Showing posts with label look at all the dinner parties. Show all posts
Showing posts with label look at all the dinner parties. Show all posts

4.8.17

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
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