever frozen//forever beautiful//forever lost inside yourself. Nightfall & your blue beams sink in deeper. Blue-flickered walls even after you've fallen asleep. Your dreams are no longer of sleep but the screen. In sleep you relive your day's embarrassments until interrupted by your cell phone's alarm. Perhaps it is a song. And then on to verify the weather, the commute, the relative tenacity of your existence beaten down. You are not waif you are weary and you act out on screen, but it's only a blurb so forget it. Think of the raw count of letters you've wasted, the tons of coal they consumed & that what you breathe & the electronic ozone-exhalation. Your camera is on your face and you are staring at it and you are dancing. You are exactly how you see your mutated face. Yes, this is you finalized, screen-captured in a political wink at something-or-other, you assume, which you really don't do so well, and it's all coal-fueled as the industrial era was & everything since. Do you say 'fuck' more than you write it? Like? Do you channel dead spirits when you click their videos, and are these dead spirits within you or are they just in your screen? Are you saying goodbye or are you actually leaving? Do these spirits leave you between screens, leaping over your path to confront you again as you hold the railing of the escalator in the mall that seems surprisingly dead, or is this a cloud-based illusion you're sure you could figure out if only you wanted to pay attention long enough to follow the directions? They're posted everywhere & they vary. Consider which variations are mistakes and which are outright lies. Think, yes, one can really, yes I swear this time is true, occupy two places at the same time, can occupy and demand. I swear this is true. The city outside is probability & you, yes, you goddammit, are the mobius of internet & text message. The raw number of buttons you've pushed today. You look yourself in the face for a period of hours. Your hairs are growing right before you. Love your screen, your self, and you will have others & will know who will love you & who will not, & who will not. Simply, the pixels get smaller — machines are smaller every day & soon, you know this is truth, will be ingested in a unity that does not require the foresight to charge batteries & remember to pick up on your way out the door, will not turn off or on, but will simply be. Consider your nerves & veins coiling around circuits, your eyes neither live nor dead. Look up into the mirror & verify you're seeing this. No longer vacant & frozen, but a full manifestation of, (I swear I'll buy you a computer so small you can't see it if this is not true), your every desire. And, what you have the inability to control now will be controlled within you by the screen inside that will really, truly finally be there. And finally, physically, through skin and through wires, through impulses and through waves, through screens in the air that are the air, you will actually be a network of humans and not-machines that are machines, an honest & tangible web of humans & everything you could ever want.

Saturday, January 14, 2012

Goodbye, Key West--

My dogs, my mother, new friends, a dream that isn't really the city. A roiling tumult of mixed impressions and the Mess of it All at once. A decided setting & the resolution that it is about the lack of distinction between oceans, species, matter and waiting. This will come forth an an emission, an exhale, a lift, a sigh,

Tuesday, January 3, 2012

three warts

my phone calls tonight emerged in an ugly little clump of three. warts of varying degree, my phone calls dotted the reveling fog, faintly perceived by what lay beneath. cataracts, while one was not thinking of such things. while the clouds fell i couldn’t approach the subjects a little higher on the cloud-swept precipice. (i don’t know how they got there, were they helicoptered in?)
how does one complete the act of telling, of sharing an unplanned inconsistency, inconvenience, the uninhabited horror through which many do not suffer to illuminate? the unwilling spectacle of the first. let fester too long, you didn’t know what to do, did you? through your pocket i heard the muffled conversation of a muzzle, a continuous boasting as everyone checked himself in the mirror. your glossed eyes, perhaps? out in the open, the conversation existed and will exist behind our words. how do we face the hearing, the upfront issue through this yellow fog? left to weave itself again, to metastasize—a sordid aloneness. to see oneself separated, a tiny light through denim, through one’s fingers always fixing his hair, through an undeniable effort of a fixed and dimming lighthouse—the imagination of the self-destruct enclosure brings is too heavy, weighed down by fog-settled dew.
the danger of the second leaves the mystery, the blind devotion of viral determination and one’s ability to yet forget. cough & wheeze, the light closes on its own. unknowing worry, you are paid a compliment, no doubt. i see you accept it, haven’t seen one accept yours, haven’t seen him accept it & the tiring treatments every four weeks. do i tactfully resign to silence as i stifle my own cough? do i ease through the ringing voices and leave the half-assed flash of a timid contribution? this tell will run its course untreated or otherwise. it will multiply on its volition and yes it, too, will die.
and with the (hopefully) final (i want it to be last i swear i want this to be the last one) you recognize the symptom and cut a line, quickly before the sun can burn through. we sit at the family table glass-eyed and wonder when we graduated from the kids’ one, where they, glass-eyed but wider, gnawed fleshy legs happily known as “drumsticks,” snapped wish-bones in their oily little fingers, pushed red-stained tongues against loose teeth, filling the missing gaps with bird & dressing faces with smiles. unthinking of the cavity, the plastic bag in the cavity, the gore in the bag that may yet beat. to shriek a message, to cry into nothing. the indecision of whom it is to listen. in our solitary sleep, we wait.

City Poem

Imagine our surprise
in such a tear-down & rebuild-type town
to see you not dismantled
when the cranes leaned in to peel
away your façade & to pick
you down to the Tyvek.
Nude women’s rooms, we, two
gay men, assumed,
avoided you in the Capitol’s long shadow,
passed you each day from work—
between occluding breast
and steel lattice, we did not know
inside grew a coat of bricks
to race the changing season.

The end of summer held on dark green
& through massive progress,
through regress and demolition.
They had to kill the train
before they finished the station—
did the workers fasten a tube slide
of hooked-together trash bins
to one of your windows. Just hung
there draining drywall, 2x4s and chairs

regress, feckless demonstrations & uptight
outrage; world-wizened projections in pampered
white-milk, parented, rigid minds
encouraged regurgitated libspeak not at all
radical if not only for its origin;
of banal repetition,
two lakes fed such shit in the seventies, now to algal sludge,
& who reminded of them again and again,
the the victim the victim, ever clutching his hair.
Man of inhibitions both annihilated and reinforced by whiskey,
spilled flour on the counter,
on the bottom of the plate in the bathroom
of impacted sinuses;
closed and then smiling, near & foreshortened—
a subspecies hyperaware of dragonfly being,
mouthless, really—
of my wakening eye, rosebud open & not dribbles but shots.
To die a slow death during the work week,
sometimes for anyone else.



City, I met you in my underwear,
You tear through the calendar pages with such ferocity & direction.
Your life is not of direction but in one.
City, I am ready to get work.
You were my first dream within a dream,
City, I met you on the internet,
City, you had my boyfriend when I could not
& will continue to do so.
Quell my jealous fantasies,
urge me to carve a spot.
Not made for anyone, you, City, were simply built.
Let the companies repaint the colors you’d see
on a shining plastic stand-alone
on a crumbling brick front that’s tagged—
Napa Auto Parts yellow and blue, chipped away & improvised.

attmanbling thinking fewly i’m probably Christmastime

Funnily, i’m shaking like a pine needle. Growingly christman.

Christians howling with delight, when my cock onlookers be finching
flinching
grated the holiday grana
grana, christime flinching finches, grinningly French
face growl-grown, in my Christmas gown.
ducking for the forlorn snow.

wear ya fro

trees’ll still show when it snows. following the fools, the fold the flock,
flowing growing christians, their families o’er three ppl deep!
seminally crown, glowing gown, crowing clown, I’m fallingly shown
from my second-floor apartment is stunningly thrown, the couches are sewn.

hunting for trouble, so huntingly grown.
A haunting disposition, i’m eerily shown,
from rope, a chair kicked over.

crimson & clover echoingly in reverb piped, I’ll be coming over
though I don’t know you I’ll kindly reply.
kindly show you my face, kindly contact my eyes.

Havingly shown m’charlston grown,
I’ve gotta lotta fighting to go down, a gross dressing gown