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
