Yoko Ono's "Grapefruit"

Whether by cusp or bog, this book's significance is the lather at which can sugar-coat your temperamental getty-up (knowing that it hasn't "got up and went"): Beckett's “Gurgles of outflow" is only as suitable, in this case, being you like to charm your absurdist-sensibilities. Perhaps, even then (or not) you could burn it afterwards? (She says so.) It's a must-read, I say. This book will undoubtedly get your grapes a'prunin' and your creativity a'swoonin'. As far as myself, I could never burn it. If anything, I would gulp it down righteously with a cold glass of freshly-fetched Milk.

Dear Gills of Light,

Dear Gills of Light,

Something Celestial has happened. I took a bite out of Edward Hopper's ribs and swallowed shadows and luminance of color (1931 Color Space). I stood there, gloaming like a political pickle. I watched my fingers fold inward towards my wrinkled palms, fingertips slowly touching the palms (the equivalence of a dog changing pace on command), caressing and rubbing, like a Capuchin Monkey. Your shadows and chromaticity move me like Wang Xizhi's wrist, rearing geese. I smeared the what was left over the clean flesh of my palms, leaving streaks, dark (deep) red (showing my fruity side) and then a pink-discolorization at the tail of each smear—the reduction of color—undesired, yet debilitatingly-uncontrollable like Kali's energy.

The feeling of almost being touched (deserting breath). The skin crawling before the final motion, like bullets exploding before hitting their targets. It will always be the outer-dimension that runs bare through the silence like a small amphibian—spine-bearing—the development of whatever immense thickness can be discovered. Who are you and aren't you fossilferous?—making contact with suitable unknowns, inhibited like bacterial ribosomes. I see thru you but I don't, like looking thru dirty obsidian. At what point do you blur before I blink? The hook, you enter it rapidly and I dangle off of your unfunctional hoofs like dewlap.

Your exigencies are seen as admirable—no dangerous errors, no mistrust of accumulation—keeping my vanishable appearings and re-appearings amidst the stricture. I won't linger amongst the groupuscules. I have become a human Trichoptera, hatched Homeomorphismically by the physical interaction of light—yet my diametrical shadows won't be withheld any longer. You must keep embracing me as if I were a re-acquaintance. I will forever be your consistent burgeoning.



Ever-expanding Language

Without absolute limitations (the "outer" must be obtained thru the "inner"), upon pronouncing conclusions reached (from personal opinion, or the point of some other capability) that one will either speak, or hold back their assumed 'senseless' phrases in their personal biosphere, (dangling off of a planet like a goat's beard). Those "abnormal compulsive motor impulses" that are at one's disposal aren't always factual. The "facts" (without distracting one's embossed speculation), are honest and eye-raising, depending on one's belief-system; whether or not there's proof to consequence their reactions (assuming that most everyone deliberates upon speech/language), and whether the words are suppressed into subaction, there's often nonsensical statements which are often deciphered as "nonsensical" because of the lack of 'listening skills'; and/or, perhaps by the fact that the leading idea is missing, or somehow temporarily thinned. I've always found photography to be thoroughly similar in all progression; imagery as a "form" of Language. Words "appear" from visuals, which is why we are able to "explain", "describe", &c. what we see (as well as what we "hear" [another "form" of Language] and vice-versa), and provide commentary for people's art, whether electronically-assembled or in other various formats.

If you enjoy the "materialistic" language, then Imagining Language: An Anthology By Jed Rasula and Steve McCaffery is for you, and is a must read, in my opinion. Here and Here are some really excellent reviews/examples of/from the book.

From Öyvind Fahlström's Manifest for Concrete Poetry (1953): MANIPULATE the material of language: that is what will justify a label such as concrete. Manipulate not just overall structures: rather begin with the smallest elements, letters, words. Move letters around, as in anagrams. Repeat letters in words; intersperse alien words: gla-ten-dly; alien letters: aacatioaoana for action; explore children's secret code language; vowel glides: gleaiouwdly. And of course "lettristic," newly invented words. Abbreviationmania to coin neologisms, exactly as in everyday language - we already have Lawleares. It is always a matter of reshaping the material and not allowing oneself to be reshaped by it.


"Rimbaud's Colors" by Kim Kerze

Black Blood
spoke inside my skullsockets shattering my elongated fingerpulses
like an axe struck on an iron floor.

Red Blood
ran across my tonsils & fixed epidemic needles within the rivulets
of my imagination.

Green Blood
careened thru my nerves, pivots, pulled back, suspending
the moment of implosion.

Blue Blood
dreamt the moon into clusters of broken raga drones, poured pages of grief
into a smoking cigarette.

White Blood
a billowing crackle of static bursting open in my retina- all shadows ghost
into an impossible present


An Obvious Conversation

"I watched a mosquito land on my leg today."
"What was it doing?"
"Trying to suck my blood."
"I watched a moth get tangled in a spider-web last night."
"What did you do?"
"I stood there and watched it try to escape."
"There was a dog in someone's yard when I jogged by the other evening."
"What did it do?"
"It barked at me."
"There are strange red lights in a house in my neighborhood, and they are always on."
"Where are they located?"
"In the Living Room."
"I wore a white t-shirt yesterday and splashed a blue-liquid cologne on the shirt before leaving for the store."
"How did it smell?"
"My legs fall asleep sometimes."
"Because they are crossed upon one another for too long."
"A giant bee frightened me when I went to check the mail the other day."
"Because they make me paronoid and that particular bee lives inside of the wooden base that holds the mail-box."
"The television glows at night."
"What for?"
"Because I turned it off."
"I picked a scab earlier."
"What happened?"
"It bled."
"I bought a hollow, chocolate Easter rabbit."
"What are you going to do with it?"
"Eat it."