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
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 ...
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
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
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:
Angelo Plessas, from Untitled Portrait Gallery, 2009
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
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 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 ...
Christine Kelly, Apple 1 is an apple. Apple 2 is the idea of an apple, 2011
One or More Occasions
If the diviner,
when he wakes up to the sound
of his own trumpet,
or presents the
in moonlight, the wrong kind of bottle
we belong in the monosyllabic new
the diviner won’t embarrass
on fear of exits (this and an absence of such
fear are both aphrodisiacs)
stone cold absence
then the diviner becomes crooked
a bendy-neck swan totem stands in for
a subjective everything
feature: permanent hat
and guess what
this is a timeslot
a clutter among others
at which we marvel occasionally
into clean and empty
sing about the full
about means around
or in proximity to
timespace designations. Hey,
take it like a spittoon.
into the bloated order of cause and effect—
cranial piping is how I arrived
at permanent hat, actually
resembling a column of smoke
coming out of the diviner’s hat
I Baroque It
“DOES sport imply sanctity?” was a sporting question, which through no extension
other than the yawny, tragic phonetiks surrounding someone’s (I bet) snowmobile accident…
…less likely than a skiing accident,
more likely than a competitive taffy pull filling the interior of a milk hood shared by two school chums
with vacuum trident
Early incidence of dual ownership can create loquaciousness so drippy that it requires a dish.
OBLITERATE WET GENEROSITY
Shan’t discuss human sexual attraction in this one, but know, just know, know what you know,
when you hear those angels trumpeting: oxygen. 100% oxygen hands slip in from behind.
$527 Cobra Quiz [win again and again]
Cobra the yogic asana.
Cobra the health insurance for poor sods.
Alexandra Gorczynski, Bathroom in the Dark, 2011
March 23rd, 2011
Early mornings were never my thing. I mean, it’s not that artists are lazy. Or out drinking late most nights. Or not out last night, a Tuesday. Hungover. I go out with the dog. It’s still basically dark. A kind of dark blue fog, super cold and grey. A couple are out early, two middle aged men bundled up and both smoking with thick leather gloves. They are sitting on a bench in front of the takeout place on the corner. It’s way too cold to be sitting outside. I hear one say to the other as I pass them, “do you want the thing or the other thing.” And I think, this is true partnership, to have thoughts coalesce around the same object. Not a shared thought, but a coming together. The muffin or the bagel. Privileging someone else’s desires for a subjectless thing. Generosity. Just as likely the better looking half of an egg and cheese sandwich. I go in the store and order one for myself. Salt and grease.
Today in 1923 Tennessee became the first state to outlaw the teaching of evolution. Today in 1933 the Reichstag passed the Enabling Act, granting Hitler total power. Fittingly, today is miserable. Still basically dark, hail. The never ending domino fall of winter storms.
March 29th, 2011
I live in America’s most bug infested city. There are bug infested mattresses all around my neighborhood this evening. It’s trash night and everyone has put the big stuff on the curb. Not just bug-ridden mattresses, also rugs, rotting Ikea cushions from a few seasons back, clothes of all kinds. I drop off my sheets at the laundry across the street and six o ...