Saturday, November 06, 2010

It's not clear whether
She's lost control again

Or if these ties the ropes
And pulleys are binding

One cherry leads to another
That's all we'll ever know

Scented fetishes in the
Global village of the elect

Affect has made them abject
It has made a fool

Out of processes
A montage of the orifices

Coursing through power
Saying it dumb in the

Wind like a name
We all can't share

Fisting what's without
Fingering the constellation

Baser games of telephone
Tell the nails to grow

A tale of power
Told by the soul at work

If above or below
These powers the boxes
Kept moving
If this was a game
We were making the rules
Up as we went along
As though within our
Own bodies without control
She's lost control again
We're just beginning
To manage her limbs
Like assemblage we shit
We perspire autonomy
When they tell us to
Only there is no me
And there is no you
There is no beginning
In other words to this
Process this continuous
Product producing our

Like in a harrows we sweat
Like in a vacuum of political
Control called representation
Called media saturated

We wake to this machine
The women already wake spinning
Their hair as if from gold
A myth of morning

The animals who make them awake
And who assist with production
Form an assembly line
Within an otherwise post-Fordist refrain

One lays in the grass
Like a patient or an object
How these women they are husbandry
And husband and husbanded

I want to call this rhizome
The endless exploitation extending without roots
From a thousand holes where power leaks
Conspires and condescends on bare asses
The ass without a face, the dehumanized ass
The face upon which one couldn't reproduce
When all we could do was produce
The hours expand, click into place.
Take a sample, that one is body, come down
From the cross, frisk the remains, of meat,
My contemporary, because it was enthusiastical,
To spin in your studio, before the world was
Made, face pressed to glass, air pressed,
You dance, you smile, to spin a kind of
Voguing, before there was air, your
Bloodstream, not a metaphor, for things believed
For a world that believed, art was the knowledge,
It was the sense of this, that there may
Still be communion, fucking will still be immanent,
Imagined as a sketch, in wax which breaks,
The insincerity of this, rises through a semblance.

Wednesday, November 03, 2010

Brandon Shimoda & Jennifer Karmin (at The Poetry Project)

Monday, November 8th

Brandon Shimoda
& Jennifer Karmin with guest performers
Cara Benson, Claire Donato, Thom Donovan,
Curtis Jensen, Pierre Joris, Michael Leong,
and Ronaldo Wilson

at The Poetry Project
131 E. 10th Street
admission $8
students & seniors $7

Tuesday, November 02, 2010

When nothing was
Heroic, what gives?
Where everything
Was a monument

Ligaments ripped from
Time and context
A pink rings the face
Dying into the face

No future, no future!
To have guts seemed
To cry out from
A place of grace.

Monday, November 01, 2010

Installing Spirit

--after Paul Thek

Our contemporary
Like blood heals
Like all is praised
In your notebooks

Where you thought it
To go down
Trace the blood
Where it moved

Like the soul was
The body there
Are concepts
Dicks build to

The sky and cease
So far steeped
Were we in blood
Like blood leaves

Like it heals
All we were
Despite its encasement
Lets in the air

To breathe to some-
times come
Matter stuck
To which machine

Corrupts, makes us
Bold, the body
Brought down
From this cross

Of concepts, like
Time itself
Remains a mould
So spirit clings

Disturbs the
Pinkish trace
Of me, the eyes
A butterfly adorns.

Like a Roman
I brag a lot
Like a Greek my
Flesh is mortal
It is here and
Public and not a slave
My deeds fade in the
Public eye like
Dreams of a socius
I am an Egyptian
Because the world
Is a tomb we live in
I leave pictures and
Words behind—
Fragments of an
Immortalized sun.

Our senses of installation
That blood and the breath are a sketch
Part of one photosynthesis
The shadows have come
To make us believe
One day they will make us one
With what will have been but not yet
Like any body grieves and grief is a debt
Never paid back
To worlds we have lost
For what we will lose procession turns
Into profession
Notes split space and air
You arrange what was smashed
You interact
Exalt the remnants no vision can possess.

Sunday, October 31, 2010

Apocalypse Anthology

Flying Guillotine press has released a PDF of their Apocalypse Anthology, which I encourage you to check out here! . Contributors to the anthology include the following: Josh Kleinberg, Thom Donovan, Brennen Wysong, Ben Fama, Leslie Anne Mcilroy, Rob Ostrom, Toni Browning, Brett Price, Gregory Bem, Nathan Logan, Wynelle Bridge, Jefferson Carter, Elisa Gabbert & Kathleen Rooney, Matthew Everett, Stephanie Anderson, Francis Raven, Melissa Koosmann, Douglass Piccinnini, Dolan Morgan, Paul Siegell, Mark Terrill, Kate Schapira, Kristi Maxwell, Christine Leclerc, Sommer Browning, Adam Roberts, Lauren Harrison, Tony Mancus, Sarah Heller, Brandon Shimoda, John Ebersole, Vincent Zompa, Thomas Oristaglio, Alex Cuff, Ally Harris, Jeff Hawkinson, Steven Karl, Jen Currin, J. Townsend, Elinor Payntor, Dave Carillo, Steven Breyak, Cate Peebles, Nate Pritts, Frank Sherlock, Estela Lamat & Michael Leong, Esther Smith, Emily Brandt, Mathias Svalina, Dan Chelotti, Michael Rerick, Theresa Sotto, Leigh Stein, Joe Fletcher, Martin Rock.

Robert Dewhurst on Country Girl

Check out Robert Dewhurst's wonderful essay about Hannah Weiner's Country Girl, which he presented with Patrick Durgin and Kaplan Harris this past week during a Weiner roundtable at SUNY-Buffalo.