bum u

i am a bum. bum bum bum bum bum

bums are as necessary as mouths hands eyes livers

but you treat them differently

imagine what you’d be like without bums

you’d blow up from all that shit inside you!

           

you need to get it out and we’re your getter-outers

i’m the most productive bum on the planet

i have excellent texture and regularity

i’m so clean you could eat from me

i smell like lavender and cacao

i work from when i awake to when i sleep and even when i sleep

i don’t watch tv or drive a car or own much of anything except books and music

i’m mostly vegan

i walk and read and watch films and listen to music and walk and write and walk and walk and sit and watch and walk and write and watch and walk

(i’ve played the structures of work in the nonbum world and only bum now plays well)

you’re born into givens and say

we will fit into the givens

a common response

but if everyone did that the givens would be caves and clubs

art, science, philosophy, technology, mysticism come from bums

the uncommon from what you despise, cover up, deny, exploit, clinicize, institutionalize

the common from the uncommon

you from the common

{colonialists pretending you’re anti-!}

{supremacists wearing democratic makeup!}

i am a bum      a bumbum          a holy eye of turd

i call myself among other things … a sadoo

sadoos. bums. we’re everywhere. we’re common too

writing viii

writing is a translation from one necessity to another. initially this translation feels like a freedom, but time translates the feeling of freedom to another necessity. so … from necessity through necessity to necessity. let no one then speak of writing as a pleasure, unless it is a dark one. yet writing laughs in darkness, in the way that death laughs. writing is the deepest of comedies. melville suitably placed these comedies in the ocean’s depths.

writing makes manifest the dna of the city and sets this against the cosmology of the observable universe, not in opposition but in radical and unspeakable union.

writing, in taking issue with time, is equally a covert energy at odds with money. not because time is money, as the commonplace goes, but because writing subverts everything … time and money simply being two of the dominant present commonplaces and so so easily subverted. (to say that time is money is only to reveal a wholesale incomprehension of time, money, and the copulative. time is as equally a cabbage or a totem.)

i would like to see rainbows not of colour, of spectra of light, but of text, of multihued words, appearing not in the sky as an arc but in the canopy of mind as supernumerary hyperspheres of dream.

writing stains white light with sins of blackness.

the towers of the city are trees. i cut them down with the axe of my mind and thinly slice them into blank surfaces for words that use my body for their transit.

i do not say these are my words, this is my work. at most i say these words may have, like dragonflies, settled once on my flesh. we are not each other’s. i have briefly been fascinated by their light and indifferent touch. they have briefly used me for purposes i hardly understand.

the seeming infinity of language is to action as the seeming infinity of the universe is to the earth.

oh words. what should i do with you in the dump of my soul? you do not belong there. it should be silence and flies.

when i write, it is not as if something draws me toward it. rather, nothing draws me. and in this empty picture or unused well i write and the words that form are water on water, some elemental union of void and deworded word.

i look at the city’s cells stacked like tarantula containers. words, fed weekly, taking years to grow, then crawling mature and fragile into a world of long and innumerable blades.

writing avoids the world’s causticities and hard illusions by ingesting them and shitting them out on soiled pages which humans sniff and, smelling themselves, celebrate. any true writer drily laughs behind its salaciously ascetic face.

i write the way i walk. aimlessly. with my eyes as legs. the city as the page and my flesh a pen. non-linearly. distracted. whole. diffused. holographic. hopeless but not despairing. open. omnipotent. free. deneeded. one.

silent spring definitions

society (verb) [pl. anomie or fluoxetine]

1.   a folie à plusieurs comprised of nested folie à plusieurs

2.   admixtures of folie à plusieurs attempting to enforce other folie à plusieurs to believe a forced folie à plusieurs is a true folie à plusieurs and the enforcing folie à plusieurs is hardly a folie à plusieurs but the bastion of necessary sanity and wisdom

capitalism (article, definite) [pl. sigil-transduction]

1.   a brand of laundered eugenics

2.   god, having given up

3.   technology’s social sibling

4.   nature wearing too many clothes

5.   christ selling tickets to his crucifixion

6.   the tyranny of the middle

7.   a religion of soft genocides

8.   plutonomo release 11.7

9.   utopia hyperuranios

Monday Thoughts

Art is the rabid inner necessity, at the cost of anything, of composing an emotional language that precisely describes one’s experience in the world.

The evolution of art is proportional to expanding ripples of subversion.

No real errors exist anymore—only simulated errors.

The word, being dead or at least in the earth reconstituting itself, murmurs in shaky archetypes, and those of us, revenants of the word, grasp at hearing while the world around builds its stratagems of noise.

Life, if you’re lucky, is an enjoyable disaster.

Sipped absinthe and chomped chocolate chips, while listening to Dreyblatt and The Books:  sometimes life is perfect.

Necessities are tedious, irritating, distracting; necessity is seductive and, like all true seductions, deadly.  The artist is always battling necessities to confront necessity, always seeking the inaccessible singular behind (?) the omnipresent plural.

Christ in the gospels casts “Legion” out of the “madman” into the pigs; the madman then presumably reintegrates into society, gets a job, a spouse, some kids.  Yet today, would we not rather say that Legion must remain within:  not only is there no place to cast them into but I do not desire to be exorcised.  The irreducible plurality and contradictoriness within is our fuel and we use this inner ineffable divinity to refute Christ and all in society that are his silent inheritors.  Legio mihi nomen est, quia multi sumus.

Those of us whose souls are formed of many centuries should be able to assemble (cafeteria-style) our own custom time-based century from our own internal psychic one.  Kafka:  the clocks are not in unison.

In the First World, money is a subsidiary of the imagination; in the Third World, neither money nor imagination exist, other than as subsidiaries of necessity.