blame the dead

Memorable Stuff I Read This Week

Within the U.S. today, people are again moving because of disasters, and because of the slow-grind attrition of heat, flooding, and rising insurance rates. Earlier this year, the nonprofit Internal Displacement Monitoring Centre found that disasters had caused 11 million evacuations or relocations in the previous 12 months. These numbers will climb.

— Vann R. Newkirk II / “What Climate Change Will Do To America By Mid-Century” / The Atlantic


Not sure what’s more embarrassing, that at fourteen
I still lusted for stuffed animals or that mum’s target
at the claw machine was way better than mine.

Precise as threading a needle, she’d push the steel arm straight
into the heart of the stuffed pit, wait, sipping
Pepsi, hand on hip, sure as a cowboy.
Once, her single turn brought back not one but two animals.

— Preeti Vangani / “Astro Mischief”


The right to roam is an American tradition dating back to our nation’s origins, when ordinary folks had the right to walk through privately owned woods and fields, and along the coasts.

While this may seem like a vestige of our past, gone forever like the flocks of passenger pigeons whose migrations once darkened our skies, there is reason for hope. In several European countries this freedom has been reborn and is thriving, suggesting that it can be reborn here. 

— Ken Ilgunas /  This Land Is Our Land: How We Lost The Right to Roam and How to Take it Back


This is a brutal place.

We blame the dead for their dying.

We train our eyes to make their bodies grow to monstrous girth.

We say their blood is a necessary sacrifice.

Or worse, we forget their blood.

— Ashley M. Jones / “Conflict / War”


An analysis of DNA evidence from more than 15,000 ancient humans has revealed that human evolution has accelerated over the past 10,000 years. Researchers identified almost 500 gene variants that evolved through natural selection in ancient European and Middle-Eastern people after the dawn of agriculture. Many of those variants are linked to the resistance to diseases, such as tuberculosis. Accelerated evolution could reflect the intensification of lifestyle changes that started in the Neolithic period, such as new foods and pathogens, says population geneticist David Reich.

— Jacob Smith / “Human evolution sped up after farming” / Nature Brief


We didn’t have a telephone.

We didn’t have a radio.

We didn’t have a fridge.

We used to keep the bodies for three days because that’s how long it took for the messenger to alert the relatives, by foot.

They put the dead bodies by the side of the river.

— Bhanu Kapil / “Diptych”


In the next 30 years, climate disruptions won’t make whole states unlivable, and demographic shifts might not reach full exodus levels. But in America, small change is often deeply felt, and bit by bit, the American economy and culture will likely be transformed by climate attrition and the redistribution of people. Southern states will lose residents and dynamism. Bad weather and ruined infrastructure will sap productivity and leave behind thousands of acres of abandoned farmland after crop failures. 

— Vann R. Newkirk II / “What Climate Change Will Do To America By Mid-Century” / The Atlantic

What I’m Listening To:

Now who the hell are these federal pricks?
Hiding in the senate like a bloated ass tick
Air-conditioned fuckstick loafers
Sittin’ in a room full of army posters

A coal to a diamond, a vote into law
They campaign up all the blood they can draw
Mold your world, a soldier’s just clay
How much does every soldier weigh?
Cut you at the ankles, and they throw that ass away

Boots on the ground

— Massive Attack & Tom Waits / “Boots on the Ground”

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felt pounds lighter

i’m not hungry

something changed within the wound . . . next, i was in a hall of whirling cylinders . . . from ooze to steady flow . . . a damned infection set in . . . the vicodin didn’t hurt, and it soon kicked in . . . late fly fragile sparkle theory ripe different voracious air chubby saudade . . . use my leatherman on the weatherman irrigate him quickly . . . i’m not a surgeon . . . sid vicious was the nurse and gibby haynes was on the anesthesia mask . . . my jaw locked . . . the slits were the surgical team . . . this was going to hurt — a lot . . . dolorous incantations from the raincoats as my nerves were severed . . . the biohazard bag was soon full of useless viscera . . . i felt pounds lighter . . . is a cold shower safe after the abscesses are spread on sourdough . . . i was completely exhausted then, half the person i’d been . . . i walked into the fog-socked tundra . . . 

What I’m Reading:

. . . the labyrinths you build for yourself have no exit . . . 

— Fernanda Trías / Pink Slime

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hair and festooned

Primitive Trails From This Point (redux)

Panda cycling and recycling, panda-demics, and panda demotics. Find yourself in the world of widespread fraud and plate tectonics in response to politic-tonics — those gestures and flourishes that are not of this society, of this culture, right? Write!

Go on and write so much so that you can pare down and shape it into something resembling cohesion — that will catch a sovereign ear rather than the father of the mishmash masterclass, of the pell mell muttering, and thee argy-bargy desultory twister.

Meaning is at once nonsense and resoundingly salient only to itself, its maker, and to ladies who lunch coiffed in Viking hair and festooned with scratchcard lanyards. Heep hoop!

Pick up the dry cleaning.

What I’m Reading:

In truth,
I haven’t tasted coffee
For twenty‑nine days.
I haven’t written.
For twenty days I waited,
Thinking it might be enough
To call your name
And weep for you.

— Marah Muhammad Al-Khatib / “Twenty Days”

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in this (my) neighborhood pt. 129 (thee bikepack shakedown day 2 with letters missing edition)

What I’m Reading:

Alas, very soon everything will disappear:
the birdcalls, the delicate blossoms. In the end,
even the earth itself will follow the artist’s name into oblivion.

— Louise Glück / “Primavera”

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in this (my) neighborhood pt. 128 (thee shakedown bikepack and campout with spasmodic moon edition)

What I’m Reading:

This interior thing, miniscule.
From the blackness of the blind viscera,
hot and yellow, the miniscule speck,
the luminous grain.
Yellow spreads and smooths, a downpour
of the pure light of its name,
tropicordial.

— Adélia Prado / “Priase for a Color”

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not my thoughts

Sangfroid I-IV (redux)

i.  The Ashen Landscape

“He’s got what?  Days left?  I don’t want to be there when he dies.”

“Sangfroid.”

“I’m cold-blooded?”

“You didn’t wish to come back to the village — to the sea?”

“I see… a Rothko — canted, a lost apocryphal work — an ashen landscape in three gradations.  My father tore out its center and revealed there’s no heart to the universe, only a corrugated armature — frozen, encased — as if the sky were stapled to the sea with liminal ice.”

“You see wasteland?”

“I see ghosts.  I was eleven.  My father placed the gun to his temple — then mine.  He abandoned me here.”

ii.  A Song for the Plague Year

I find my father supine on the bathroom floor, limned by a bloody halo — a pinpoint hole in his left temple.  Gorgeous.

The floor seethes and the ceiling lowers its claim upon me.  I’m extruded out of the bathtub spigot.  Suffering.  Wait.  Wait.  Suffering.  I’m in the heart of darkness.  I’m in the heart of the work now.  Shiver.  Fertile.  Gorgeous.

iii.  Molecular Organic Nano-machines

I’m at the morphine station.

I’m a soft machine inside a hard silicone husk.  I’m a warped machine rattling out flickering images: images of a gun.

I’m a soft machine in a hard exoskeleton — silicone dark inside — silicone smooth and white outside.  My memories play back on the cryoscreen. Here memories are particulate existences transformed into nano-globules (n-g.’s) that are secreted from the ferrules at the end of your iPuffer: smoky, hormonal, and projected inside and beyond your eyes.

“Please cue n-g. 173-A: the day I met my father at CBGB’s; and frame n-g. 173-B: the moment that punk rock saved my life.  Please add the blue 17 gelatin filter.”

A puff from the ferrule and the images resolve, but this memory is faulty.  The memory warps and echoes: a radiator squeals, brass electrodes buzz, my father is blood-crusted, ignored in a dusty corner, covered with mites escaping the evil heat.  Batista’s henchmen torture another… no, stop, this is not my memory but the anecdote he told me that night…

“This is not the n.g. I requested. STOP.  STOP.  Press the eject…”

Blood, on the tip of my tongue.  Where is it coming from?  Then a bestial din: the sound of a million cicadas’ lament before the seventeen year death — a rupture tectonically within me.  The smell of hissing green plantains dropped into overheated oil — the splattering: tinny, spastic —  and then the loss of control.

iv.  missing  STOP

im not who i was once was   STOP   aposiopesis   STOP   STOP   im a perfectionist   im obedient    get away from here    get away from that gun   STOP   STOP   STOP   dr x said im not my thoughts    im not my feelings   dont relive it    dont rehash it   and if it finds you   then embrace it    embrace the thoughts    embrace the feelings    be one with it and then release it     youre not your memories    youre not your feelings   be one with the thoughts   be one with the feelings   and then release them   STOP   

punk rock changed my life    no punk rock saved my life    the songs of the minutemen   no not that memory   STOP  STOP   dont touch him there   dont touch me stop it   put down that gun   38 snubnose    it weighs a ton    STOP   STOP   STOP    embrace this memory   embrace this emotion   im not my memories   not my emotions   STOP   aposiopesis   apoplexies   apophatic   and aphasic   STOP   STOP    dr x said    whatever happens   its ok    whatever happens is ok   im ok    whatever happens    im not my thoughts    im not my feelings   youre doing the best that you can   im doing the best that i can   STOP   STOP   STOP

What I’m Reading:

The night has grown martial;
It meets us with blows and disaster.
Even the stars have turned shrapnel,
Fixed in silent explosions.

— Louis Untermeyer / “End of the Comedy”

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skins legs removed

Excerpts from My Inbox (redux)

A serious mistake was made giving less than 24 hours-notice … We have a cat and a charming baby … I would describe it as a dark comedy I suppose … Creamy white leather sofa–like new condition … Joy’s daughter recommends the latest influencers … I am pretty nervous because my dumplings were undercooked … Are there a few people who have been biking and feel ready to take the next step—a roughly 40-mile bike trip? … I have to go through and use the skins … Legs removed for easy transport $75 … She’s going to be renting out a giant banquet hall … I am directing a 10 minute play … Brief rain shower in 7 minutes … The quarterly fire alarm and sprinkler testing will be conducted tomorrow morning … I spent the next year freaking out everyday … If you have a shopping cart in your possession, please return it as soon as possible.

What I’m Reading:

The fog comes in, flatter
than ever. The air, apparently

is blue somewhere, not here.
Flat and linear.

— Tom Clark / “Water”

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being fatally corrupted

Memorable Stuff I Read This Week

The United States is being murdered, and it’s an inside job. Every department, every branch, every bureau and function of the federal government is being fatally corrupted or altogether dismantled or disabled. All this is common knowledge, but because it dribbles out in news stories about this specific incident or department, the reports never adequately describe an administration sabotaging the functioning of the federal government and also trashing the global economy, international alliances and relationships, and the national and global environment in ways that will have downstream consequences for decades and perhaps, especially when it comes to climate, centuries.

— Rebecca Solnit / “The United States is destroying itself” / The Guardian


My tongue is a foreign traveler
Living in my mouth
Without invitation
An unfamiliar kindred.

— Raffi Joe Wartanian / “Tongue”


The critical Atlantic current system appears significantly more likely to collapse than previously thought after new research found that climate models predicting the biggest slowdown are the most realistic. Scientists called the new finding “very concerning” as a collapse would have catastrophic consequences for Europe, Africa and the Americas.

The Atlantic meridional overturning circulation (Amoc) is a major part of the global climate system and was already known to be at its weakest for 1,600 years as a result of the climate crisis. Scientists spotted warning signs of a tipping point in 2021 and know that the Amoc has collapsed in the Earth’s past.

— Damian Carringron / “Critical Atlantic current significantly more likely to collapse than thought” / The Guardian


they didn’t have a cure for all my pain ,
said the reference track , but
now I’m saying it
I’m saying what I’m living without judgment
I’m full of it
rage , blotted out by the sun of media
real devastation

— Benjamin Krusling / “pray for paris”


Sluggish enough and slow to anger on ordinary occasions, McTeague when finally aroused became another man. His rage was a kind of obsession, an evil mania, the drunkenness of passion, the exalted and perverted fury of the Berserker, blind and deaf, a thing insensate.

— Frank Norris / McTeague


. . . No one can
explain how to love the world. It doesn’t happen all at once. But
you can start here. Tonight, with yourself. Someone near you. Let it go
zigzagging town to town. Look, there. It’s already coming back around.

— Arielle Herbert / “Our Book of Delights”


Renewable energy sources are the best way to stymie the rising costs of fossil fuels driven by conflicts such as the ongoing war in Iran, argues climate economist Gernot Wagner. Abandoning fossil fuels could cause temporary ‘greenflation’ — price hikes for tech such as solar panels in the face of increased demand — but the solution is to accelerate the transition away from fossil fuels by producing more low-carbon technologies, Wagner writes. “Shifting to technologies that can only get cheaper and better over time is an investment in geopolitical and price stability.”

— Flora Graham / “More fossil fuels won’t fix the energy crisis” / Nature Briefing

What I’m Listening To:

How is our glorious country ploughed?
Not by iron ploughs
Our land is ploughed by tanks and feet
Feet marching
Our land is ploughed by tanks and feet
Feet marching

— PJ Harvey / “The Glorious Land”

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full of strangeness

One Raw Manifold (redux)

This isn’t your house. You don’t belong here. You can’t come in here anytime you want and go in that room. The Muscovy duck eggs have failed to hatch — a marten’s been at them and taken some whole. My precious ducks: I feed them and chase them away as the whim overtakes me. My storks — not to return through the hole in my roof. My squirrels, running along the base of the house, imbibing their 32 grams of protein in their muscle milk. All is one raw manifold coming at me without pause, without distinction. I could have been in the shower when the ceiling collapsed. I couldn’t go to the funeral as it conflated with the unveiling. My daughter-in-law is my son; my son is my daughter; my daughter: the executioner. The executioner absconded with my ducks. Life is a proto-groats quorum forum. Life is full of strangeness and parthenogenesis.

What I’m Reading:

The more information the chatbots provided, the more persuasive they were. But they were also more likely to produce false statements, which can make AI into “a very dangerous thing”…

— Flora Graham / “Chatbots can sway voters with ease” / Nature Brief

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if you’re counted

Quit

Dozens of artificial moles designed to ferret out your true intentions — your riverbed of stubbornness. 

Residencies found that many such moles used one of two operations in accordance to discordant heartbeats — that which lies at your moribund center.

Daybreak comes in breathless spasms on the  off-chance that you might have an empathic bone in your feculent body. At least two of these moles are hairless and feckless. That bodes poorly for you.

There comes a caterwauling survivor choking on your cutwater half-crowns. This year’s going to be the year you smack into the approachability windshield — spew your useless contents in a cul-de-sac.

You are a backside heathen brewing a living on a barren, windswept wasteland. 

I quit the human race, if you’re counted among us.

What I’m Reading:

Is there a wife for a viking?
A pair of socks in a poem?
Beetles and sticks in a box? Bright
bait. Bright bait. You notice what has
gone into the picture. Bite it.

— R.F. Langley / “Cook Ting”

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