let be be finale of seem…

It’s all about noise. About the back and forth of improvisational counterpoint — an F flat ostinato call here, an arpeggio of the B scale in response there…  like the scale of wildfires and flash flood cycles in call and response in a dozen places across the world… it doesn’t seem to end. Ash, dirt, and water transmogrified into an inexorable mud-wall swallowing all in its path… ten feet tall and half mile wide… There is no hope of escape in his mind. It’ll be his turn eventually… The skronk squalls out of his alto saxophone demand this much… But he can’t go on, even though the drummer beats an exquisite syncopation, and the bassist picks something near the upper bout so yawling and transcendent that he considers not walking away forever. But it’s not enough. The last note he ever blows is a C major. In C, he thinks, I’ve heard that before. He drops the sax as ceremoniously as thee final mic-drop, and bares his teeth — more grimace than smile — to the two dozen assembled in the dark. He beats it for the nearest bridge of fatal height. This is thee finale of seem.

What I’m Reading:

High up in unit 7763, each night slid in like an oil spill, filling the hours with sludge and shine until it seeped into another day.

— Susanna Kwan / Awake in the Floating City

A Day Gray February

Dark thought on a gray day —
gray in every gradation:

18% gray card gray
the ideal photographic gray

of wet city streets
& shards of east river gray

the cold of gainsboro
gray rain

dead-eye gray
pale ash gray —

the fortune teller cried last night
& auguries of apocalypse

revealed themselves
in halftone grayscale.

What I’m Reading:

At the top of these ridges is a view more beautiful and terrifying than one might imagine; the world is without color. The white horizon meets the sky, and where one changes to the other there is no visible seam.

— Ethan Rutherford / North Sun or The Voyage of the Whaleship Esther

Dendritic Bolus Blues (Dream at 3:38 am)

Instead of changing my shirt I changed my mind and requested a reverse baptism. Get the father son and the Laszlo Moholy Ghost outta’ my body. Get ‘em all outta’ my soul. Forthwith.

Can’t look back, won’t look back. Ozymandius Motors for all your autonomic pleas. Automatism at 350 horsepower ////// Wayside shangri-las and all the disjecta ejected in your superego moods during our President’s Day Sale!

You get rid of meaning by getting rid of meaning. 

Start with Rasputin and work your way out from there. The peach cream turns bitter so allow me to lie down under your steamroller. Play me “Steamroller Blues” through your tinny transistor speaker and do your worst. Go.

Docket your trash—use pincers and gloves. Keep me at arm’s distance for I’ve seen a handkerchief of clouds (tzara-cumuli).

Keep me at a distance—I’ve heard a talking •Hugo Ball• head singing:

gadji beri bimba … tuffum I zimbra.

What I’m Reading:

Get rid of meaning. Your mind is a nightmare that has been eating you: now eat your mind.

— Kathy Acker / Empire of the Senseless

our time is up

this belongs to my dead aunt fedora, she says, channeling her from beyond the green

a guest of the foredecks couldn’t salvage her nonchalance from a platoon of ambient debris

let’s call her dorothy march, let’s not, better not bother with her at all

we’re looking for an innkeepers wife who walks upon the mizzenmast with bells about her cankles in the blinding fog

or we’re not looking for anything at all, actually, just passing time until our time is up

we thought we’d alight on this page but now we sense our mistake

who would land here and stay here willingly — for its full of queer brocades

two possibilities from this point on:

1. mid-fifties housewives
2. continuum canoe conundrums

these aren’t really logical choices
who needs to be ruled by logic anyway?

What I’m Reading:

Even before the twenty-four-hour news cycle, Twitter storms, algorithmic trading, spreadsheets, the DDoS attack, Americans were getting “spread” in their daily lives; meanwhile, their politicians went on speaking slowly, slowly about values utterly disconnected from their policies.

— Ben Lerner / The Topeka School

Memorable Stuff I Read This Week

There were not one but two American revolutions at the end of the eighteenth century: the struggle for independence from Britain, and the struggle to end slavery. Only one was won.

— Jill Lepore / These Truths: A History of the United States

Cats don’t quit after one yowl, and neither should you. Keep speaking up, keep demanding what’s right, and don’t let anyone convince you that you’re asking for too much.

You’re not.

Whether it’s food, fairness, or freedom, you have every right to demand it—preferably in a tone that makes it clear you won’t be ignored.

Fascists, for all their posturing, are hilariously bad at handling assertiveness. They think they’re the ones in charge, but the moment someone yowls back at them, they’re completely thrown off their game.

— Stewart Reynolds / Lessons from Cats for Surviving Fascism

The snake never shuts its eyes.
The mouse sits tight.

— Mary Oliver / “Evening Star”

“Amazon is owned by Jeff Bezos, a billionaire backer of the president,” he wrote. “The president’s international policies and his support of ICE make it impossible for me to ignore his actions. If you feel as I do, I strongly recommend that you do not use Amazon. There are many ways to avoid Amazon and support individual Americans and American companies that supply the same products. I have done that with my music and people who are looking can find it in a lot of other places.”

— Andy Greene / “Neil Young Trashes Amazon, Gives His Complete Musical Catalog to Greenland for Free” / Rolling Stone

It’s all about sex and territory,
which are what will finish us off
in the long run.

— Margaret Atwood / “February”

. . . the global average temperature over the past three years has surpassed 1.5 ℃ above pre-industrial levels — an increase that nations pledged in the 2015 Paris Agreement to prevent. It is “hard to describe just how serious the risks to humanity are, as we rapidly take ourselves out of the climate our entire agriculturally based civilisation is based on,” says atmospheric scientist John Marsham.

— Jacob Smith / “ 2025 shows Earth is getting hotter, faster” / Nature Briefing

I now understand that
hope cannot be bought;
it is passed around,
like cutlery. Hope is not
abstract. It is solid, and
unbearable. It wounds.

— Billy-Ray Belcourt / “Childhood Triptych”

What I’m Listening To:

I’m stuck in my old shoes waiting
For that finger feelin’
Come on over me

— Ty Segall / “Squealer”

of dejection

teeth bared like a hounded fox
beneath the matted fur
the soft center of his core

line of struts drawn back
the fall of manchego reducible
to jacket-ore and earl crust

snot runnin into his philtrum
like stalactites stretching optimism
he is the soft heart of dejection

he looks the morass in the morass
he is the morass

What I’m Reading:

But there are no grown-ups, that’s what you must grow up to know fully; your parents were just two more bodies experiencing landscape and weather, trying to make sense by vibrating columns of air, redescribing contingency as necessity with religion or World Ice Theory or the Jewish science, cutting profound truths with their opposites as the regimes of meaning collapse into the spread.

— Ben Lerner / The Topeka School

The Point (redux)

Clodomira’s legs are whirring pistons.  She’s up over 100 revolutions per minute on her bike.  The countryside streaks by her and in these few seconds there is no revolutionary struggle, no ultimate leader, no great leap forward.  

The fervor of the People dissipates and all is still.  She is frozen in the moment, and the moment frozen all around her.  The landscape a stilled blur of streaks.  In this instant all of existence becomes the object of her consciousness.  

Life in this infinitesimal moment is bearable — worth the battle toward transcendence.  

A flash and the moment is gone.  

The bicycle, a humble 1956 Rabasa, feeling greatly misused upon resuming at that diabolic speed rebels, and disengages its chain breaking into a dizzy wobble.  They jackknife.  

Clodomira is thrown into the sugar cane detritus — the edge of the field heaped with the sharp husks of post-Marxist labor.  Now in mid-air she pictures herself as the radiant spear point of the vanguard, but as she hits the ground a shard of cane husk pierces her abdomen.  

Clodomira rises to a sitting position.  Our Lady of Charity hovers in the distance in an alcove of roiling cumulonimbus.  All manner of birds and land animals are swept into the funnel and disappear.  

Clodomira seethes.  Oh, to be swept into that vestal vortex.  Then she feels her father’s leaden hand on her shoulder, his grip tightening and constricting the blood flow to her head.  Then his other hand under her shirt and rubbing her belly.  

She is earthbound.

What I’m Reading:

The past was rushing into my veins.
I wished nothing on the past.

I answered questions of the dead.
I am capable of terror.

— Romeo Oriogun / “Wishbone”

thigh of translation

fearful old fronts and the vain
seersuckers of the path

Thee Thigh of Translation
calls upon you to wander and crawl

through hoods and butterflies —
prophecy and foreboding reveal

themselves as fata morgana shimmering
on the arid horizon line canted

unto temptation and the diptych
lined sky

What I’m Reading:

Risks of extinction, such as the kind of event that led to the fifth extinction some 66 million years ago (known as exogenous risks), are probabilistically inevitable; we are not responsible for them. In contrast, we would be responsible for the risks of extinction that would be avoided if only we were to change our behavior. That is why extinction risks that our actions give rise to have greater moral gravity than those over which we have no control.

— Partha Dasgupta / “The Repugnance of Human Extinction: Why Our Survival Matters” / lithub.com

singed 

my memories are singed at the edges
like fragments of photographs that survived the fire

my father’s hand a ghostly apparition at one corner
my mother’s bouffant floats headless in a curlicue

the photosensitive surfaces peeling from their backing
the delaminations delimiting our bodies

here my five year old torso in yellow turtleneck
mirrors my father’s stance in thee identical shirt

our bodies extraneous in the cinders
our remainders transformed to ash

What I’m Reading:

What I don’t know
about my childhood
doesn’t destroy me.
The self emerges in
the absence of better
information.

— Billy-Ray Belcourt / “Childhood Triptych”

tangle

shallow accidents folly —
you evoke that old eggshell expressionism
imaginary warpaint
on the first indream ashtray —
phlegmy black and carbuncular

there follows a montage of young sombreros
and the play of wasteland hellscape japes
we live hostage — unmoored — upon this drift
quit before you hit your stride twenty-four knuckle
homonculus aping president gas derangement

fitness passing as finesse
your fellowship hairs tangle

What I’m Reading:

Hug me, mother of noise. 
Find me a hiding place.
I am afraid of my voice.
I do not like my face.

— Anne Stevenson / “Television”