Saturday, December 27, 2014

Rough & Tumbler-er

(or Listerine & Love)

Too mobilized 
To induce artifice 
Frenetic elixir of life
Ultimate novelty of becoming 

It's called ‎Physics 
Thanks to sufficient reason
Thanks to dramatic Echo

No stranger 
against Ambition 
No place of business
No Lord and master 
Forever wrenched 
(or is that wretched?)

Cretan labyrinth 
Gloriously dark 

Any theory of crisis
Couplets that kill
Home manicures & private plays
Precarious tort 
Endless thought police

Here’s the thing
Beneath its name
Song threads into song
Shrink wrapped 
Miracles & prodigies

To remove doubt
Hand divides ear 
Celestial signs
Virgins and saints
Modeled on hideous progress
It is not philosophy 
Engrossed in the business of life
Nor the less probable shadow
Sleeping as the crowd also sleeps
Treasuring the profane place
[What did you just say!?]
Primary unit and example
They go in 
One native village
Feeling below surface
Machine to mold thought
There is no surpassing 
No light at all
No sound 
Just Listerine 
& love in the air

ps. People can do anything
Lisbon earthquake
Spinoza's acknowledgement page
Ego, commodity exchange
Introspection and intuition

The discovery of math
Drive and motive
Useless rigors of organization
Socrates’ finger paintings 
Guardians of insomnia
Riddled with holes

Friday, November 28, 2014

Treadmill Feedback

Useless valley equation
Discount saturation
in gelatinous time

Lighter coin for heavier action
for mystery & duress

Dear Felon
my object is yours
No object by virtue
not its own
not of beautiful things

Home is where the heartless
Take & subsist
Valor unwrapt
To exercise & consume time
To tell of equal love
Bodies taken
To persist & unhand
To preempt the Imaginary
Indiscriminate plunder

Saturday, November 15, 2014

King for a day

-if you convince everyone you are the King of France, you are the King of France

Hat check
Finger recognition
My ceremonial recall
& material defect

I remember more
storage units
Frozen breath
Series of relations

Convinced now
who am I?
Too poor to be in a church
Labors body sleeps

I remember resold bundles
useless tics
The best of all possibles
Artifice of Opposites

Hashtag pissoff
Double diamonds & pearls
Diving in fact to dwarf
the social fat

   -signed Giantess

Sunday, October 19, 2014

Hito Steyrel: Revolutionary Spam

Last Friday, at The New Foundation, I led a discussion centered around a screening of Hito Steyrel's Is The Museum A Battlefield, which was produced for the 13th Istanbul Biennial in 2012. (Introductory remarks, written to precede the screening, printed below.)

On seeing the video for the second time, I had similar frustrations with it that I had the first time, i.e., the trajectory of the critique is still annoyingly interrupted or detourned by flights of fancy, goofy, almost surreal flourishes.  But my affective response to these rhetorical disconnects was muted the 2nd time, since I had read and thought about the her work in the interim.

"The Revolution Is My Boyfriend"

While I am suggesting that Steyrel is making "Revolutionary Spam," I don't mean this in a derogatory way or as an insult. As was pointed out in the discussion, the question may be whether the work achieves the level of (artworld) malware, so its distribution and circulation within this ivory tower world (of the 5%) is perhaps what matters.

Others pointed out that these types of anti-aesthetic moves are old hat to the artworld, which nevertheless laps it up.  I find the latter position a bit too easy and cynical, since I think Steyrel is engaged in a project that is socially & politically meaningful and was not trying to become the next big thing in the art world, even tho de facto this seems to have occurred.  The critiques she shoots at us in helter skelter fashion do have a purposiveness.  But they are not intended to strike us, so they would seem to be without purpose?  [cf: the videoclip excerpt she uses from the Angelina Jolie film, where Jolie's character bends the path of bullets with her mind &c]

Steyrel refers several times to digital targeting and spam in the piece.  This reminded me of Steven Shaviro's linking of spam to Kantian aesthetics:

“Spam is ... a message that is nothing beyond its medium… Spam has no utility, and no cognitive point, for its only aim is self-proliferation…  In other words, spam is purposiveness without purpose: in Kantian terms, it is aesthetic..."  [Steve Shaviro - excerpted here]

OK -- I'll abruptly stop here, and leave it to you to decide whether or not to block Steyrel's revolutionary spam.

Introductory Remarks

I wanted to say a few words to introduce Is the Museum A Battlefield, since I think – for better or worse – that it would have been a better first experience for me if I had had more context.

Hito S describes herself (or others describe her) as a filmmaker (once upon a time she worked with Wim Wenders) and I think her writing practice as a critic/essayist has powerfully merged with the filmmaking so that it is just wrong to formally reduce her work to either essay or film.  Remarkably she has been taken up by the art world – and this is difficult to fully comprehend since she is a clear eyed critic of it.

The earliest piece I’ve seen from 2004 is called November, and it involves a touchstone to which she often returns.  She describes November as "a self-reflexive video that examines the role of images in the post-revolutionary moment..."  It deals with her activist friend – I presume from her high school years -- Andrea Wolf -- who later joined the Kurdistan Worker Party and was killed in the late 90s.  Steyerl actually made a very early super-8 film with her – sort of an outlaw/noir/ biker film, which the she calls a "feminist martial arts flick."  This footage is used in November – titled for the month after the revolution – which makes it appropriate for New Foundation to be showing these films in October.

After seeing ITMAB, I was really taken with an essay she wrote in 2010 called A Thing Like You and Me.  And in this I think she describes the underlying project or problem that she is working on -- or which is working on her.

"To Participate In The Image As Thing"

From a critique of authenticity and representation – where what is ‘real’ is suspect – since we live in a world flooded with images (or simulations) -- a sort of “barrage of commodified intensities,” Steyrel is trying to find a way to resist or get past this.

She wants to imagine "an object that is differently animated from the commodity fetish…”  To “abolish that relation where we merely identify with the image.”  She wants “…to call on things (not images!) to become comrades and equals. By releasing the energy stored in them, things become coworkers, potentially friends, even lovers.”

She insists on a materialist base of the digital image.  She wants to “participate in the image as thing... And the desire to become this thing (in this case an image) is the upshot of the struggle over representation.”

[Paraphrasing here:] "Everything converges within images: senses & things; abstraction & excitement; speculation & power; desire & matter."

It might seem vague or confusing  - this notion of a physical image that resists representing and representation.  This image-thing does have some paradoxical work to do.  It isn't expressive in the way we presume art to be expressive.  It does not represent some real thing.  “It doesn’t represent reality. It is a fragment of the real world. It is a [material] thing just like any other – a thing like you and me.”

Wednesday, October 1, 2014

Damn the statuary

We need soft sculpture
lost time to astonish
to fulfill memory
to establish
the litany of buoys

two man rock
singing circuits
Roman ruins behind bars
buy one get one free

Monday, September 15, 2014

Lyric Intensity - without the hormones

    "If we don't think capitalism it will think us." –Benjamin Noys

Our high noon's unmade
too many loops
painted white to seize silence

signal to noise rates
river and rivulet
tar babies in long lines

Let's ignore donnybrook
ignore violent blanks
upstream of main
doused with silly string
it's the superheroes
versus the clowns
pogo sticks &
impossible pioneers

Vectors of power
invert fingers & trounce
machine tool fragments
thrifting in theory
to macerate hot stuff
in time's kitchen

What do I regret?
I regret the first person singular
I regret market thinking
I regret my tendency to mutter
I regret not being more multiple
Measured nerve
the better to infect
binaries & oblivion
Cowering reptiles
of the raging psychonaut

I regret adaptive estrangement
My body work is also a wall
I regret Auroral events
I regret gated community
lost to discourse
Comic strips
of hate and love
Naked affront
Between eye rolls
& dumb beats

Let’s buff up the new statuary
help me swallow not escape
what bodies can’t do

Animus before containment
when the real precedes
actual life

Monday, September 8, 2014

Teaching myself Blender

       -for K. T.

Convoluted crankshaft
Fractal diseconomy
Black and blue
With a monied reflection
Beat down
To the frenzied beat
I arose to the pentathlon
And jumped gate

Sunday, August 24, 2014

No Show @HedreenGallery Thru 13 September

Breathe. Not breathless. Amanda Manitach explains here.

A catalog in place of show. Free to pick up at gallery.  Some portions of it are: hereherehereherehere & here.

With Sharon Arnold, Rebecca Brown, Sean J. Patrick Carney, T.s. Flock, Jason Hirata, Robert Mittenthal & Matt Offenbacher

Wednesday, August 13, 2014

Audaciously Unexciting

-15 seconds of useful consciousness

Even at 40000 feet
the world is made of accomplished facts
of viral ignorance
enclosed in the crisis that makes us sick

The crisis of enclosure is the Poem
found on the b-side of Exhaustion (literally on the backside of my stapled copy)
That’s the Omnibus which appears as if out of nowhere, unknown and unseen in the next poem
Instead of eliminating all artifice from the apparatus – which is the aim of science – the artist wants to create an artifact that has a life of its own, to make an artwork as alive as a sugar cube in a horse’s mouth.

But how to resist, how to write rather than be written
How not to be a minion?  First, resist all forms of agency. There is no need to authenticate your own incapacity.  Refuse the “we had to.”

For over ten years we have been showing people how to receive immediate cash flow. No selling, no explaining, no cold calling, no chasing friends and family.

Exuberant verb which
makes itself into a good meal
Inhaling and exhaling
Drawing to a close
this age of extremes

Caught in my craw
the hook beneath each hyperlink
Its other name is domination
Traps all the way down
Cymbals timbales
The snare
when ignorance goes viral
when Gidget goes Hawaiian
goes to Rome
to Waikiki
grows up
gets married

It is sabotage – within Sabotage
our Triple agent’s
useless fail
Never have I felt so rested
My love wants to destroy Art
as weaponized concept
Ideal exit not
to escape but to contain
regions beyond work
The IDF’s infamous rhizome
walking thru walls
Liquid city
doubled in the Ancestral dark
Big headed river
when leisure poetry
is set to dial out

Predigested or rationed
I am the battle
Conspiracy theorist of my own contingent material
the shitting machine
lost to memory
thinking within what thinks us

Tuesday, August 12, 2014

Song to myself

Poems are exciting
don't write them down
Nauseated sex negative
nature is a stupid business
I hated her Heidegger socks
Bereft of the power of division
dead shoes
The red I feel minus what –
molecular estrangement?

OK, I should be happier doing what Robin James calls the work of viral upworthiness.  I mean pass it on. Pharrell’s hat is already turned up.

“The point is to make signals that, when co-opted, skew the balance and bend the circuit- sort of like retroviruses and malware. Critical delinquency generates noise that isn't noisy in the ‘right’ ways (and thus might not even register as noise), queer noise that, when it gets co-opted, distorts the processes it is supposed to support.” – R James.

In other words, please don’t read the lyrics!  Instrumental ideals are too banal for words.  Something about sadistic enjoyment.  Yeah, I was hooked but I merely lost myself, just as the tailor disappears into his suits, just as the accountant gets lost in accounts. How to capture what is written at each remove.  I want what the smuggler hid in my inner ear. Not some dream of a coin extracted. The artist surveilles surfaces, unmapping and remapping, resting on the dead labor of past generations.  When I hear the good life, I hear the good life, a wall on which to project false positives and true negatives.

We wore the same pajamas
Alien maps
Opposing thumbs
Mr Green Jeans vs Capt Kangaroo
Tell it to the tree
To the molecule that just slammed the door
To roadrunner who refused to fall
Earth will possess us
The untold story
‎More at 11

The rabbit strayed from his hat
Insert happy lyric here
Austerity’s hairshirt
Dracula's happy meal

To bypass psychic add-ons
unfailed fallacy of consent
7 footnotes per page means
Messianic nap time

Th' expense of spirit
‎against the ready made – I made it up
Need to lose this silly moustache
this AOL address
against appearances
against the ‘I’ that would stand up
‎for downtime
for dreamlife

Monday, August 11, 2014

Chunk & Permeate

   Conservators of true contradiction, of all that is both true and false 
          – after Graham Priest’s ‘paraconsistent’ logic

The flow within proceeds – parallel or doubled – a celebration of what’s blocked between.

Assume consciousness is parked in the storm within – a contrast that allows all inference.  The compost of thought ground in fact.  This news is not accumulation – it’s the byproduct that pays back.  But none of it buys a daily deadline.

Internally with others or alone, I am chunked in a certain sense.  Not uncommonly inconsistent I swallow sweet inference – a reign free of limited permeations.

Caught between temperate zones our choice is to lick or be licked.  Kitten with two tongues is devoured by a snake.  Inadequate image of a friend apt to stray.

She moved Legos from box to box.  Translating torsos to brick a trail.  I backtracked to plagiarize the footpath and misspelled my name.  Stepping into the dark, a monument stands against inverse proportion, character that transcends the logic gates.

It’s this tender time theory forgets.  Robotic engagement not of the world but of flesh.  All this drawing with wings worn.  Each night a density of bird or bug.  It’s the intermediate body that refuses.  Your ass an isolated edict.  Inviolate world free of discharge.  Its seedlings a packet addressed to all employees. Downriver my wet wound pleads the night.  It’s the yelp of ages.  How I howl for the heart of kings (a Knaves taunt) set to refuse angels.

Practiced Negation

   You campaign in poetry, you govern in prose.  –Mario Cuomo

No never did this.  Against denunciation of one’s neighbors, against denunciation in general.

No, his books were negatives. Missing imprint that washes out all perception.  With this rock I do – nothing negative.  Lost in amplitudes of disrespect, sincerity as a pen withholds intent.  No longer accumulating in the margins of opera programs, on laundry lists, on the palms of hands, in the litany of words inserted here.  

No never did this.  Indestructible, it’s as if charm schools you.  Grabs your lapels, shocking with an electronic leash.  Yearning for a proper collar, to seize the power that deforms us.

If resistance is surrender, I denied myself to you as a joke – unable to comply.  The job is to check and recheck – to suspend the negation our bodies insist on.  At bottom, written in the paths of disputation, stealing asides from adjacent pages.  A nomad life lived between black and blue.

Surveilling daylight, I become indistinguishable from an image.  At night, out of sequence, I savor the bite of each strophe, and conserve the itch to push for more.

We’re told to obey the crime.  We’re told it’s our vampire – rising from the depths. Earth’s disgorgement cached my clock.  Each moment pre-owned – underwritten as a hedge against the past.

No never did this.  After the cognitive dissonance of work
In pursuit of the next enslavement – King George
Rethroned by alternate verbs (quote)
I love and love the treble
Damage – the fear that oversees
bypassed Meaning
Simplicity of some other angel
Better in margins arguably amassed
We manufactured crisis
embodied symptom
Misfortune as good as it gets
Ornament that refused collapse
Bottletop weave that skirts the eye

Bartleby: Living but everywhere dead

The power to not go on.  Whimper of night where we would actively not.  Animated in his cage, what’s offered is just this.  An entire world enraptured – flickering a message up in lights.

Paid to go away, the second letter is ultimately defuse.  Volunteers await a gardener’s wrath.  This lack of limits becomes the ultimate limit.  Naked he thinks this is the life.  Discharged to keep a close eye.

Applied to the lower tides, transparency as such becomes unreadable, glazed opacity of fluids that follow words.   Reverting to the crawl he sidekicks and rolls back to float to a place on the beach.

It’s an amoeba phones home.  My nomad answers.  Yolk of jellyfish that lurk, yellow hearts pumping in the sea.  Haunted by animation, nature tests its mental being.  Indecipherable, it is the hardened fat – impenetrable not thru but in language.

Remember leisure poets who invert the body’s response?  They yield to an earlier image, back when fruit dots were candies of the gods.  A twilit lozenge in the wake of dawn’s burst.  Dispatched to that suckling place – a pure exposure or announcement before birth.  That’s the ticket, pleased to admit one.  A baby shower that delivers a pillar for the waif.  Advertisements followed by popcorn and sticky feet.  The Magi caught looking can’t get enough.  Dead letters arrive just in time.

Dear B – I heard that you were asleep.  Too personal to enflame the animus that remains.  Aborted message whose ground takes off.  No need to decrypt the hand that signals a sequence of faults.  The policy ruptured is us.  It’s what we can’t see for the not quite trees.  Unchanged matrix a constant roar. Revolt pitched, lost in the severity of manner.

Before machine readable dreams, ribbons precast in a typewriter cove.  Each finger alive crescents, untapping the dream that precedes it.  Where election lights the lights.

Discarded words burn four times a year in the great city square. Bonfire of lettered remains.  Stunned, yes – but falling off the horse, no.  It’s the new form of method acting.  Copying music without knowing the notes.  Sitting for a test, multiplied by the one who wins by walking.  The same theme and same frown for the always changed song.

In these times, who is cut to copy flesh?  Give us a sign when wisdom returns.  I refer to the one who wears shoes, to the one whose mouth is unable to authenticate the hand.  Without proof, unable to follow, he appears at his desk, watching the hand but not the mouth.  Watching the general become singular.  Watching the singular fawn, dip and turn back as if reanimated in commerce.

The hand loses itself, ghosting its name, an outlaw thought. Impossible to coincide, it is the part of those who have no part.  Rolled in the weft, riding a flotilla of lines.  The scare memory plays to avoid refusal.

Monday, July 28, 2014

The Sequence - Parking Lot Music circa 1980

Still makes me get up outta my chair. Check out the solos at about 6'00. Like Ginger Rogers. My man Yogi. Heh Fred.

The Sequence will funk you (right on) up.

Saturday, July 26, 2014

Documented Allegiance

Here's video of Allegiance of the Drones performance.

Useless, parasitic, viral, aesthetic, luxurious spam

“Spam is ... a message that is nothing beyond its medium… Spam has no utility, and no cognitive point, for its only aim is self-proliferation…

In other words, spam is purposiveness without purpose: in Kantian terms, it is aesthetic... Computational systems don’t need any sort of aesthetic sensibility; this means that they don’t need “experience” or “consciousness.” Indeed, they function all the more efficiently without these things. Big Blue never could have defeated Kasparov if it were weighted down, like he is, with recursive self-consciousness...

… in Darwinian terms [, s]pam or aesthetics may have initially been a useful adaptation: this is the only way that it could have arisen in the first place… But spam or art quickly outgrew this purpose; it has now become parasitic, and replicates itself even at its host’s expense (cf: peacock’s tails). It serves no further purpose any more. Spam or art is a virus; and, insofar as we have aesthetic sensibilities (including self-consciousness and dwelling just in the present moment), we are that virus. Our thoughts and bodies, our lives, are “needlessly recursive” and wasteful…

The logic of spam tells us that sensibility, awareness, and aesthetic enjoyment are all costly luxuries. From a political and economic point of view, they can only be promoted — and they should be promoted — on this basis.”

-Steven Shaviro

Sunday, June 29, 2014

Second Hand Sleep

Narcotic and austere‎
‎Vegetating in a desert island
I see thru clouds
Canals where commercial flotillas live

Life in order that there be poetry
Rendered uneasy in satisfactions
Her imagination
Salvation and justice
The study of hero worship
Petty artisanal duplicity
Men of the workshop
Will overflow or expel
The machine in which caresses
Hold true for future royalty

A universe can imitate the end
Horse races and prestidigitation
Peasants and autodidacts
Companions who died in childbirth
Violent memory
Facing north
Cut shapes to west
Eye where no sun
Center and field
Danced apart

He is an angel‎
A maiden for everyone
Anatomy woven at the loom‎
It was arranged
Vision of half-way house
Rhymes with
My counter-charm prevents
The sport (ecstatic Alps‎)
The sporting‎ life as ant or worm

I could not identify
Blue flower
I could not identify
Hairy madmen
Pictograph of doubled image
Creature of wish
Of the spring
In seance
Robin Hood burning up
Incandescent master
Dressed in newspaper
The unluckiest virgin
Gleaned and annealed

Drink to me assigns‎
‎Gunfire poem
Crumpled horn
Icy finger under siege
Murder won't do
I am 43
Sailing on a lift, angry
Running lost in fragments
Broke-back and dumb
Beautiful tears have blossomed
Orange libraries
In the muscles of men

Saturday, June 21, 2014

No World No Time

You may need to know Schumpeter (aka “the poet of neoliberals” (Mudede)) is the guy who came up with the economic idea of creative destruction. He read Marx closely but swallowed the idea of Nietzschean heroics. He celebrates original entrepreneurial moments & he’s more than ok with the resulting ecological waste, i.e., collateral damage is no concern.

Hello said the telephone (hi!)
Poet of the crowd
Common inscription
Loved and lost

‎Ok cupid
thought does not collapse
Enemies of innovation
discard the now!
Bookmark time

Let Bartleby
Let our Schumpeterian waste baskets‎
Attrition molecule
for conjugal verb
Let each refusal
Keep a tab open
The female thing
positively cash poor
His cudgel thinking
Erasure's stet (gums my work)
My patent portfolio
Imagines history
Dreams prior art
To betray
Actionable extract
held back in the year of revolt
Revived in 1898
Word on word
kickboxing horrorshow
Dance music modulation

Wednesday, May 28, 2014

In which La Nature rejects its correlates (after Baudelaire's Correspondances)

‎   “Self-revelation is annihilation of self”

Lana Turner's living
Still life of words
(see baud rate, see disambiguation)
You lost me at Shirley
Temple's temple
Mounts of words
Crossed forests
Crossed out
Intimate symbol
Of sweets
Of the stink
Of subjects she sing‎s‎

No man's mottled nose
No oboe
to judge
to Cleave amber

Nature is never adequate
to the revolting dead
Hardwood doubled
Green screened‎
Vibrant bullet
as if subjects exist

Not knowing it's dead
La fabrique du pre
Works day and night
Green light ‎for white flight
As it reproduces itself
Say what?‎
Delete stink of flesh
Deep aura
‎Echo as ecstacy
‘Heads up!’
No cognate‎ released‎
No sense of singing
Vampire blood on lip
No scent of infinite thing
Gasping abreast

Saturday, May 3, 2014

Verse Don't Care

-- Ladies and Gentlemen: Donato Mancini (after Eva Tanguay)

Punch lines in long stanzas
Verse don't care

One poem allegory
Verse don't care

To embrace discomfort
Duel sequent emotion
This is your life
Verse don't care

Sunday, April 20, 2014

Materialist Lyric Mode

The vital question is how to articulate the totalizing impulse of critique – which I’d argue is still as important as ever, in the face of capitalism’s own totalizing force – with a poiesis necessarily fixated on the smallest point of ingress to the materiality of everyday life, or to put it differently, the smallest unit of affect or event in its difference from a reified situation. Art small-a. I’d be willing to bet that a materialist lyric mode is the closest thing to an avant-garde we currently possess. It’s no longer very interesting to say: “Look, I’ve divested myself of my subjectivity, I’ve laid bare the mechanism through critical mimesis, I’ve taught the petrified social forms to dance by singing them their own song.” Better for artists to ask: “How can I make something that speaks to my experience in all its fucked-upness and seeming inevitability; how can I produce anything at all without immediately reproducing capital; what representational or anti-representational claims can I make with regard to my own place in the violent hierarchy of class society?” But this is a kind of lyric that opens onto epic to the extent it necessarily folds totalization back into subjectivity, or history into experience.

-Daniel Spaulding.

Tuesday, April 15, 2014

Queer Silence/Noise

Next AU reading includes Jonathan Katz's essay on John Cage's Queer Silence or How to Avoid Making Matters Worse - which raises questions about modes of resistance, and intersects with Robin James thinking about how we might resist being co-opted by the regime of neoliberalism.  

Robin James"The point is to make signals that, when co-opted, skew the balance and bend the circuit- sort of like retroviruses and malware. Critical delinquency generates noise that isn't noisy in the "right" ways (and thus might not even register as noise), queer noise that, when it gets co-opted, distorts the processes it is supposed to support."  

Cage via Katz: 
"Protest movements could quite easily, and despite themselves, lead in the opposite direction, to a reinforcement of law and order.... protest is all too often absorbed into the flow of power, because it limits itself to reaching for the same old mechanisms of power, which is the worst way to challenge authority!"  

"The goal is thus not to challenge power, but to escape it.... what makes noise a noise is precisely its freedom from an preordained conceptual or ideological system. Thus music permeates culture, and our culture permeates music; change one and you change the other."  

Katz's essay on Cage also suggests a tangent on Buddhism, which seems to lead toward Zizek's (somewhat controversial) critique of Buddhism. 

eg, Tim Morton"I am nauseated by [Zizek's] repetition of asinine Hegelianisms about buddhism.  [But] I generally admire and respect what Zizek has to say about anything. [And] I actually agree, from a certain point of view, with what he says about buddhism: for example, as an indictment of western New Age interpretations that are also intrinsic to certain eastern forms of buddhism.  I nevertheless completely disagree with the substance of his arguments which are based on a common Hegelian misunderstanding of the soteriological aims of  buddhism."

All of this is perhaps unrelated to Jody Rosen's spectacular essay on Eva Tanguay, the first rock star. Thinking of Attali's Noise, Tanguay is perhaps an example of music as a herald of social change. 

Saturday, April 12, 2014


Could use a cocktail of a more scientific american - one that is 
other-regarding, a friendly operative

Checked my boredom
Voiced each inch
Dreamt I was paid to watch
to self-police
to borrow & bar none
to break house & pots

Young robin throws itself
nose to glass into its own reflection
Tear down thy vanity
Is it right to use all tools
all schools to exploit
to tear down the master's house
to knock down
the precariat fight
to find oneself alone
frail subject bigger
beneath familiar map
Future ghost
salted with salutes
each insignia numb to stimuli
love & tenderness to trump
to impose names with kisses

It is exclamation’s high spot
the brandscape traversed
I learned to spell what’s past
to scream mismatch
to frame bloodflow
to weigh terms
the non-site exposed
or struck – her bite
a trajectory both black and blue
Consistently dead
on deep background
the function of neurons
simplistic addiction
libidinal engineer

Wednesday, April 9, 2014

Post-Ironic Spambot

"It's an unfortunate iron that walks stiffly over us, pressing our clothes. I miss the comforts of a baggy garment which covers everything while revealing very little."

-from a prefatory note on wax world

Perhaps the point is to embrace the irony that is all around us, ie, to get past it?

Saturday, March 15, 2014

Running With The Rabbits

No one claimed
Refusal to take
What’s monstrous to one
To sing the love of danger
to destroy museums
and sing of great crowds
Excited by work, by pleasure
by the utter fool
who does not want to serve as model

By thunderclap
Final proof for good citizens
New morality for moralists

for the libidinal front

Stoned to death
& with death
Carthage itself
and all Africa
soldier of fortune
with indelible cash

of our own repose
officer of monastic life
of equal arrogance and injustice
perfidious extremes
in the new language

Every vice
Faith at Egypt
Three and thirty strokes
King of treachery
Let us withdraw means
Burn our vessels
Exclaim distaff
Remarkable day and days
Disgraced in council and action

Let us doubt therefore
the face, the figures
the abandon
& remain
beat up by the event

Unable to suspend
I made myself into a sandwich
A new hypnotic Crusoe
went all sleeping beauty on me
sighing troubadour
by any other name

It’s all Kryptonite
I’m listening
to a mediocre
Sad sister of Zeus
downstairs from our hotel
No plural possessive
google-ganged up on me
No mother of higher order
Heterodox economy
all knocked up

Sunday, February 2, 2014

Walk In Dandy

Cross hairs of replenished
Stage the ache then
Ping me
Gender is not enough
Loyal to see who cares
To see who winds my ass
In your hand

The career befuddle

Please stop by
Cook me till I'm done
Gift me regards
Next week shall be the end
I prefer insults
Softball hits for
Competitive snitching
I did not recognize
Free market fish

We climbed the stairs
Past parentheses
Past Russian dolls
The long slope of my heel
Transparent pour
For liquid steed
We subsist on hors d'oeuvres
Crawling outside
Work on empty
For bait

Saturday, February 1, 2014

Text Spill

-for BK

Take my muttering
Take crenulation that bays between lips
Diction‎ that sat on a commode
Take Mr. Scallop in nuclear shade

Dorsal recriminations
Teething coasts‎ by
Fluttery brushstroke
Gale force estrangement
Ampersand of future
Lifelines and wave form

Pavement opens
To street talk
Rift of described use
The end of background checks
Test of acceleration
& our eradication
‎At Cheyenne Livestock
& Products Inc.