the choice (after all, after everything’s been somethinged)
is engaging in this world as it’s given or living in another – not one after or
other than this earth and life, not something now or in the future better – of the (sarcous) imagination. and for that one lives in zero, that one-zero that’s blurred in the
fuzzy logic of the transrational
zeroism as class and capitalism subversion … for what is
dimensional art other than the need for recognition by capitalism, a class clambering and unconsciousness, for the masters to get their money on it and by moneying it shelving it and by shelving killing? (do not the
margins get sucked in by capitalism’s embracive sucking and where then to read
if the vacancy is locked away and all that's seen is infinite dark text blinking in a small cell and the emptiness of light has fled?) yet what zeroism requests is a rerecognition …
a decognition … a codeignition …
heresiarch sadoo nogueira writes in the unshorn unshown soaring
book of dis –
the only noble
destiny for a writer who publishes is to be denied a celebrity she deserves. but
the truly noble destiny belongs to the writer who doesn’t publish. not who
doesn’t write, for then she wouldn’t be a writer. i mean the writer in whose
nature it is to write, but whose spiritual temperament prevents her from
showing what she writes
amazing lace how sweet the mound
that ruined a slut like me
i’ve always been lost never been found
and am blind from hiv
when i’ve been fucked ten thousand times
dark shining as the void
i’ve still got time to do more grinds
until i’m finally destroyed
the baton of exploration has passed from those terrestrial adventurers
who mapped physical earth and gave it to the new masters to dominate in the newold ways …
to those who wander in the unmapped lands of interiority (and these lands are slightly
larger than the earth) ... but we have learned, we voidturers, what the masters do
despite their smiles and assurances and strokings. we do not pass our knowledge on, we do not give our grammars to the cunning linguists nor our ways to the anthromonogists
i don’t side with you. i realize that dooms me. what else am
i to do? this notsiding (which is also a long alongsiding) is zero
a zeroist writes text the way kafka wrote amerika – without ever having been
there. a zeroist writes specifically about what it knows nothing or little
about and in this way enlarges the nothing. a zeroist fattens zero, not for any
slaughter or mockery or operation or for some rapacious carnist coroner, not for some scripty role, not even to fatten. a zeroist writes and
writing is a fattening with neither weight nor substance
and quoth the raven zeromore
