nopassionproject:

'Writhe' by Sean Fox




I have that dream again I dream again
of dreaming about being tired again I
have that dream again I dream again
about being I dream I tired again I was
dreaming about being tired I was tired
again I was dreaming I was tired of
dreaming I had that tired again I had that
about being I was tired again I dreamed
I dream again I dreamed I was dreaming




Othello




A Little Dark Shovelling 




Machete. A poem about Daisies. 


innersalts:

GUILT BY ASSOCIATION or
Words Which Can Be Associated with Other Words:
A HEADACHE /// AN ANONYMOUS-COLLABORATION PROJECT

CLICK TITLE FOR FULL PROJECT 




GUILT BY ASSOCIATION or
Words Which Can Be Associated with Other Words:
A HEADACHE /// AN ANONYMOUS-COLLABORATION PROJECT

CLICK PHOTO OR TITLE FOR FULL PROJECT 




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. 

If you would like to collaborate and help continue this project, please send me anonymous words or phrases here


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:

Jean Baudrillard: “Between Difference and Singularity: An Open Discussion with Jean Baudrillard” June 2002, European Graduate School, EGS, Saas-Fee, Switzerland

We don’t need a rethinking of management. We need a reworking of work. — GigaOM Pro

How to Read a Poem Aloud by Donald Dunbar | Sound Literary Magazine

Paris Review - The Art of Fiction No. 136, Ken Kesey

Slavoj Zizek - Why Cynics Are Wrong

Judith Butler - Gender is Extramoral

Plutarch • Life of Themistocles

The Real Link Between Creativity and Mental Illness | Beautiful Minds, Scientific American Blog Network

New Left Review - David Harvey: The Right to the City


Portrait of Brown’s

jabocorp:

ankle deep
the Occupation
whatever he does
covers the roofs
all the houses
problem of commitment
sirens
peace reigns here
conscious tourist
produces tedium
the Prado
Renoir
the geometry
baloney sandwiches
glum and ugly area
Hundreds of Americans
Turkish bath
timidly gesture
“men without women”
sleeping on benches
outcasts
dusty windows
a few dollars
where there is space
mattresses squeezed between walls
Detroit in 1968 
the fate of romantics
flophouse above Banja Luca
swarming
butcher shop
soliciting
once celebrated
until recently
bar like the others
nothing to sell
fishnet stockings
sixty and eighty
Beefeater
arsenal and press clippings
advertisements
cheap beer
cabaret
nickel to eat hamburgers
silent films
Bergman’s Hour of the Wolf
joyfully lunches at noon
drinking whisky in feathers
the game
middle-class park
hop along
equivocal applause
the Other
applause
black faux velvet
hits of the 90’s
hard looks
bulging denim
water marks
jars of pennies
ease of November
three hundred years of fading
Maggie and her crucifix
silent auctions
white eye
several bar stools
shot glass
chicken pot pie
forth and crooned
parcels of Forsyth
southern comfort


notes/takeaway moments from november, 2012

jabocorp:

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.”


Noche Triste

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


Variations on Saturday, FRANK O’HARA

1
As the polka from Schwanda
carols over the coffee-making
where’s the coffee 
                             it’s out
waiting there
                    adding a little
will arrest all of the whites 
and kill some of them
                                 but
de Gaulle walks through 
the hostile crowd 
                          armed
bandits read Nine Magazine 
you will wait a long time 
I tell you 
              there’s no coffee 

2
Up at the gate we waited too 
and the tree with its root 
in the river 
                 we climbed up
the steep side to the waterfall 
feeling kissy in the cold
forest 
         when I pull you away
from the tree to me 
                              it’s not 
just to get up the cliff
and rejoin the others that’s 
a sailor’s grasp       fingernails
your lips are so different 
from your palms  

3
                              Swan Lake ca-
scading water plunging through 
the bank        where there’s a heart
there’s money        accepting walls 
accepting bed and a pet giraffe
when you’re not here I pet
the giraffe it’s like sitting under
a waterfall giggling        the divine Schumann 
as Benois said 
                       or did he say Diaghilev
liked Schumann      what a wide 
street to have so many children 
what a day to be born Florestan-tree 

4
In Joe’s deli the old lady
greets me Sonny    the man with 
the rolls is my son, Sonny, how
are you today in the could out? fine 
and coffee too and Camels 
                                          well 
a saucepan smells of eggs soft sour
Tanya         the Barone Gallery 
tomorrow                           the light broke 
before I even got out of bed 
and then it got put together again 
you discard your jacket 
                                     and go 
sweatered into the afternoon
wait for me
 
                I’m staying with you
fuck Canada

5
In a crevice in the rocks
there’s a little tree we noticed 
I guess it was like us
                                the icy
water takes it and it topples 
racing over the rocks towards the 
fall                          and we raced
with it       how excitement
engenders sex how can we be so alike
and still love each other?
                                        wait
till the Liebeslieder Walzer are all 
over
        and we’ll have to regret too 
to hold us and cheer us

6
I went to the same strange passport
office 
         to get to the woods the wet
not everyone gets one
                                    you were
sitting on an American Regency sofa
eating apples 
                      you tasted wonderful
it was snowing         tomorrow 
I will take all this green 
                                    and put it 
around your shoulders like a cave