infinite regress of a technological face farce

the world is nothing in a pretty box

are we smart enough to know how smart animals are?

surely an advantage of our present technospiritual environment is that we can choose our taxonomic rank – at

least emotionally, familially, aesthetically, cognitively – and choose to belong to the kingdom of plantae or fungi rather than animalia. what we are born into biologically can then be influenced and even superseded by what we are born into existentially, even as we are not bound by our dna-upbringing, by the labels of others. the freedom – let these choice illusions last forever! – recent voids have granted us permit our claims that reach past the margins of biology into the fission of imagination and desire.
i am a plant with extra leaves … these extras i call technology.

in this era of protests, of protests protesting protest, of binaries and waste and blood and inane insecurities,
protester sadoos join in!
we protest (most generally) humanity's strategic imbecility (and tactical implementations of this imbecility) – that as a species we're investing most of our time, money, and energy into our hyperapex predator attributes (slaughtering more and better than anything else) and little into what seems our most distinctive talent – a kind of empathic consciousness that allows us to contextualize ourselves (individually and collectively) as part of vast and intelligent ecosystems and adapt our lives to this broader knowledge. more specifically, objecting to anthropocentrism, ecological degradation – and the political-lifestyle machineries that we in our mob conformity are enculturated into.

it’s not that sadoos necessarily object to eating animals, but that we’re confused by the exclusion of humans from this
eating. our vegetarianism and veganism is birthed from this confusion.

as a human mammal deep-educated in long traditions of dominance and hierarchy, i unquestionably assumed certain rights for grey and wealthy decades. as the unquestioning became questioning, i gradually have switched my allegiance from the mammals of my ancestry and become a technological plant.
              any stereotypes you attempt to incarcerate me in are your regressions and degradations … i am molecular energy dressing up and down in words.


metamorphosis without end

i made a bed for myself of books and slept on it. it was 3 meters high and 2 meters wide and 2 meters long and i used
no sheets but slept on the books directly. i built a staircase of books to climb up and i learned to influence my dreams by the placement and relation of books, their proximity to different parts of my body. i let no one see my bed and no one slept with me for i had become tired of love.

i no longer read. after decades of voracious reading, after
being overcome by books so much the world in its dimensionality became ugly, clichéd, with neither grace nor vision, human society a risible heap of battling bugs insanely proclaiming its grandeur and supremacy, i stopped. i had lost the ability to absorb books through sight and reason, through the act of cognitively and imaginatively interpreting text – these weary servants of a wearier culture, of a sickened literacy. i needed a different way to bring books inside me, i wanted a new relation with them. what better way than having full bodily contact and absorbing them more directly, during sleep. for the best books are written as though in a dream and surely the best way to read them is to take them in through our skin as we’re dreaming. using our cognitive capacities while we’re awake is an obviously inferior method, a legacy from the primitive age of knowledge, and i grew excited again about encountering my favourite books in ways i never had before.

i dreamt new dreams – sprawling phantasmagoria. colours rewired and dripping down architectures that redefined
science. narratives so disturbing, coherent, irrational, seductive i woke up with the top layer of books drenched and would have to carefully dry the affected volumes out.

i began building a house of books to house my bed. a modest affair. bathroom, kitchen, bedroom, a common area for eating and hanging out and working, a sunroom for whatever. everything of books. the sinks, toilet, bathtub, furniture, trinkets and decorations, bookshelves. books are all.

in time – the reader will have expected it – i became a book.
like gregor. i lived by myself so there was no external drama. i lived grounded in the totality of books so there was no internal drama.  there was no story. this is the story.



an amodest cana bull

 today sadoo diaper yanks montaigne’s of cannibals and swift’s a modest proposal into an overpopulated troubled
derealized 2017.

first let us observe that european christian society and its yakking screaming supercilious child – global capitalistic society – have hardly proven themselves, even with the ostensible advances of democracy, feminism, diversity, religious and sexual freedom, technological, scientific, and medical delights. considering the lack of progress in anything but the accumulation of physical and abstract things – a progress we can hardly consider progress – radical major surgery on the corpulent collective human body becomes necessary.

next let us propose that condo-farmed, plant-based humans become a food source for earth’s critically endangered species. let’s get human numbers down to manageable levels and use those condo cells for something useful. (home ownership is for historical fiction and virtual comedy – get all those ridiculous mortgagors into condos and fatten them up with useful goodness!)

let’s put our ideals where our cutlets are by living our entertainment and stopping talking about caring for the earth and animals and beginning doing it. (a bonus – reality tv might finally become exciting, finally connected to a reality that matters.)

don’t vote green! vote the human meat party!

your instinctual (aka blindly educated) response might be – this is too much sadood. too much.

no. we’re actually too much the way we are now.

and it’s not a big step at all if you decide to apply your brain to something other than your own aggrandizement and the promotion of your tribal interests – that old war we call virtuous just because it's dressed in new clothes.

the difference between a pig and a human is minimal and the latter – just because they have bigger weapons – directly kill almost 200,000,000 mammals annually. imagine if we eliminated that number of humans every year!

plus … humans have already sexually commoditized themselves to be little more than an overdressed meat market. our flesh is just food for us presently – might as well share it with those we’ve been relentlessly cruel to on no basis other than a deeply troubled archaic assumption that humans are innately superior to everything else.

if slaughter, stupidity, and sex are what humans are primarily using their brains for, why not begin using human meat to truly help the world and physically-spiritually tone ourselves? big yoga, without the lulu.

it’s time to stop blabbing, tweeting, and posting about equality, diversity, and sustainability … and start living them.

we’ll not only slow the extinction rate of 1,200 species annually, reduce the 800 million kilograms of garbage dumped into the sea, 40 million tonnes of toxic waste, 26,000 cubic metres of radioactive waste, 1.6 million hectares of deforestation … but we might in the process even save ourselves.

all other proposals (even the seemingly sanest from the cutest political leaders like true beau [featured recently in the stalling ruin]) are like putting bandaids on a decapitation. the sadoo’s proposal is simple and effective – let’s avoid the decapitation.


languages of social capitalism

the sun in the city and the sun in the wilderness. different suns. the moon in the city and the moon in the wilderness. different moons. the i in the city and the i in the wilderness. different i’s. sameness in the city and sameness in the
wilderness. different sameness. time in the city and time in the wilderness. different time. humans in the city and humans in the wilderness. same humans.

i wake up in the trees. i am a monkey and think monkey thoughts. the trees have a life of their own and i try to listen to them in my stupidity. when i think i am a monkey am i less a monkey than when i don’t think i am a monkey? that i have no definitive answer to this may indicate something about being a monkey or not being a monkey or thinking or not thinking about being a monkey but i’m unsure what that might be and whether i’d look in my monkeyness or my not-monkeyness (if it even exists) or even something else to find it.

the laboratory is no government-funded academy-infused business-executed controlled-access venue of sterility but the unfunded autodidactic postmanagement dewalled spaces of a referalized self.

how would i walk through time but by watching time walk through me?

hi coo!
the sun too rises
like facebook in the east and
a whale somewhere dies

nothing like you my
dear to storm the sunny seas
and kill with smiled love

the more society feels threatened by its exclusions (now worlds too vast to measure), the more it recreates these exclusions within itself as oneiric substances of synthesized potencies ...

that blood is no longer tribal is an orientation we have hardly
begun to constructively accept and explore. the function of bloodfamily (and by extension the tribe) as bulwark against the world’s danger and darkness is nonsensical when family has become fragmented and bonds are formed not by anything as primitive as copulative genetics or random socialpsychic formulations but by an inchoate spirituality technology in its infantility seeks to make manifest.

which academic could ever object to cultural appropriation? scholarship is the official industry of cultural appropriation.

a joke for mystics –
q – what did the via cataphatic and via negativa say to each other?
a –

art is the distortion of an unendurable reality

hearing with equal energy, in varied forms, from various societal sectors –
            we are technology
            we are nature
            we are gods
            we are humans
            to hold within each – and the fullness of each –
(without systematizing, reducing, hierarchizing …) …

the slow euphemized slaughter of land, water. hatred of silence, stillness, purposelessness, unidentifiability (namelessness). purpose a function of judeochristiancapitalism, of that configuration of time that enthrones ends in its geometric texts, capitalism taking the ends and dominations of its judeochristian heritage and coking out on them in the trash of god.

objectifying madness the way mckenna objectified psychedelics – and isn’t madness just the raw psychedelic of the soul before it’s been baked by society into product for commercial use on the exchanges of sanity?

what are these wrecked widgets of consciousness around
the i, orbiting like kamikaze fractals in a technological dust?
       oh robots! annihilate us save us humiliate us love us



i give myself over to the hallucination of the day
the technological trees are teaching english
i see into the souls of things
and what i see is what is not
in this age of tired irony and tired innocence
whatever energies are left humanity
in this jumble of wire and posts
though they cannot be prayed to
i pray
(though what is prayed cannot be known)
even my coffee sings another language
and dreams of dead birds crawl on the windows


we have invented happiness say the last humans. and they blink.

the iphone – dephoning the phone – enabling the phone to be used as everything but phone – the inotphone … birthed into an age of inot iness

my new novelty is boredom and i research it with the zeal of a terrorist

death approaches like an 18th century cartoon train, comically belching and ridiculously ominous, with smiles and flowers and anacondas, dancing like a perfection of seraphim, saran wrap for a face and melting acrylics for a heart

if we exclude the vulgar, the scatological, crude, incorrect, erroneous, the vermiculous – or denigrate them as unnecessary to or lower than the proper and orderly and clean … what have we become other than false bearers of flesh and light, bifurcating what is united in the brightness of our bodies, hoarding the latter for ourselves, dumping the former on others – upholders of tyrannical virtue?

i’m sorry, you don’t belong to a field of vegetables
i can readily communicate with

happiness becomes a hammer (for humans are adept at transforming feathers to hammers)
            twilight of the idios (or smiling with a hammer)

if i choose between believing in myself or the world, would i not choose myself – for the world is one but i am many

the modern search for and easy naming of mental illness, socio- and psychopathology … is this not analogous to the witchhunts of centuries past (a forcing of psychic diversity into institutionalized straightjackets by those conventional) – now aided by social media and a rabidly virtuous dominant culture which remains entrenched in laundered colonial practices?

don’t look at words as units of meaning, potential meaning, blocks of stories, texts. look at them as trees. forests of breathing. words are nothing human. they find themselves exiled into the human and the writer seeks to arrange them as it finds them into patterns of exile

far more than stories i’m interested in stories’ shapes and environments

a dinner party – gylan kain, tutuola, h tubman, rosa parks, wangechi mutu, dennis brutus, james baldwin, don cherry, ijeoma umebinyu

when left and right share similar forms, what does their content matter? patriarchs and feminists, trumpies and anti-trumpies, republicans and anarchists, etiologists and daoists, buddhists and capitalists, bankers and artists and academics and the justice people, conservatives and liberals – when they share methods do they not share vision?

humans like shadows are moved through oneiric worlds of insects and leaves, waiting for the light of earth which they in their darkness reflect
            money as modern sacred draws darkness into the world and this drawing – uniting as it does the darknesses of the visible world – we declare light

kashf            kashf  kashf            kashf kashf          kashfkashf    kashf   kashf
a day opens on 70000 veils of light and darkness
            words open to themselves like dreams
prayers appear like a loose group of dead to no avail
            living in these openings as a calling from unknown spaces
who would dance? i i say – i will dance to uncanny failures
words (like us) aren’t singular and delineated
i’ll rip i say in peace to pieces those litted torments
            living – these openings and callings?
it opens. and crossed accustomed eyes watch you tear the border
words and we – plasmatic fleshings, fractal exuberance

i speak to the desolations in languages of electronic flight

we do what is not ours to do to do the not-doing that is our required doing