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Collaboration with my friend Pidge (*)
from TLTL Collective
Soaked, drained, on a glossy bench in Mississippi—
Congratulations, Sonic Child of the Western World*
Brown tweed blanket, four packets
of tea, and a loose 20 dollar bill
Waiting for the next bus
to take you out of this place, to the next place*
Breathing in the smell of engines, oil,
the dusty smell of damp exhaust—
Scanning the distance, the rain clouds trail
the arriving bus*
All seems to be held together by a single thread;
All seems to be Damocles’ sword dangling overhead*
Personified by the receding metallic roars of trucks,
the long webbed grass at the edge of the highway
the slick wet tar like a sickly brown lake—
A clandestine calling to the exact beings
The insurmountable void presses against my back,
as I rise- soaked, drained- from a glossy bench in Mississippi*
Portrait of Uncle Creeley
Maoist, Notorious Peanut Brittle Enthusiast
WORDS WHICH CAN BE ASSOCIATED WITH OTHER WORDS:
A COLLABORATIVE PROJECT
I recently asked the anonymous (with a minority of not-so-anonymous) population of Tumblr to send me words or phrases, which I would associate freely with other words or phrases. Here is the documentation of this process.
Sycamore dreams a reasonable myth
To sing & to redress in survived & see
A first draft ten & even the last one
One is still not happy with perhaps years arrested
True to the idea of the content
After a hundred years ghastly peppered
The Collective Way whims & short term
Advances who owns the dawn & opens it up
Who is missing & demanding popular support
chiming quietly & giving a little cough
Reproach! the odour of profiles & squalor & more
Who attends sleepless with increasing penalties
Sitting & weeping forbidden too late for tears
A thousand drafts & drags for emotional argumentation
Stuffed the law with black & sublime complexion
The slob reprimanding the dirty dishes
On Mars* or Saturn one buzzes in business a Jewelled night
A sorrow one knows belonging to flat surfaces
Lumbering back springing onto four other people
The work complete advanced upon feet up & crying
A composition of excerpts from texts in my To-Read Bookmarks folder:
This kind of answers two questions I have here, concerning “What happens in a simulated world where we have freedom from radical uncertainty, is there still a need for questions? After the orgy do we still need to ask questions? What kind of questions would these be?” You say that the content is not important, but the form can help you, you use the form of questioning.
Second, they must cultivate, rather than repress, their dissatisfaction with the status quo. What’s needed is a little righteous indignation. Why, for example, should it take the blunt instrument of a performance crisis to bring about change? Why should organizations be so much better at operating than they are at innovating? Why should so many people work in uninspiring companies? Why should the first impulse of managers be to avoid the responsibilities of citizenship rather than to embrace them? Surely we can do better.
Read it like someone trying to sound like you. Read it like your parents would. Read it like how you’ll sound in forty years. What parts of it will go missing when you’re old, when you’re your parents, when you can only any longer imitate yourself?
To enter a wholly different realm, empathy characterizes certain sadists. Discerning the most refined degrees of discomfort and pain in another person is the fulcrum of the sadist’s pleasure. The empathetic gift can lead to generosity, charity, and self-sacrifice. It can also enable someone to manipulate another person with great subtlety and finesse.
I think most artists who, as the saying goes now, “push the envelope” wind up as casualties. If you think about the history of writers and artists, the best often don’t end up with pleasant, comfortable lives; sometimes they go over the edge and lose it. I’ve been close to enough casualties to learn how to avoid that pitfall. Some critics like to argue that some of the Beats had a death wish. Cassady certainly didn’t have a death wish. He had a more-than-life wish, an eternity wish. He was trying to recapture, as Burroughs says, the realities he had lost. He was storming the reality studio and trying to take the projector from the controllers who had been running it. When that happens you are bound to have some casualties.
Nonetheless, Kant concluded that, although progress cannot be proven, we can discern signs that indicate progress is possible. Kant interpreted the French Revolution as a sign that pointed toward the possibility of freedom: The hitherto unthinkable happened, a whole people fearlessly asserted their freedom and equality. For Kant, even more important than the — often bloody — reality of what went on in the streets of Paris was the enthusiasm that those events engendered in sympathetic observers all around Europe:
The same thing happens in war: certain lives are deemed worthy of being protected, while others are considered expendable, of negligible importance, radically dispensable. One could say that all my work revolves around this question: what is it that counts as a life? And in what way do certain restrictive norms of gender decide for us? What kind of life is worth protecting and what kind of life is not?
3 Thus it came about that, in after life, at entertainments of a so‑called liberal and polite nature, he was forced to defend himself rather rudely, saying that p7tuning the lyre and handling the harp were no accomplishments of his, but rather taking in hand a city that was small and inglorious and making it glorious and great. And yet Stesimbrotus says that Themistocles was a pupil of Anaxagoras, and a disciple of Melissus the physicist; but he is careless in his chronology. It was Pericles, a much younger man than Themistocles, whom Melissus opposed at the siege of Samos,3 and with whom Anaxagoras was intimate.
What was striking, however, was that the siblings of patients with autism and the first-degree relatives of patients with schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, and anorexia nervosa were significantly overrepresented in creative professions. Could it be that the relatives inherited a watered-down version of the mental illness conducive to creativity while avoiding the aspects that are debilitating?
One step towards unifying these struggles is to adopt the right to the city as both working slogan and political ideal, precisely because it focuses on the question of who commands the necessary connection between urbanization and surplus production and use. The democratization of that right, and the construction of a broad social movement to enforce its will is imperative if the dispossessed are to take back the control which they have for so long been denied, and if they are to institute new modes of urbanization. Lefebvre was right to insist that the revolution has to be urban, in the broadest sense of that term, or nothing at all.
In order of appearance:
One part reason.
One part anaemic winter.
An almost-December, night-sweats,
playing a game of who-can-hold-their-breath-the-longest.
Outbound patient, dreaming in tactile,
enclosed- I am where you’ve left me.
The sexy aluminium of leftovers, pork chops
and broken ink cartridges, cigarette butts in teacups,
the as-seen-on-TV gadgets, the pissing of wet snow.
A common theme of calm recitals:
being, non-being, authentic, unattainable, singularity.
Ask me what it all means, I’ll tell you it’s Sunday-
everyday- not at all navigable, yet pleasant, somehow.
Get the record straight: no one is off the hook.
Undress, churning of stomachs, not wishing it had happened
whatever he does
covers the roofs
all the houses
problem of commitment
peace reigns here
glum and ugly area
Hundreds of Americans
“men without women”
sleeping on benches
a few dollars
where there is space
mattresses squeezed between walls
Detroit in 1968
the fate of romantics
flophouse above Banja Luca
bar like the others
nothing to sell
sixty and eighty
arsenal and press clippings
nickel to eat hamburgers
Bergman’s Hour of the Wolf
joyfully lunches at noon
drinking whisky in feathers
black faux velvet
hits of the 90’s
jars of pennies
ease of November
three hundred years of fading
Maggie and her crucifix
several bar stools
chicken pot pie
forth and crooned
parcels of Forsyth
and so i got ready for work in the tim horton’s bathroom
for example “this” — backwards — so much history and the way that that sociological language language that
juxtapositions write about your dread do not eat donuts sleep forever drive off a cliff write your ideas down be prosaic kill yourself already
maoist china and stalinist russia to get a sense of one sort of dictatorship
as in the vulgarity of just waking up
superplatonic breast massage and coffee date to talk about post-modernism and anarcho-syndicalism
it’s a funny thing, sometimes i just wanna eat mashed potatoes in my bedroom
my mind is a gramophone and there’s a record of the warbly old voice of a southern women saying over and over, “don’t touch that dial. don’t touch that dial. don’t touch that dial. don’t touch that dial. don’t touch that dial. don’t touch that dial.”
all poems begin on a rainy day, baking powder,
Tide Pods with 3X the Stain Removing Power
fresh mint from the garden, a magnetic storm, the
hinge of history, geranium glow plumed, purposeful
Devonshire Mall, bizarre and effective peoples coming-
and-going, looking vaguely at something in the sky
started on the 900 block of Hall, hardly affectionate, creep-
ing across like dampness, a shower of Stygian velvet
pesky timing, darting under the pine trees, the
itch of residential trimmings, discarded, desire only
to be the least boring of them all, but the least wet,
and yet all that is to be noted between tornadoes
and thunder duelling like pistols, Ravens cawing
under the fudge clouds, taciturn and spirited
turret there, an aqua puckered into algolagnic dark,
stay hidden, watching blonde highways creep
into mysteries of fog, something green, the mulch
underfoot, the whole of parts invoking an echo
we see now that the old Oak tree matters, in earnest
we thought we had time, Rome crumbling, disingenuous
the taking up of spaces in the city, in most places
forgoing minimalism, always something to fall on
gasping as in chances on us, intrigued, inviting more,
Baroque-styled moment, the fog and green gone
happens slowly, the first break, the snap of it
echoing, the sky brewing and everything like coffee
religious in a sense, watching it becoming unsnarled,
a giant looming over, a wide, royal meandering
and finally the reflection in the hubcap, jaundiced,
lines near the eyes, celluloid at the chin, all clear,
for a moment and then nothing