Nothing Survives the American Mind
Nothing Survives the American Mind
A new poem, a newish book, and a fund-raising effort.
On October 13th, alongside new books by Isaac Pickell and Giulia Bencivenga, I released a book of my own called Interrogation Days (complete edition) through Dead Mall Press. This will likely be the last time I self-publish through the press, at least for a while, and going forward my own books will be available trough the “Bookstore” here on the blog. And while I’m only talking about my book here, you should check out the details on both Giulia’s and Isaac’s work, and read interviews with each of them here.
A full description of my book can be found on the website too, but here I’ll say that it pulls together three previous chapbooks of mine into one volume and adds in some new stuff as well. It sells for $12 , but if you are a subscriber—even at the free level—you can get a discount on it (pay just $9 plus shipping by mentioning “Wooden Brain” in the order). Paid subscribers get a much bigger discount, paying shipping only. Also, you can just respond to this email or DM me somewhere if you want to order (just be sure to include both email, name, and mailing address)
Additionally, all three books—mine, Giulia,’s, and Isaac’s—are raising money for Gaza Mutual Aid Solidarity, a small collective in Gaza that is on the ground baking bread, providing shelter, equipment, and services for displaced Gazans. You can find more info about them on their Linktree, and also see videos of their work via their Instagram. Right now we have $222 raised, but we’re hoping to get the number up to $300 by mid-November (in particular, by the 13th, when we will celebrate the books’ release via an online reading. Send me your email to join the list to attend).
Below, I am sharing a new poem from the collection, “From the Imperial Core (Fall 2023)”. The first draft was completed in December 2023, and I have since revised it a bit. It is directly about the genocide in Gaza and about the surreal horror of witnessing it through the mediation of screens, reports, images, and a relentless wave of idiotic and hateful lies. It’s basically just what I saw—what many of us saw.
The poem in the book has detailed footnotes, as I felt was essential to maintain the veracity of things that seemed insane and impossible only a week after the fact. However, there was no good way to present those here, so the superscript numbers you’ll see go nowhere in this version.
Lastly, each paragraph is placed on its own page, as its own poem: it should be read as a sequence rather than as a single long poem.
Thank you for reading, and may Palestine be free.
From the Imperial Core
Fall 2023
for the martyrs In October, Bush throws the first pitch at the World Series. 2001 in parallax. The president says this is not 9/11: it is “equivalent to fifteen.” He says this without shame. (Anthems, drones, racist manias.) On screen, senators speak of terrorism, “the right to defend,” the finality of their urges. “If Israel did not exist JOE BIDENT FUCK UR GENOCIDE the United States would have to invent it.” See: “A vengeful and cruel IDF is needed here. Anything less is immoral.” See: “To save the values of Western civilization.” Crumpled contracts stuffed into a suit. Blood like sand, like gravel. (The CEO of Raytheon is George J. Hayes.) In Matcal Tower, rocket coordinates spill from the monitors. Somewhere, the children sleep and dream. * In DC, two weeks before the bombing starts: Secretary Blinken and his band perform “Hoochie-Coochie Man.” He says we can “minimize death.” (Trails of white phosphorus in Gaza, in the West Bank, in Lebanon.) He says: we can bomb them while we save their lives. You know I’m here / Everybody knows I’m here! (Zodiac of the dead. Skies like a razor. Anyone can see it happening.) Her face streaming live from the shelters, a blue tarpaulin tent, a campfire glowing in rubble. Erase the stars, the grasses. A video of incubators filled with blurry pixels. (The CEO of Northrup-Grummond is Kathy J. Hayes.) No one remembers what’s happening. Then it’s happening again. * Every accusation is in the mirror . First slaughter, then vomit, the veil of lies. “We cannot confirm it officially, but you can assume it happened.” See: a baby bottle, a calendar, a curtain pinned up against the wall. (Language just a bruise in the air, a carboard cut-out trampled in the alley.) Using AI, Israel accelerates “target production.” They call it the Gospel. They call it “civil pressure” when bombing a hospital, a school, a residential highrise. They call them “power targets” (eyes become archive, a broken fire escape.) Afterward, they will say and say (corrupted file, deleted page). For the lost, rocks and stones hold memories. They witness, lying among the grasses, cradling footprints, vanished ribbons. “We’ll be back,” say the dead boys, smiling in another life. * The US President says his love of Israel begins in the gut. (An electromagnetic field circling the body like a torus.) It proceeds through his heart, into his head. Fourteen billion in military aid. Love. In waves and bursts. In Langley, in DC. In grey monotony of rubble, then pieces of a face. The feed says, "Burning their mother . . . You won't believe the video we got!” (The bullet dipped in pork fat. The soul believed vaporized.) Then another vote, another veto. The Zionist at the UN wearing a yellow star. The IDF soldier posting a marriage proposal, a missile signed for Chandler Bing. Reels of humiliation, torture, fraud. Love, a polyp in the intestine. (The CEO of Lockheed-Martin is James Taiclet.) “WE DID WHAT WE COULD. REMEMBER US.” * The “Humanitarian Pause” arrives for Thanksgiving. On Black Friday, they’ve lined up for discounts, savings, prices slashed. Nothing survives the American mind. At 17,000 Palestinians killed (an undercount), Matthew Miller says, Too early to assess. As in: The clock is endless, the dial broken. Smart Bomb, JDAM, Hellfire. (The CEO of General Dymamics is Phebe Novakovic.) In Masafer Yatta, as the drone speaks (bile, shit, blood), it hovers over parent and child: “If you think to do anything, we will find you.” Another life. (There is no other life.) Footprints, clocks, the counter slows. (Is there?) We are working tirelessly (shit, vomit, blood). (“OUR HEART WILL. IT CAN. DOES NOT ABANDON”) A single stone beneath the stars, the sky. Then another life.