Right now I’m in the middle of writing at least half a dozen manuscripts, and each one is wildly different. Something is going on because I get further and further away from the ways I used to write. A few weeks ago I shared a cut-up poem here, and I’ve continued working with this mode alongside other modes. Each of these was written in a different way, but all use some measure of cut-up and appropriation. Not sure what else to say about it right now but thank you if you are reading this. Truly.
YEAH after Ted Berrigan I like the fiery butterfly puzzles Of this pilgrimage toward clarities The butterfly puddles the wiry puzzles Of great mud intelligence & feeling Yeah I like the wiry butterfly puzzles Of the pilgrim’s mud & verities The fiery frayed intelligence And muddle toward this feeling ____________ LYRIK AMERIKANISCHE Life went on. Grift and acid, stolen lights and cockroaches. Insurrection was in the air. Tom Cruise, who'd helped me deal with the February case, called one day and asked me to meet him. I did. He asked if I'd like to take over the publishing end of The Berserk Cannery Ltd. I'd get a laser printer as part of the deal, he said. I considered this. Then he asked me how I felt about lotteries. He asked how I felt about terraforming, and then he said something about guns. The last publisher of the Berserk had blown his head off. I wasn't quite sure what Tom had in mind. I said I’d have to learn. ______________ Another reel, then cold. Then he shortens it, gives in to common price. Says, “You bite off your Earth then die on Mars?” Pronounced it “foal,” pronounced “flux.” After that he signed the contract with a voice like nothing known. Signed “ash.” Winds. Soft incisor modeling. Music in scraps of payment. We find ourselves midsentence in pure malevolence formed by labs, days on loan. Chipped remnants of his mother’s generation, an otherworldly romance exposed on film. Then nothing for six billion years. It brings suspicion like it reads. Still listening for the buried couple, the fieldmouse you squeak up to me. Filtered wishes, voices I address to you. Always shadow, habit of news, stockpiles, genesis of the true. Arrived here only yesterday. Strayed, in cuts, then listened for you. ____________ APRIL is a technique in astrology providing a detailed analysis just a monstrosity it’s true a kind of black swan event of a person’s life. At the outset I base this on apology: I am a last-minute fill-in who comes out of nowhere and if you don’t have an explanation of “morally corrupt aesthetically obsolete thematically superficial temperamentally boring” then you can’t read the social dynamics of the project & its literary productions. Meaning (since it's no longer autocracy) I'm sensitive too, silly to say. Love, the co-op.