grammars

why does no one sentence me to death?

i am not a pessimist. i am no believer in the apocalypse or guilt

but i read of others being sentenced

and don’t understand why i’m not included in the readings

which grammar has provided such passage?

how do pronouns work?

it hides in my life

i seek to hide in it

and as i do whies hide too

the art of discovering possibility in grammar – less innovations inherent in ready mixing, more waiting for uninvented mixers, new instruments of relation. the former is the rite of spring, the latter the modular synthesizer

the soul in any age establishes transactional grammars for which money is the vocabulary – the confessional in the age of western religion, the therapists’ couch in the age of religion’s child. we should also include drugs in the latter, which are orthodoxy’s necessary dream even as the occult and its ancillaries were in the former

the grammars of language – at least in its distilled form: poetry – more similar to the grammars of plants than, say, the grammars of money. develop kinships and genealogies of grammars, a work having some rough precedents

the neoliberal class’s objection to war is to past forms of war – ones still bound to the conservative common diction, linguistic lingerers – and hardly to future ones, which it specializes in, using shells of anachronism, undiscovered mines, as decoys, distracting from its forms of strategic domination. grammars of war themselves battle on desolate plains. the epilogue to blood meridian

i have dreamt grammar – great grammars so complex, logical, and absurd i awoke sweating blood and cum in my eyes. i have sat at the roots of plants and knew there the grammars of the human to be false, false in their ambition to be superlative. nothing works anymore. dreams of grammars are grammars and the grammar of dreams is true

all true grammar is incomprehensible, says sadoo art-oh! on precipices of vitality

drop me down the wells of foolishness i say to the bucket that kicked god. i am holy says the bucket. drop me down say i

as we know that dream is the only reality so we know the chasm between consciousness and barbarism (we cannot say light and darkness) is now of such distance as to be the primary seduction for humanity. it is this seduction that draws me down

no longer able to overflow into society i overflow into myself. and this shift in locus ... this migration ... i call a grammar of myself, a song of electric leaves