zero more

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

a polylog : a hurrah for anything map, a dial log travel log, a periphrastic wrestling, a travelaid, a patacadastral survey of complaisance, complicity, paranoia and desire

a polylog :

a hurrah for anything map

a dial log travel log

a periphrastic wrestling

a travelaid

a patacadastral survey of complaisance complicity

paranoia and desire

i don’t remember anything that tastes like the tomatoes of my youth she says with a ciabatta halfway up her mouth like a drunken baby marmot in one of those eponymous cartoons and a lonely rocking chair in her psyche waiting for a feeling to finally run its course and long for a little outoftheway place to end its days but what i do – and she says this less to no one in particular than a klatsch of impressions punting on an abandoned canal of pleasure who (were one to be given the right to access to ask them) might say their interest in progress was lesser than the greater of the afflicted aspects of gravity – is an adumbration of a seedling of oneiric exhaustion like a tessellated diamond print that looks from a distance like a secret passageway to an outhouse replete with invisible doors leading to unmappable universes

nightshadecide i’m undetermined is a clear issue i respond with kalamata pits in my nostrils like a minimalist shaman from a warped and culinary internet you must in your murky galleries of fuzzy images recall us together touching an apple with our body parts under the crepuscular tree and it was not as if we were in love for love then was not anything one could be in for it only could be in and nothing then to enter

unmappabler unmappablest she says as if none of what i say registers anywhere, as if talking were not anything commensurable but a forensic rappel from an undeterminable edge and the sun when it is just an orange ball in the ragged boreal beach becomes plasmatic on calm meadows of distortion and the ciabatta sways suggestively and i cannot help but think of the time we were bitten on a fated limpopo by vitrescible gazes as we said the nadanoster to a glazier’s luminescent lechery

king kalamata caresses me she says he caresses like an imperial shag. all i would like to do is have utility companies make mistakes on my bills and have to eternally call them for recurrent restitution. i would get rich and all i’d have to do is call and king kalamata would do his ypapantis on me and my tomatoes would reunite like siblings on a weepy screen after long pyrocumuli of massacres and king kalamata would take me to maria polydamouri and we would echo chirp the chaos faint on beds of consumptive threesomes

i am touched by something reminiscent of ramen scent in a mendicant’s amen like a whiff of iffy whiff waff wharves and with shirataki in my hair and sansai in my yonsei say we have come to watch the living like a banquet of prophets and poets and diets of corsets and worms and butbitholes and corsages and who would join us in genius to genesis an isis’ myiasis and where is my william when will i am is gone?

she slouches. she slouches like a a jilted macaroni penguin. eurydice eudyptes euripides in conjugation sits in a eucalyptus in state or eupnea and i look through the unfathomable distances like tetradecapoda tetrazzini. please come back to our ommatidium and let us be rhabdomites together as we used to on hypnopompic escarpments

i am alone she says and my perception increases in indirect proportion to identity. my words are my earwax and the stage of myself is an intolerable song but it’s all there is and lunacy in a eupnea tree is just another form of wrestling

and we sit or something there or here the two or

so of us or them food all around and in or

of us and countertalk or transistorize a hurrah for polyperimapinguano surveywrestling anythings

travel gypos

the travel log, like all genres, is underdeveloped, encapsulated by its own traditions which incarcerate the family members, straightjacket their identities, and erect border walls between sensations, threatening the wildlife of thought with extinction

for this exercise – which we transiently call travel gypos or typos hypos – a juntetta of sadoos gathered loosely in chār qala to envision recounting of adventures in which the movements in exteriority and interiority are confused, as they always truly are but here, in travel hypos typos, we take this truly are and make it not the under but outerwear of our explorings

our primary orientation for this is the dial log, for all traveling is dial log and all dial log traveling (they both are deconstructed forests) and one who knows how to converse well has already crisscrossed the entire world

backpacking on the jalalabad asmar road

the roads are dusty and someone has ransacked our mandibles and our kindersurprises are strewn across the transport and the backseat’s stains look like rorschach tests she says the khwaja karzai rawash hamid ashraf airport is not busy but when is our flight to lal shastri babatpur bahadur radesh radish lol?

i am higher than a wildfire hazard and cuming like kafir kush but something not i manages to assemble a response from the smelly detrita of my broken brain why isn’t anybody looking for our departure time? we don’t want to miss this plane. the next one to lal shastri babatpur bahadur radesh radish lol might not be for six hours even tomorrow and where would we stay and what are our names?

but my fellow inhabitants are strung like xmas lights across a tree of interiority and the blinking from their souls tucked behind the cloacal curtain flies me to a worrisome refuge. she says our gillopy is the mantra of our salvation and our little plastic toys nazars of exhausted tomorrows. only the foreknowledge of our departure is the unwrapped gift stuck in consciousness’s unswept chimney

i rub some precum from a vat marked rodenticide on my lips as an antinganting. we are sad for the racing ducks in the little yellow pointy caps are not our friends but someone must have the tickets and why is no one helping and i can see us in the choir of the sun in manogay collecting firewood and crossing the border on staccato backs of melancholic rains

the landscape, violently brown and mutely chronological, looks at us as if we are toxic marshmallows taking selfies on a cosmic refrangibility. the hills are marred with lipstick and no one sings the wretched tunes

oh lollipops and chickenpox. we shall never get to khwaja karzai rawash hamid ashraf and our plane shall leave and shall arrive at lal shastri babatpur bahadur radesh radish lol and the ghats shall die without us, they shall fall like lesser adjutants, what shall we do?

but i’m stockpiling dried scataberries on a ledge of flowers for our defense against the night and she weeps a little like an anthrophobe or an amygdala on the runs drinking polyvinylpyrrolidone. we were almost there and now we are forever on these broken destinations and the planes are grazing like noxious buttercups and the airport talks to itself in reuptake selective monotones and our flight to lal shastri babatpur bahadur radesh radish lol is impatient like a siege

coming soon

more zeroes

more logs, more gyps & gypos