two damaged wipers on the locum glimmer compensation onsite we will generate some northward disruption for everyone’s sake, the linear narrative is temporarily closed
renege : renewal
we have placed a few cartoonists outside for easy insertion resolutions will be directed to use the sidestep entry near the mailroom revolutions shall enter at 90 degrees to the left and bulldog expediency
demands : guilders
one buffoon is stationed to flop between reasonable assessments one clown is stationed in the flour between the epic sieves and outside armistice astronomers, gulches, and demons welcome
should you need asylum, please look elsewhere
What I’m Reading:
waves crash against the port side of a battered wooden boat moss blindfolds the rocks perch on the branch of language coffins of war or epidemic take flight shadows in the field dig up potatoes to prepare for winter
The unrooted. The faceless. The darkness without form. Forms without substance. Substrates without purchase. The turmoil throwing her into a state of agitation.
Explicit signs. Signs without meaning. Warning signs. All—a mass of confusion she wallows in—nascent hours at home. An unmoored city.
Cities that will soon drown under surging water. Analogues to the distant cities in dust. Something has to give.
What I’m Reading:
Now a new study shows that that summer in the Northern Hemisphere was the hottest in the past 2,000 years—a marker of how much the world has already warmed and how urgently we need to drastically reduce greenhouse gas emissions
— Andrea Thompson / “The Summer of 2023 Was the Hottest in 2,000 Years” / Scientific American
first, there is the blood of the chicken— then the effigy doll, blindfolded with hands tied behind its back— attempts at wordly accretions to follow, but it doesn’t look right, this is worse, every trip a strand of its own producing its own unique hole— an interstice in her soul— & a burr in my sole
it’s the journey not the destination (says she)
so i write about this rite right? this ritual— how ten minutes elapse so quickly—
look here: it’s already mid-may 2024!
blood of the chicken elapses too soon
What I’m Reading:
How hard it was to fit the last crayon into the bulging box; like the last person who pushes onto the elevator and is resented by the insiders.
All Non-Programme Artisanal Orifices (found dada missive)
Hello All,
Feel free to reach out to me at the campfire girls cookout.
I’ll be a semiquaver through most of my incompatibilities from my two beefburgers. The purpose of this is a few thistles for your penny farthings.
I will be making a few other jabs with additional contexts like jackasses, like mats of flower lava, like mischances, destinies, landfalls, and a penguin billet-doux.
I will be around in the drains and weirdly un-coriolis effected — so feel free to stop by to check for thistles on your furry bits or just to say “hi!” (heigh, high, or hie).
Definitely going to mistreat your comparatively rare rumble sticks—or was that Rumble Fish?—Don’t box me in!
I have some lovely artisan bookmarks that my monetarist has passed onto me. She is soon to be 101 and cannot enjoy them as she has in the past. We’d like them to find new families in abstemious homilies.
They cower and crane in the cranium arcade.
And apropos of nothing: I don’t really want these tyrant bookmarks since they take up a lounge in my rosary and they are kinsman to a nightcap oboe.
They are very good conductors of “pleasant vibes, man.”
I am not charging but I will collect modest doorbells to contribute to all non-programme artisanal orifices. Please check all your holes and we can arrange for you and the tourists to see them.
All is well.
Carry on.
What I’m Reading:
Never to get lost is not to live, not to know how to get lost brings you to destruction, and somewhere in the terra incognita in between lies a life of discovery.
I’m hot with fleas, gravid with scabies lice I have a multitude of filo and corona Viruses are best when deflected with oil Impregnated chausibles or warm leatherette On your burning flesh underneath your hair shirt Wear your bird mask filled with with aromatic tips Of posies juniper berries and popcorn jelly bellies…
I place the copper florins on your eyes Penniless and you trimming your pencil Thin mustache graying from so much vaginal Yeast, so much discharge, so sebaceous Cyst of unknown origin, benign and sanguine Pluck that rosy orb of pleasure-pain…
Au boncadavre exquis Birdhouse and Bildungsroman fretful Fret on the E flat note, on the plagued D train Box-scarred, a doleful G man out of a botched C-section with a bloody DialM for Murder mug…
These, and other afflictions, are yours for the chaining Yourself to the balcony railing 16 floors up (Mostly) out of the elements counting how many Filo and corona fit on the head of a pin…
And how many pins it takes to blow your mind Ballooning and arcing on its drunk ecliptic Across the darkening sky…
Go figure when the envoi misses the last train On a line out of service to nowhere…
With perdition as its terminus…
What I’m Reading:
Can the bees be saved? How many ways can you say genocide? I don’t know. I think you’re swell. I don’t know. I think you’ve killed me a few times.
Travelling by bicycle is a life of simple things taken seriously: hunger, thirst, friendship, the weather, the stutter of the world beneath you.
— Kate Harris / Land of Lost Borders: Out of Bounds on the Silk Road
I thought my teeth would explode but you brought something for both of us and we sat on the ground and ate it together
— Jim Dine / “Bean”
In Amsterdam, as in Paris, no one is quite certain why or how so many bicycles wind up in the water. City officials ascribe the problem, vaguely, to vandalism and theft. Alcohol surely plays a role, and there could well be a kind of ecosystem at work: a bicycle is pulled from the canal and recycled into a beer can, whose contents are guzzled by an Amsterdammer, who, weaving home at the end of a dissipated night, spots a bicycle and is seized by an impulse to hurl the thing into a canal.
— Jody Rosen / Two Wheels Good: The History and Mystery of the Bicycle
We borrow from the land what we can but cannot return to it: bluestem, coneflower, boneset, broomcorn, a ring-necked pheasant tied to a pole, a flat stretch of land we strip and tar and pave, a creek that gets deeper as it downrivers, its edges spoiled with runoff.
— Sarah McCartt-Jackson / “Borrow”
A 2022 report predicted that crop yield failures in the world’s “breadbaskets”, such as Canada, the US and China, will be 25 times greater by 2050 than they are today.
— Bill McGuire / “46C SUMMER DAYS AND ‘SUPERCELL’ STORMS ARE BRITAIN’S FUTURE – AND NOW IS OUR LAST CHANCE TO PREPARE” / Cool Earth, Substack
Look at you, chopping and weeping. Idiot. Is this the way you go through life, your mind A stopless knife, driven by your fantasy of truth . . .
— Suji Kwock Kim / “Monologue for an Onion”
In restricting the range of directions you can travel, in charging ordinary movement with momentum, a bike trip offers that rarest, most elusive of things in our frenetic world: clarity of purpose. Your sole responsibility on Earth, as long as your legs last each day, is to breathe, pedal, breathe and look around.
— Kate Harris / Land of Lost Borders: Out of Bounds on the Silk Road
What I’m Listening To:
To avert this unholy evolutionary trajectory Can you hear what I hear, babe? Does it make you feel afraid?
I have geared cramps on the backshwallah. Nearly there after years of recompense and gnarly going. I heard it through the pipe rigate: purity is the essence of damnation. You can’t have one without the other.
Then I hear the song I hate through Mildred’s toes. The snarl of the bass line transports me to a cloudier tomorrow—full of geomagnetic storms due to massive coronal mass ejections. The aurora borealis has the quality of a sodden gray cloud, which is soon obliterated by the city lights.
As we enter the city my geared cramps dissipate. There’s hope for another day. We made it through this one after all. And after all this, the tang of oily metal on my tongue and in the air.
What I’m Reading:
Every time I got on my bicycle after a long hiatus it was like riding back to myself, the only way there.
— Kate Harris / Lands of Lost Borders: Out of Bounds on the Silk Road
When: Saturday and Sunday, May 11th& 12th Where: JT&T Sampan
What: Bring 3 gently used jackpots to the sampan after 3pm Friday May 10th.
Who: any resistor or stagehand at JT& T. No charlatan or any jackals, just come and enjoy. Donate and you may also find something you would like for yourself.
Suggested items:
*lances *artichokes *placenta settlers (flatware/china) *wingspan gleams *small appointees (clean and operational) *small tablespoons *shits *blowpipes Use your imbroglio. Whatever is left-winger on Monday mortal, May 13th will be taken to SAVERS. Last time there was almost notion left-winger!
What I’m Reading:
How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives.
I hate life I hate the Bay City Rollers I hate Silva Mind Control
I find something new the year after it’s new. I’m watching Lloyd Dobyns and Linda Ellerbee and they’re presenting a story about this new music and new band: punk rock — the Sex Pistols. I’m equally repelled and attracted to it — why are they spitting on each other? God, look at those cool clothes. I can’t find the record anywhere my bike will take me in Miami. My mother won’t buy me a record that says Sex Pistols on the cover…
What I’m Reading:
I want these spontaneous exploits, but then I lean back into controlled activities. Maybe I want to only collect, but not actually sit long in, such experiences. I say I want to get lost in someone else’s story, but I never do.
thee istsfor manity reader 