said & chomsky on the poetic impulse
no. love for language. alpa-
(esp. w_e_n.) algebra-
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iteration of a u-g. as in: that &
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ion of plus. mod if i
er statz, the z end ro_d as in: statistic-
naive he was
eh, was he? eye said we
do ‘ no t l-o-v-e its. as in: x change-
valve. & orient “self” &/v
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no. love for language
special op (it) er
s la nt. al said, SLANT -
IM AGE, as in: tyranny-
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On April 8th, 2008 from 4pm-6pm, give a choppy, though admirable lecture on Beckett and exile via the chop-chop cybernetic roll call auctioneering of Chris Mann's “For Headphones.” Talk a little about virtual versus real exile, how both Beckett and Wittgenstein shared in common the blurring of the oftstated line between the (excuse me while I vomit) literary notion of exile (broadly defined) and that which you sometimes you think you see on television, up to and including the expulsion (better than execution and rape!) of the civilians, as well as members of the SLA/SLM, of Darfur. Talk a bit about Augustine and Descartes, the stark contrast between their solipsism and the Algerian resistance. Talk a little about how language bends and how “For Headphones” captures a potential breakage someone, who, who the hell – Said, yep – said might be the emergent property of transnational nomadism and refugeeism powergrids being captured, captured like a photo or a splinter of time in a particle machine that captures particles for an infintesimally tiny splinter of the old word, quaint now. Decide that you know very little about any of this. Take your lecture notes and systematically cut every 4th line, replacing that line with (alternating) passages from Perloff on Beckett’s Stories and Texts for Nothing and Associated Press wires about the February attack on the northern village of Sibra. On the night of May 26th, 2008 (approx. 4am), turn over in bed and see the vague outline (lit only by the fucking moon) of your scribbles/translation stemming from aforementioned lecture. Notice that from an angle of about 25 degrees, situated upside down, these scribbles look fantastic. Become overwhelmed by a sudden feeling that all is right with the world. Acknowledge this feeling to be true. Since you are a solipsist. And you fail to recognize the dangers of aestheticizing politics despite all appearances of life experience at cocktail parties and occasional orgies. Later on, try to reproduce in InDesign what you saw that early morning in May. Frown at the limited capabilities of InDesign. That morning get poked by Billy Collins on Facebook. This reminds you of the feeling of being poked by others with whom you share nearly nothing. Nor want to share. Nor understand. By afternoon the sky is drywall and you nap because of it.
footnotes to dead readerly prose
 She wanted a curved surface, rock face at sea level. Sentences were hard to come by. Propositions, more so.
 To want is figural. Blindness, almost always slow, one has time to adjust. Time is figural, wrote Yasusada, drawing perpetually.
 “Perseverance is more prevailing than violence; and many things which cannot be
when they are together, yield themselves up when taken little by little.” Or is it? She wandered
severely. She wandered in squares. The angles were right.
 “I believe that all of us ought to retire relatively young,” he said. There was something attractive
here; it mingled with his beard and the forcefulness, or the conviction, or the waves that blanched
our little island. That was years ago. “Years,” she said and kept saying until the word sounded.
“Ears” and “Here is” and he has not retired.
 Edge of a curved surface; the horizon at longitude thirty-six. If I could hold a globe, she said.
 Two directions. Garden of fucking paths (his and hers).
 In the hotel off Fort Washington and the deep one hundreds. The pace unexpectedly quick. The
walls unexpectedly porous. Launching pad for a new empty set of catalytic confusions; they slowed
it down, took stock via push and pull, tugging, wrestling the lions out.
 On time, she said and said. I am always on time. I am like Italian fascism. I am like a perpetual
boss machine. The world must catch up. Catch me, try, she said, and she did.
 “As the archeology of thought easily shows, ‘we’ are an invention of recent date. And one perhaps
nearing its end.”
 What began as a mulling of simplicity twisted until its roots showed: on Willis, he said, he was
often molested. “To bother,” she said. “Touching his cheek.” This cannot possibly capture.
 Poetry is an airport without lines
 Airports are little purgatories without poetry
 “Belated dusk,” comes to mind. It roars up, shows itself, recedes. Those waters were so bathtuby,
she remarked. I have never been, he remarked. I will bathe.
 A shell, a curved surface: the turtle’s soft insides, wanting or “wanting” to dissect a thing alive.
The drapes cannot possibly flutter, those garish dresses overlooking the steps on 187, so hardened
and drowning, she remarked. There are, in fact, exactly 100 steps, he said. And immediately the
architecture went from awful to mysterious, no outward manifestation in her glass-eye glasses as he held her face and said: “see?”
 “What we want is the image of passion, not passion itself.”
 “A throw of the mice will never abolish chance.” She untied his fist, slowly, as if loving his fist
 She did not want, no, but desired, and she “desired.” “I desire to stay put,” she said, and nobody
was there. The creek was overflowing with striders, delicate, vicious in their search for aftermath of a reading frenzy.
 The back of the neck is for kissing. The back of the neck is for stabbing. “There is no in between,” she said. “There is no difference,” he said.
 Far from the Plaka, down Menander, he took pleasure in the wreckage of parts shops and the imago of anonymity. Dust and chain followed him. He sought pornography in hardcopy, everything here just a little old, attempting to mime or gesture or dictate old fashioned needs—the convexity of the lens in products ranging from splayed legs, simply, and perhaps the expression of a face in flat gloom. The violent walks here, and the air, and scent of rust mixed with garifalo, it spoke to his speaking of her body: “ears” and “here is” and “finish my sentences” and, he said, “I can no longer speak. This is not a vow of silence. The book is no longer there.” Memory, perhaps, was what this was on such walks in such places: “an alabaster,” he said, “a tooth,” he said. “The tyranny of nostalgia,” she said. Remembering how he put his thumb in her palm and whispered like a little Napoleon: “close it, the fist. Now: begin.”
Write a story, any story. Specifically, a story where the characters are: nostalgia, chance, determinism, disequilibrium, water striders, particular geographical markers, the references to which only you would find relevant and/or illuminating, and binary codes denoted by “she” and “he”. Footnote story heavily after a Ben Marcus kick. Decide that what was interesting was not the story, but the process of writing the story. On May 14th, 2008, since the process has long since ended, remaining but a stale eulogy of itself on your computer, decide that it would be “neat” (use this term in describing what follows to friends, relatives, strangers, etc) to hold a Murder Ceremony for said story. Invite three individuals with whom you would not mind feigning sexual interest to your first ever Murder Ceremony. Ceremony should consist of the unceremonious deletion of your story, save for the footnotes, which, like the gentle serial killer you are, you keep as a memento, a prize, a fetish. Ceremony shall end with the ceremonial drinking of Miller Light and watching of CSI Miami.
Black screen burning to white. The humming of a machine, metallic, a distant turbine.Humming grows louder. Cuts to view of stage curtain, camera corner right, and off to sidestands a man in white shirt, black tie, dress pants, rubbing his hands on his knees. Tenseconds. Curtain opens, woman, naked, standing contrapposto on a piano dolly, rolled ontocenter stage. Man immediately begins to grope her passionately, although she is so still it isuncertain whether she even notices his schoolboy advances. His advances are wild,adolescent, yet involve a great deal of odd facial expressions: winking, caricatured lippuckering, vaudevillian eyebrow maneuvers. Ten seconds. Woman is rolled back behindcurtain. Repeat 2x On 3rd repeat, man in cheap bear suit runs across stage—left to right. On 4th repeat, man inbear suit runs back, right to left, while a child's voice is heard over the humming of the humming of theturbine. Child: A sad tale's best for winter; I have one of sprites and goblins.Repeat 2x. Burn to white screen, then to black. Humming of the turbine continues for ten seconds.
Get a front row seat, read too much Brecht, develop colitis in your late 20s, (at least) feign dolly fetish, convince your friends through sheer repetition that Leontes is a nutjob before AND DURING the famed “statue scene”—Desmonda’s dead, he’s seeing shit due to atrophic psyche, the thing’s a mata-theatrical anti anti-theatrical tract, there’s no hope, the fires will come soon, the plague, then the Long Parliament, those fucking whigs. Wash dishes Sunday.
Some day soon I’ll unwrite a book. Today, as yesterday, we are waiting for the Mothership to disembark from one our distant satellites. I am pleased to announce that our summoning beacon is Dancing On The Ceiling. A probable departure, delayed yet on time, causes me to smile at well-dressed men with Romanesque noses. This is due to textbook arithmetic. No rail car, entering or departing any station, moves at 65mph. Impossibility allows one to shrug and forget about it. I am not bothered by the sign to the right of the sliding doors: Job Training In No Time Flat. Why should I be?
Now that I am dead please take off your shoes. The Hagiographa thanks you very much for your hollow sense of urgency. Our umbrella rack is not for walking sticks let alone candy wrappers or fish. Your father’s mess—the cartilage of lust, the connective tissue once fastened by guilt to Job’s ear, the dry crushed dandelions from a former boyfriend they called The Wiggler—it’s strewn like turned up moss throughout the house. Dispose of it in the appropriate way. Do not cover the furniture with veils from Safeway. Take the Corning wear from your judgmental in-laws. It’s important to be petty after life. Belated congratulations on part-time work. Couldn’t you have been a doctor?
seems to have been of the air
writes sedulously brought clearlight of common sense to read
master of the routine influenced
treated ills we are (in the sixteenth century)
emancipated from the control / age (mother of washington)
dosed for dyspepsia
the idea struck me as ingenious and fertile
the master of routine cogs clockworks and doses
associated with bleeding and purging and if we considered only
some of his time
There are two invisible hands, not one. I am loathe to tell you that they’re attached to one invisible body. The body has a face with lips that constantly utter, as if to deny all plausible suspicion: these are not my hands. The second reaches into your bedroom at night and presses on your biggest weakness. Which, by the way, is just behind the right lung. Sometimes one hand overlaps the other, helping to press with the strength and heat of a waffle iron. That weakness should be yours. Ours? When you wake for no reason there is a reason. But who are you?