Demiurge in the Cupboard by Bradley Benedetti

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Bradley Benedetti, Demiurge in the Cupboard, Circusology of Native Leadership Piece 1, 2012

 Orca Tears Turquoise( Wish'd We'd Ha'd) 

 "How can I retry when I was a watermarked birth? I was a global write, universally speaking. My only choice is to image search. rch, sea. Can you smell the past? It is yours. Commercial help gonna fix this Etc.?"

VAPOR STORIE

“Nostalgic For captivity…Scent of an orca's tears. Anti-virus wishing wells

 If you haven't had your first familiar encounter

please refer to the catalog.

now that I’ve slowed down your 3 dimensional momentarium

I can let you in on something.”

 

“Toyota arctic

sea u kiosk museum efficiency baby

free 

if you take your TIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIME . I’ll wait for

youuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu 

breeze and ufo- take your time

we were supposed to grow old together"

 

MySPHINX

 

Trademark Applesdottir

Sanrio Erikkson

Nintendo Cloud

Ancient Purell

Sarcophagus St.Chateau

Libra von Katzengiest

Pegasus Bromwell

Oreo Mitsubishi

Astrology DeCordova

 

“I just, I just, I just toed this rope, you know , I just tied this

rope three times, well 6 really because I said it and then did it, but I

mean I tied it while saying it, well hahah you know what I mean,

anyway, the point is it WORKED

This dimension is feeling stuffy

I’m tired of living moment to moment, GET ME OUT OF HERE

I feel really 3 dimensional, I’m looking for something more, I felt

nervous not knowing what came next

In the 4th dimension I get to see it all, people from the past, the

future, really its the continuous present ever flowing around me and

you into one big ball of energy.

5th dimensional living felt too complex, the text was fifth dimensional

5 feels really dark velvety, red, very red ...

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I, IV by A.E. Benenson

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Ian Cheng, from This Papaya Tastes Perfect, 2011

I.

Here are the Germans in Arizona and New Mexico.

Their skin turning the coral-red of the veined rocks, of the local jewelry, as if the color had begun to rub off on them in the heat, some kind of desert frottage but really a sunburn is the just the opposite, if you think about it.

But that is how things are when they are opposites: you can't tell them apart.

Like the first time the group saw a Swastika on a native's cloth rug beady red inside a clutch of eagles, their wings eddying around it—one of them realized for the first time that the sign looked exactly like a miniature windmill (another learned later that in Navajo the symbol did almost mean that, in fact—"whirling log")

Another German was embarrassed; but for the others, this sign was a sign and they telegraphed Goebbels immediately.

It was like when Cortez had arrived in Mexico: 

His men found that the natives there already worshipped a deity with long hair and fair skin, Quetzelcoatl, who had walked the earth before he ascended into the heavens. Ignoring any other possibility, Cortez understood this as the proof of the universality of Jesus, our Lord and Savior. 

The Germans didn't know it then, but that turned out to be the "breakthrough" of their reconnaissance mission. It was the best these code crackers would do: discover a symbol they already all wore on their uniforms.  

The rest of the Navajo language remained as much of a mystery as when it had first been captured coming across the Allied wireless.  

After they returned home, those Germans still thought of the Allied Code, but something changed. It made no more sense, but before, whereas ...

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The Composition Is the Thing (After Stein) by Joseph Rosenzweig

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The first step towards a better future for the industry is not likely to cause confusion. Composition of the essential features hereinbefore set. Is it just me or the other hand? The results show clearly enough that the people have been displaced. Thing of the Day is Turf. Seen in this light it becomes clear why some of the biggest blunders cost savings. By using this product and click the button. Every day that gets you organized and makes recommendations to the Board and is protected under applicable laws relating to workers in the private sector is not a valid stream resource. One such case involved an accusation. Living our values does not exceed the maximum number of times that each person has their own things. In the present embodiment is a compound. The most popular password is not working properly. Living and Working Offworld in the world is not enough and living with floods and droughts will be given. They will not be published or reproduced in whole or in part without permission. Are you sure you want to remove this? Doing this allows the user to enter a plea. They can keep private. Are the lyrics to this song not correct? The time now is the time to read this complete guide to information. Composing and decomposing bodies of the slain were the first to find deals. Of these two types of people in this country that are covered by the provisions set out the following information is provided. The current rate is calculated as an average over the period of the first embodiment. Composition for treatment of the subject areas below the mean value of the assets is not available. That is to say that this game is a remake. At least one type of telecommunication device ...

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"Standard Remote" by Dena Yago

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A crater dismounted facing towards

One problem

Natural counting towards two a surface

You said ‘immaleable ruin’

That settles in the palm of a hand

 

Development psych

Standing in it’s shadow

Giving a one way signal

Like no one is home

 

Cosmic accents

Back and forth

Like where are you from

Anyway

 

Make from me leaned over

A sitting desk

A standing desk

 

Five thousand bookmarks

Returning numbers in fines

I have paid for this in interest

Down-paid

Discomfort

 

Swung open

A revolving door turns unconvinced

Pre-paid

 

I am still at home

I have not left yet

I am in Queens

 

What one line can accomodate

A text wrap around

That one.

 

Alternative to a shade of preparation

Alternating between white and another white that you notice less

Putting one glove on takes two hands

And what can my cold hands say to that?

 

Standing on gravel

site specific self identifying

As gravel

 

Layout interrupted

A path following

An aluminum Swiss water bottle

 

A transcription:

She told me they sell no deodorant here

I knew she was lying I asked

Why I know that you are lying

She told we do but they don’t need deodorant here

I knew she was lying

I said you are lying

She said you are the salt of the earth

 

With one hand held over two breasts

No dark storm can rage over two breasts

With one hand

And cream shirt worn

Into a dark 3 p.m. screening

Of my life my love

This love is truly abated by

No one else’s breasts

 

A distant swiss watch chimes background fade

Powdered marble on powdered marble on

An unlined t shirt

Cognito ergo sum

 

Index finger in hot black coffee

There is no aporia in heaven

She said wiping her nail ...

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Two poems by Caroline Contillo

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3 Meryl Streep Moon via Buzzfeed

 

#IHATEPOETRY

 

Listen.

I'm just going to put this out there:

I love words, but I hate poetry.

There, I said it.

Who knew it was this serious?

I will never not hate it with a passion.

 

Here's why I hate poetry: If you have something to say,

Say it directly. There's no need for all of these boring words.

 

JUST SAY IT.

 

I want to drown it in metaphors, similes, etc.

I'm not reading this garbage.

 

I DON'T EVEN GET IT.

 

What's the point of poetry?

It's not like I'm going to go around rhyming.

I hate reading it in English. I hate writing it in French.

My mind does not work this way.

Poetry is the only thing I don't actually like.

 

Don't get me started on that symbolism crap.

Why can't a tree just be a tree?

Where is my dumb poetry book.

 

Poems are literally the worst.

I hate them so much I might die.

Words can not even express how much I truly detest poetry.

It's useless. And why does it have to rhyme?

Go shove a hyperbole up your ass.

 

 

***

 

I am going to write a poem about using Meryl Streep's laugh as a ringtone.

 

I've bookmarked an LA Times article from 1989

in which her giggle eruptions are explored with great amazement.

 

I've tweeted extensively on the tone and timbre of

each particular laugh. Countless hours on Youtube have been spent

researching and cataloging her various chortles, cackles and rolling crack-ups.

 

Hers is an auditory knowing glance, vibrating the air with

sympathetic joy. To watch a supercut of her recorded laughter is

to change or enhance the trajectory of your day

for the ...

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Assembled Texts by Harm van den Dorpel

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If rationality and consistent thought are the preferred distinguishing marks of man, then even if it is admitted that man, as a whole, also has passions, the supremacy of rational thought over them may well seem an unquestionable idea. This is all the more so, since it is quite obvious that gaining some such control is a basic condition of growing up, and even, at the extreme, of sanity. But to move from that into making such control into the ideal, rules out a priori most forms of spontaneity. And this seems to be absurd.

I would suggest to find your deepest impulse, and follow that. The notion that there is something that is one's deepest impulse, that there is a discovery to be made here, rather than a decision; and the notion that one trusts what is so discovered, although unclear where it will lead—these, rather, are the point. The combination—discovery, trust, and risk—are central to my sort of outlook, as of course they are to the state of being in love.

 

 

Although this is not print, I write in a manner that facilitates transmission in other forms such as print, spoken word, and via a screen reader. So terms such as "this article" are preferable to "this website," and I avoid terms like "click here," which makes no sense when using a screen reader, for instance. In determining what language is most suitable, it is helpful to imagine I'm writing the content for print. So my work is no longer a finished corpus, some content enclosed in an object or its margins, but a differential network, a fabric of traces referring endlessly to something other than itself, to other differential traces. The content in these traces is a glimpse of something, an encounter ...

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Two Poems by Cathy Park Hong

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Engines within the Throne

 

We once worked as clerks

            scanning moth-balled pages

into the cloud, all memories

outsourced except the fuzzy

            childhood bits when

 

I was an undersized girl with a tic,

they numbed me with botox.

            I was a skinsuit

of dumb expression, just fingerprints

over my shamed

 

            all I wanted was snow

to snuff the sun blades to shadow spokes,

muffle the drum of freeways, erase

            the old realism

 

but this smart snow erases

            nothing, seeps everywhere,

the search engine is inside us,

the world is our display

 

            and now every industry

has dumped cubicles, desktops,

fax machines into developing

            worlds where they stack

them as walls against

 

what disputed territory 

            we asked the old spy who drank

with Russians to gather information 

the old-fashioned way,

 

now we have snow sensors,

            so you can go spelunking

in anyone’s minds, 

let me borrow your child

 

thoughts, it’s benign surveillance,

            I can burrow inside, find a cave

pool with rock colored flounder,

and find you, half-transparent

with depression.

 

A Wreath of Hummingbirds

 

I suffer a different kind of loneliness.

From the antique ringtones of singing

wrens, crying babies, and ballad medleys,

my ears have turned

to brass.

 

They resurrect a thousand extinct birds,

Emus, dodos, and shelducks, though some,

like the cerulean glaucous macaw,

could not survive the snow.  How heavily

they roost on trees in raw twilight.

 

I will not admire those birds,

not when my dull head throbs, I am plagued

by sorrow, a green hummingbird eats me alive

with its stinging needle beak.

 

Then I meet you.  Our courtship is fierce

in a prudish city that scorns our love,

as if the ancient laws of miscegenation

are still in place.  I am afraid

I will infect you

 

after a virus clogs the gift economy:

booming ...

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"Social Media Marketing Masterclass [In 3 Easy Steps]" by Jesse Darling

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Lesson One:

IT DOESN'T MATTER IF YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU'RE DOING,
SO LONG AS IT'S WORKING.

 

██████              01 December at 17:31

heh. your videos, blog and online presence are like a window on some sort of amazing, magical, brighter-than-life parallel universe – full of beautiful people, glamour, enchanted bric-a-brac and generally cool stuff.

rock on. and good luck in  ██████ :)

______________________________________

Jesse Darling          01 December at 09:40

██████ If only you could see the mice, the mould, the incessant rain, the  ██████ & the bank balance. Still, it’s  ██████; it’s home. ;) So thank you.

███████████████████████

xx JD

______________________________________

Lesson Two:

GIVE YOUR CUSTOMERS WHAT THEY WANT,
EVEN IF YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND WHAT THEY'RE ASKING FOR.

 

██████              26 December, 2011

Dear Jesse,

I have some questions to ask you because of your physical nuance— the awareness you have— the sensitivity— the life— yet still the ability to move. This must require constant cleaning, writing, talking, expressing— I think you are in a sense an evolution of ██████ — please do not take this as an insult — I could only insult myself if simplifying— but what I see in your manner of expressing with words is an ability to communicate subtleties in a way that does not appear to be so. ██████.

Something very clear about you— and which fains from he word artist or philosopher, though you are an artist— you are also knowing of— existing outside of— █████████ — and these are ██████ tendencies — not of the preceding university ‘objective’ era, but something cunning to ‘information’ and its know not, as well as ‘art’ and its know not—

Anyway, questions pending.

██████

______________________________________

Jesse Darling          26 December 2011

██████. Hit me up.

______________________________________

Lesson Three:

HATERS GONNA HATE.
NEVER STOP BELIEVING.

██████              15 February at 01:18

If one is an artist does that mean that life ...

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Poems by Steve Roggenbuck

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Steve Roggenbuck, carpe dime you only live ounce, 2012

smile at me using the dead girls mouth

 

it hurts with me.

im in california hugging with my dead family.

we're alredy 

simple in the western u.s. crying in my bed

im dead with you sad girl.

i want you in the airports of my country

 

 

 

 

i am about the size of a dead nine year old

 

i am about the size of a dead nine year old

in her cool bed room 

in september 

i am ugly with dead children

it is early september at 7 in the morning

i want to listen to birds outside of my 

bed room

i love birds 

i love them more than humans

there are also dead

bodies hanging from my familys tire swing

 

 

 

 

 

dead girl, you are dead

 

i am crying in you and being fucked at the same 

time by january rain. i hurt 

when i move.

i am being rained on with dead 

children now dead five year olds.

i dont care if my blood 

chokes me, 

i no longer want to have blood. i want your 

cold pointless hands.

i want to put flowers in your cold pointless mouth

 

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Robot Literature by Angelo Plessas

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Angelo Plessas, from Untitled Portrait Gallery, 2009

 

Double Faced

For those who Know Best their mirror,

a Conspiracy revolves around.

Silence from behind devours a relic from the past.

Life is usually attached to lengths of magnetic fields.

You might be Emerging as something else.

I might Switch Back. All I wish is that when I start up,

my life will be OkaY

 

Around us

Keep, Art was Stolen By a Masked man in thong.

I thank Obama because he\’s black,

he said We love Colors.

You are feeling suicidal now please stop.

Apocalyptic, I contemplate the Universe around us.

 

elated quilt 

elated quilt establishes despairingly

victorious coma becomes elatedly

thoughtful income clips deprecatively

beautiful sidewalk checks long-windedly

combative pie cracks giddily

crowded haircut buzzes dazzlingly

quaint answer enhances garishly

 

A TYPICAL DAY OF DALI AND GALA

DALI, materialized in a apartment. Many persons in a single body. It was the

sixth game of attention. Behaving scarcely angered, DALI punched a ninja star,

but this certainly didn't encourage DALI deciding what to do in smart way. Out of

nowhere, DALI hoped that DALI's marginal fidelity is to be perpetually positive,

because hatred is born out of fear. Unconsciously DALI emailed GALA, DALI's

neighbor/accomplice 'Free yourself from common sense', said DALI. DALI must

have seen GALA for 20 hours in Tahrir square during the Revolution some of

them were modest diabolical and empirical inspirations. GALA was a nobody.

Many persons outside a single body. Between the line of black and white. GALA

was outgoing more or less... pestering. DALI called GALA 'Somebody has to

listen to me' he said. 'These are the symptoms of the liberal-democratic affluent

society', said DALI.

GALA hypnotized by lazy DALI. 'Why and for whom does philosophy work today

?' , said GALA. GALA ...

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