twelve million years

The Best Stuff I Read This Week

“Unique among technologies so far in human history, AI has the potential to make decisions for itself. Though this may invoke Terminator-style nightmares, autonomy isn’t necessarily bad: autonomous cars are likely to be much safer than ones driven by humans. But what happens when autonomy and hyper-evolution combine? When AI starts to refine itself and head off in new directions on its own? It doesn’t take much imagination to be concerned about that – and yet Suleyman believes the dangers are too often dismissed with the wave of a hand, particularly among the tech elite – a habit he calls pessimism aversion.”

— David Shariatmadari / “‘I hope I’m wrong’: the co-founder of DeepMind on how AI threatens to reshape life as we know it” / The Guardian


“Those smiling faces one saw at lynchings a hundred years ago are back among us and are still smiling.”

— Charles Simic / The Monster Loves His Labyrinth


“King indeed had a dream. But it was not the American dream. King’s dream was rooted in the American Dream—it was what the quest for life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness looked like for people enslaved and Jim Crowed, terrorized, traumatized, and stigmatized by American laws and American citizens. The litmus test for realizing King’s dream was neither a black face in the White House nor a black presence on Wall Street. Rather, the fulfillment of his dream was for all poor and working people to live lives of decency and dignity.”

— Cornell West / “Introduction,” The Radical King


“Dear Y, thank you for being such a good poetry friend. By finding friends

like you, I had inadvertently located the general coordinates of myself.”

— Victoria Chang / Dear Memory


“Why would I want to stick around for that?

Eventually the human race will reach its terminus. And afterward the scars it left will fade. Biodiversity will rebound. New species will be born, many of them every bit as remarkable as the ones that were lost. And meanwhile, the species of the past, the ones I’ve saved: there may be good opportunities to reintroduce them.

And how long will all this take?

For a complete recovery from ten thousand years of human civilization–about twelve million years.”

— Ned Bauman / Venemous Lumpsucker


“I have not disappeared.
The boulevard is full of my steps.”

— Major Jackson / “On Disappearing”


“He memorably calls this ‘the plummeting cost of power’. If the printing press allowed ordinary people to own books, and the silicon chip put a computer in every home, AI will democratise simply doing things. So, sure, that means getting a virtual assistant to set up a company for you, or using a swarm of builder bots to throw up an extension. Unfortunately, it also means engineering a run on a bank, or creating a deadly virus using a DNA synthesiser.”

— David Shariatmadari / “‘I hope I’m wrong’: the co-founder of DeepMind on how AI threatens to reshape life as we know it” / The Guardian


What I’m Reading:

“Some of those that work forces
Are the same that burn crosses”

— Rage Against the Machine / “Killing in the Name”

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plates grind shift

walls come down

the couple grouses and whines
about being bumped
from their first class seats—

while half a world away thousands die
as tectonic plates grind / shift
and the walls come down…

What I’m Reading:

“But this is not a poem. This is a
billboard for frozen green peas.  Frozen green peas
are good for pain.”

— Anne Carson / “Short Talk on Pain”

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not a thing

three time zones away

my head is already three time zones away
on the other side of the continent
on the far side of stable

enabled dependent and enfeebled
what is it that turns us against
each other with the facility
of sunrises enshrouded
in cloud cover

a semblance of enervation
not what we really are
this is is how men are
this is not a thing
to worry

now fret your guitar and hit
a discordant chord

What I’m Reading:

“The guillotine is the masterpiece of plastic art
Its click
Creates perpetual motion”

— Blaise Cendrars / “The Head”

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what you will

Your pareidolia / My pneumonia

•Hey things could be beautiful•If I understood your semiotics for pulmonary distress•What do you mean you see Jesus’s face on this rye crisp?•Hey things could be beautiful•This wounded choking burning micro plastic forever chemical infused is yours•So cough up a bronchial sac on this virus-ridden hyper-capitalist deterministic orb•Make of it what you will•Hey things could be beautiful•Your paredolia is my pneumonia•Hey•

What I’m Reading:

“All of which is to say, I didn’t pay a hell of a lot of attention to grammar, and when I write it is for the love of the word, the color, like tossing paint on a canvas, and using a lot of ear and having read a bit here and there, I generally come out ok, but technically I don’t know what’s happening, nor do I care.”

— Charles Bukowski / On Writing

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wish you were

digesting stars (ukiah•tanka•haiku)

the evocation of ink
sounding delinquent
ten splotches emitting sound

turn on your pivot
graphite screed on a sharp point
black holographs spread
engravers burp dark matter—
speech balloons full of stardust

accretion disks cut
the universe in segements
write: wish you were here

What I’m Reading:

“We don’t fully understand if the material observed in radio waves is coming from the accretion disk or if it is being stored somewhere closer to the black hole. Black holes are definitely messy eaters, though.”

— Yvette Cendes, research associate at the Havard and Smithsonian Center for Astrophysics / Live Science

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those stare downs

I’m Here Alone (redux)

The refulgent quality of my psychopomp is only surpassed by my staring into the sun.

Psychopomp?

Who the hell needs to be led in?

I often stare into the sun. It’s the only way I know to calm down. My father required it of me when I was a young boy — he broke me early and often. He was the superintendent of our crumbling building in Camarioca after the revolution. Our homely squalor had a taste and a color: bile-yellow.

When I was a pre-teen my mother also demanded that I stare for hours at the sun. One early morning she plunged all of my father’s screwdrivers — a dozen from his tool box — into his chest; and when I say early morning I mean when it was still dark out. The talon ends of three claw hammers were embedded into his head.

None of this was traumatizing at the time. But over the past few years I find myself living inside that visionary loop multiple times daily. And here, when I say daily, I mean when it’s light out. In the dark I have other devices and literary tropes to rely on.

All these years later I live in exile, in Hialeah, and as you might imagine I am half blind. I still look into the sun out of habit, but the sun at this hyper-capitalist meridian is out of tune — a legato A minor flat 6 chord that fills me with revulsion. I want to go back to my island where the sun is in the proper key.

But for now I wait in this dollar-rama thrift shop of a philosophically bankrupt and pestilent country. At least I still have my guaguancó and my son montuno. I carry those in my heart everywhere I go.

I do like the sound of the word kookaburra but I hate the fact that’s it’s a god damned dumb-ass looking bird. It should be a god damned marsupial with a name like that. I hate it when life does that!

Life does that all the time.

And I hate inhabiting my skin. It gets to me, especially these days — it happens more and more that I find myself with some sharp implement in hand ideating about all sorts of bitter and painful ends for myself, but I can’t get anything to happen. My hands won’t conform to the images unspooling in the projection room in my head.

But, man, do I remember mother and those stare-downs with the sun. For the record, I never blinked first. I was always called away to do my chores.

Sometimes I envy how the Mongols had Caffa (I think they call it Feodosia now) and their trebuchet delights; how the Spaniards had their mastiffs for Taino ambush oneupmanship; and how deftly American colonials deployed their pox blankets.

Why can’t I get what I want?

Please, please, please let me get what I want… but I’m even off of that song, as the man who sang it is a supremacist of some sort now.

The rails— bottom and top — don’t stay in place anymore… everything that rises must converge… or so mother told me. But I found, as all frauds are eventually found out — it was really something she gleaned from a Flannery O’Connor narrative… and then she said that Hemingway rewrote the last page of The Sun Also Rises 39 times.

Apocrypha?

Sometimes I feel like a detached bathysphere.
All I have is this metaphoric gibbet and the wheel: I’m here alone. Pitched up here — 30 feet in the air, spinning a half turn with every stiff breeze…

What I Read On The Sidewalk:

“I hear your voice in all the noises of the world.”

— Paul Eluard

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in this (my) neighborhood pt. 41

What I’m Reading:

“I am ashamed to keep thinking of death
as a chute that connects to the garbage. I know
I should picture it more like the pneumatic tubes

at banks of the past: you put in your name
and your paper and up you go…”

— Natalie Shapero / “Long Week Talking”

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your moth-breath

The Best Stuff I Read This Week

“Climate change is a pandemic that we need to fight quickly. See how fast the degradation of the climate is going – I think it’s going even faster than we predicted … Everyone is fixated on 1.5C [above pre-industrial levels], and it’s a very important target. But actually, some very bad things could happen, in terms of soil degradation, water scarcity and desertification, way before 1.5C.”

— Alain-Richard Donwahi, President of the UN’s desertification conference / “Global heating likely to hit world food supply before 1.5C, says UN expert” / The Guardian


“All night your moth-breath
Flickers among the flat pink roses. I wake to listen:
A far sea moves in my ear.”

— Sylvia Plath / “Morning Song”


“By digging up millions of years of biology and setting it on fire, in the course of a century or two, we’ve managed to overwhelm the world … We’ve poured heat into the air and especially into the oceans, and now that heat is beginning to dominate life on our planet. We can still back off some: every pipeline we shut down and every solar panel we install contributes … But as Florida found out again on Wednesday morning, and the world rediscovered this brutally hot summer, we’ve already shifted our earth in the most fundamental fashion.”

— Bill McKibben / “Hurricane Idalia’s Explosive Power Comes from Abnormally Hot Oceans” / The New Yorker


“She sits inside a viewfinder while
the horizon scans her brain for fires. The sky sags
into a blue body cast. What is the meaning of a
mountain of masks?”

— Lauren Russell / “Exposition”


“Hence extinction credits.

Today, if you were a company like Brahmasamudram Mining and you proposed to wipe a species from the face of the earth, you basically just had to hand in a voucher to do it. The name for this voucher was an extinction credit. An extinction credit could buy you bulldozing rights to any species on earth…”

— Ned Beauman / Venomous Lumpsuckers


“i want to have something to say
about my own destiny
something i care about
something of value
something important”

— Jennifer Karmin / “work: an ode for the human micropoem”


“[Look at] the effects of droughts on food security, the effects of droughts on migration of population, the effect of droughts on inflation. We could have an acceleration of negative effects, other than temperature…”

— Alain-Richard Donwahi, President of the UN’s desertification conference / “Global heating likely to hit world food supply before 1.5C, says UN expert” / The Guardian

What I’m Listening To:

“And the car reverses over
And his body rolls over
Crushed from the shoulder
You can hear the bones humming
Singing like a puncture”

— Coil / “Ostia (The Death of Pasolini)”

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basting we wilt

summer’s cooked (haiku tercets)

summer receding
the dragonflies flit away
from your outstretched hands

the crows are louder
their murders more numerous
they blacken the sky

broiling and basting
we wilt under the heatdome
summer’s cooked away

What I’m Reading:

While somewhere outside her window,
the crooked pine tree
hatches her an anvil

— Therese Estacion / “EF I”

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for your soul

a … (haiku)

… hotwire for your heart

… nine minute drive to desire

… tonic for your soul

What I’m Reading:

Purgatory is dry

— Therese Estacion / “EF IV”

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