Subjunctive rearticulation project

let’s get serious, say good by I love you, so long, been nice, so long, someone's got to die, waiting for another on time, A bomb, or maybe not. Cut off, collectively lost, as long as you believe in, as long as you think, as you believe in thinking in believing in . . . click your heels, repeat after me, we are not talking proxy portraits, or ideological traditional sophist, or single issue essentialist, or utopian politicians in to an out of time, falling in and out of the service of “truth,” to another, for another, in love with “truth.” Repeating, you have to believe, you must believe, listen to the mother and father read books and repeat after me, I can not represent myself, we must represent the not representative whole impossible to repesent, the higher broader bigger blogger. So, let's get personal and translate violence into an from, wondering are there more morals coming? We all, can not wait to read more of the same long neck gods talking to the pigs, the pigs to the horses, and the mysterious shadow making mysterious hand motions, waiting to dine. The tableau is set, you arrive, there is ample bread, plenty of plenty, translation disappears, there is no need for need, an argument begins, we all go hungry, start a war of wars, the divine majority sings creation creation song in the celestral cathedral till dawn... we say good by I love you someone has to dy.

NEGLECTORINO PROJECT @ PhillySound

Check out welcome to the NEGLECTORINO PROJECT @ PhillySound
Edited, compiled and a ton of work by CAConrad
 

The great devide by Chakravarthi Ram-Prasad

Kumarila claims that something that is called an "I" exists, established by the fact that an I is constantly present in thinking. Sankara, however, argues that this only shows that there is subjectivity —the presence of consciousness—not that there is an object named "I." The apparent existence of an objective self is an illusion, created by the logic of the grammatical use of "I" in language.


Strange names, certainly. Strange thoughts? Anybody who has read philosophy in the west will not think so—provided that Kumarila (7th century) is replaced with Descartes (17th) and Sankara (8th) with Kant (18th). The point is not the polemical one about whether it was Indians or Europeans who had these thoughts first (the ancient Greeks and early Islamic thinkers are also in the running). The point is not that the Indians deserve study because they thought like Europeans. The point is simply that, for many reasons, the Indian thinkers are unknown to contemporary western philosophy, and are likely to remain so. The same is true of Chinese thinkers.
more....

CANTO 37 by David Bromige and Rychard Denner

And his death, quaint.


"I like quaint.


I like to cultivate quaint, to have quaint hanging round my ardent gate, there is nothing like quaint. I look at her, and I think "quaint," and when this happens, I am attracted. Metaphorically speaking. Eating quaint for breakfast, lunch and dinner. 

          
 Intellectually, penetrating quaint. 



I want to know quaint back to front and upside down and inside out, and I have the equipment for the task, I'm told. 



Quaint is a spring day in the rain 


in England's Cotswold Hills, 

       
    by the bait-house, beside the marsh, at eleven standing beside


her sister who is sixteen 


           inches taller, and thinking you'd better not go to bed with her. 


           Quaint is not merely decorative it fills with meaning & some of it sticks. If I get up in the morning, it's thanks to
quaint. I can't recommend quaint highly enough.
. . . more

At Big Bridge 11

"INTER.WOVEN“

"INTER.WOVEN“ is an interactive piece meditating about time and space, about nature and seasons.
INTER.WOVEN [3*4]

music: Christophe Petchanatz 

Reiner Strasser, Sept. 2005

"INTER.WOVEN“ is an interactive piece meditating about time and space, about nature and seasons.

A couple I meet in Mandu

a new zealand journal of poetry and poetics

k a   m a t e   k a   o r a  
a new zealand journal of poetry and poetics
 d e c e m b e r   2 0 0 5

R o b e r t   S u l l i v a n
J o h n  N e w t o n
 A l i s o n   H u n t 
S u z a n n e   N o l a 
M u r r a y   E d m o n d

My dreams by Indira Babbellapati

itinerant dreams
stray any where, any time
wind-swept dreams
lie everywhere in mounds
sometimes they even settle
by the sewage of an unknown landscape
bird dreams peck and flap
powdered dreams alter
into the talcum
sprinkled on the floor
by the little one trying
a make-shift skating rink
damp dreams
cartography of seepage
on the weather-beaten walls 
drizzling dreams spray
fresh breath of life on me
lying tight under the summer blanket

i turn dizzy.

skating nightly dreams
fill the mornings with mocking dreams

under an unseen blanket
i patiently await nightfall

 Postcolonial Text > Vol. 1, No. 2 (2005)

ALSO
Three Poems

Subjunctive rearticulation project

There must be a crazy power, intermittent instruments and or vehicle. A chain of water, unchained, rippling pages full, while others drop away. I think flashing panoramas, a natural harbor seeped in the sun’s implicit staying, firm ballooning, speechless jest, tittering, momentarily there. Someplace not rip-tooth skyline, girded frozen acetate. Someplace obscure. Someplace not a prophet’s immaculate condensed reality, enforced by piers, plagued by an outside outside, garbing disappearing starlight. There must be in a world of words, uncentered decay, light penetrating flesh to bone, without a conveyor belt construct mapping another absurd rational predicament, something unfurnished, not already saturated with histories whispering sloganism. Someplace the foot falls, surrounded in a medium, clearly falling, gives way to conscious ramifications of air and disremembers walking, falls forward from the old, flowing in a lamp towards drawn supplement of love. there must be a dawn somewhere flashing quick, not plagued by decay and too many billowing words.

Dog vists Shrine in Bundi

Pinstripe Fedora is seeking new work

The Editors of Pinstripe Fedoraare seeking new work... please send asap..

Please send work to Pinstripe_Fedora@gawab.com with the subject SUBMISSION in the e-mail's heading.

Writing and Politics: A Few Passing Remarks, By Thachom Poyil Rajeevan

Politics and culture are appositional in all discourses. And, when it comes to literary writing, this apposition always turns into a sort of predation of one upon the other. Hence, throughout history, there is a carnivorous gleam whenever a politician and a writer come face-to-face. So, one has to sincerely disbelieve the camaraderie that Fidel Castro is said to have with Garcia Gabriel Marquez and one has to doubt Atal Bhihari Vajpai, the former Prime Minister of India if he says that he writes poetry and signs the files on nuclear tests with the same hand, left or right.

~~~

A LAMENT

Ants arrive first
silent, heads bowed:
searching for memory's
dampness
or sweetness,

they will creep on
the forehead, eyelids
lips nipples, hips.

Street dogs come next:
unable to make out
dry bloodstains,
they will pounce and bark
sniffing and licking.

When all leave
vultures swoop down:
they will flutter
pecking at the heart's
firmness
and the eye's depth

Worm
they may come anytime
from anywhere
even the earth entire
can't satiate their hunger.


Roots
they come last:
penetrating deep
into each wound
and secret,
sucking pain and bitterness
they will burst into
silent laughter

Main entrance to main temple @ Sanchi

Subjunctive rearticulation project

In the factor, ground level, do we know, unable to remember occupation, happening again and again? Maybe one is suppose to be here, maybe not, linked, tied, and restored for another interrogation, another temple of virtue questionnaire. It does not matter where the work is, watch your step on both sides, blue is no longer blue paradise financed by that that devours itself in a reign of fear, it is so much more, not ending with the physical, in the name of global unity, but now all can wear identifiable traditions, and hold a cell phone to each ear.

Milk delivery in Bundi

Subjunctive rearticulation project

I’m not always this way when slightly depressed, or when completely falling down the case case, landing on an alias cement floor, laughing, thinking, this is my confessional pain, segmented out in short aimless bits, thinking, this is a figure of speech to summarize a general way of being, a concept going on and on about itself, brought on by radon paranoia, brought on by a general deflecting quality of paranoia I can mass produce so well, thinking it is perfectly justified, watching those all doing this and that, that will always lead to that which is an it. .. . or when some idiot jumps out and says boooo . . . and my mind not being on some enlightenment plan, jumps right out of my figure of speech for some quality I'm not sure how to put into words, though if you picture arrows coming out of my head and where there used to be eyes are now drawn diminishing spirals . . . but this is not about some insurance plan, it is about a kind of desire one might find in a half assembled utopia, close enough to righteousness to be dogma, exclusive enough to be good marketing, where every one is doing the same scheme, and not, and instead of chanting some kind of sacred subtitled something, I am sitting here thinking about listening to some big pop music, on some big speakers in a big box, within a box, instead of being in right now plan I am in, thinking this is not it . . . this is a different knife of punctuation, childhood screams, wallowing motor cycles barking at the dogs and the dogs barking back, being drown down and covered by the billowing exhaust from oversized buses on testosterone . . . or some particular bystander with probing lips striding right in on a private conversation I am having with myself, or it seems like my self, since I am not sure the other person was truly listening, and going on about something about the mother, everyone here is always going on about the mother, or their mother, this mother or that mother, put your life in the mother’s hand, give all you money to the mother, take care of your mother when she gets old, have you called your mother lately, wondering can the mother make my coffee this morning, listening to the bus horn dogs, thinking this must be the mother barking at the stars, or this must be the mother running out of milk and feeling slightly bruised in a periodic depressed state.

Mandu

Subjunctive rearticulation project

Everyday the assembly line forced to apologize, continues a practice of highly stylized panic, adding free trade assisted fruits and vegetables to next times plastic next time; beautiful freedom of choice, an alibi for political boil downs, a neo-truth new age, proudly illuminated contentment in cheat mark universal high secrets, bombing the kindness out of blue massing fingers of resists. Dear names and a billion others, there are holes left next to the scorpion, burrow deep, see the infinitesimal points and feel the sting, brute and void, the crush manifest pain, the delightful offering pain.

Some new blogs to check out!

Didi Menendez

realpoetik
with a new editor Petrus Andersen

bright stupid confetti (Chris Higgs)

Subjunctive rearticulation project

let me say
like the subject I am
one prayer
one collective chant
from a remote nowhere
ten thousand wishes
a billion dreams
six billion longings
24 /7
may or may not
not account for nothing
or something
or
may or not
be able to stop this
tittering
multiple screen
divisive whatever
whenever whoever
who is now
dying, bleeding
hungry, beaten
threatened, forgotten
bought and sold
I can not comprehend
do I have the will?
crumbling under
the world blank
blindness
national greed water wars
GMO's hold a positive and negative charge
standing in water
electrodes to genitals
does it hurt yet?
what is your position
or possession(s)
or what part is part
rank on rank
ditches dark dung filled
passionless living breathing
mostly out of breath
legions, waiting to die
filling up and wanting more
and more and more
a double patty
quarter pounder
washed in blood
something website
treaty this or that
producing tremors
leading to derangement
if my lips where hungry organs
cool dark remembrance of the sixth extinction
could recall them all
all the psychic entities
disappeared due to
this and that
HIV AIDs
this is the international version
this is the UK / USA version
this is an intervention
a realm of necessity
a dark procession of the dead
winding across the water
all pleasures and pains
remembering all past pleasures and pain
brought to you by
a remembrance gone
swallowed
obliterated left littering the street
chanting in an orgy of prayer
echoing still

subjunctive rearticulation project

tell me how connected bodies blinded by remote thresholds of blindness, swim in glacial river zones? How a heart like a heart, like lips, like an ocean, how drudgery of reentry combinesLas Vegas and the Nevada Test Site? How we can be so conscious of delight and corrective ideology at the same time, acting out clear cutting interventionist practices in public delirium, where the value word enough, is never enough to see through alter egos tall enough to blind, while mercantile dreams continue to dance laughing vignettes on our sleeping remains? Tell me how to speak to holiday campers who colonize a colonized land without being caught at the base of my throat? How do we continues to live this imperfect capacity of sympathy at war with the collective body, desperate for an equation glimmering in nationalist bric-a-brac singing simple text books long one way exit signs.

Subjunctive rearticulation project

Thoughts of starting over plug-in, walking on water runs another rebuilding separate somewhere zip code . . . doors close on delight’s given moments in any given field, at any given time. Granted, perfect relates to imperfect semi-bodies fixated sum total, helpless limitations, standing sheer on darkness ridge, stirred by prayer and hope’s hopelessness layer on the newly born, miles from old heron labs with no problem, only mind, no water shortage, only mind. A race to nowhere, suggesting, you will die doing going nowhere, with nowhere to go . . . looking, longing for specific organic instances of another empirical ideological subject to emerge, for a strong hard currency march to heaven’s anesthetized reality, chanting counterhegemonic mantras, “we are the state desires.” A bit of space, the buzzing returns, swarms of workers not realizing the collective power in words continue to build heaven’s empirical zip codes.

!!!!!!The Deadline for contributions to Disaster2 is FEBRUARY 15,

Disaster, a new journal of visual art, experimental poetics and radical politics

Size of Journal Pages: roughly 8.5 x 11 inches

Disaster accepts:

+ Multiples: Send handmade or mass-produced multiples in editions of 50

+ Black and White Artwork: Send originals for xeroxing** include address for return OR Send digital files of Black and White Artwork for printout and xeroxing

--> As seen in Disaster 1, **xeroxing will yield a grainy quality in grayscale areas. Some visual art may be deemed too difficult to xerox and publish in Disaster. Visual art should be conceived to accomodate variation from xeroxing. <---

+ Text (poetry, stories, criticism, hybrids): Send hard copy or e-mail attachments

For all contributions, include: your name, mailing address, titles and layout instruction (if any)

Marcus Civin, 3435 Cesar Chavez #334, San Francisco, CA 94110,
Marcus_Civin@hotmail.com

Jaisalmer

Subjunctive rearticulation project

the night wears on, the milk curdles, silence engulfs me with crime’s endless hours. For some the hereafter’s slight effacing enters an essential faculty; to fix the real real to will power, to formless undermining opposition, to boredom and low grade banality, rewriting narcissists lower case gift to all. I leave the general dissolve feeling; shame, not shame, sadness, not sadness, wanting to identify the faculty’s systems and in doing so, not wanting to generalize, and in doing so something attempts forced detachment of the self . . . can not, so, continue the production line, outlawing certain outlawed practices, satisfying paranoid instability to a more normal pretend, frightened almost religion. And despite everything going on, the war goes on pregnant with envy, consuming fleshy subjects, depositing automated division, asking for visual equanimity to annoyances. Beyond paved dismissal, party loyalty and above the darkness, the night wears on, the milk curdles, silence engulfs me with crime’s endless hours.

Relief in the step well at Patan

Some shameless self promotion

Check out the new Hotel Amerika:

Volume 4 No. 1 
Eugénio de Andrade,
Liz Beasley,
T. Alan Broughton,
Chard deNiord,
kari edwards,
Brendan Galvin,
Steve Gehrke,
Georges Godeau,
John Hollander,
Sándor Kányádi,
Jesse Lee Kercheval,
Jennifer L. Knox,
Leonard Kriegel,
Peter LaSalle,
Alex Lemon,
Laura McCullough,
Sean McDonnell,
Eduardo Milán,
Aimee Nezhukumatathil,
Liza Porter,
Bonnie Ruberg,
Tony Sanders,
Steven Schwartz,
Richard Selzer,
Virgil Suárez,
Gladys Swan,
Joe Taylor,
Susan Tichy,
Tony Trigilio,
David Wagoner,
Diane Wakoski,
Daneen Wardrop,
Tom Whalen,
Carolyne Wright,
Zyllah Zala.

Hotel Amerika
360 Ellis Hall
Ohio University
Athens, OH 45701

Mandu

Jaisalmer fort wall

Subjunctive rearticulation project

obvious to the rain that fell, pure and wet, whose petals devolve into wounded words, out of each mouth comes self-maintaining furniture, velcroed and tarnished. Linking future failure to clash of wills, divided bodies and eavesdropping conspiracies to overdetermined dream text slavery, or slavery dream text messaging, massaging economic slavery, or importation of personal effects denied, due to contrary mythological magic acts, practice parties asking, I hope you see it is for our own nationalistic interest to hold hostages, asking for 100, 001 jumping hop responses. O how wonderful to push the mind when the body is a voice-over something simulation in a brown and yellow atmosphere. O, darkness, O coin deposit checkmate, summarized complaint of united shifting incorporated territorial waters, protected by crudely visible states-within-states, monstrously navigating through skeletal remains, standing, shaking, hungry proxies of human scenarios, asking for nothing, but a ride home and a blessing.

Color of Pushkar

Some food options @ Pushkar

Subjunctive rearticulation project

What would happen if we heard each other while climbing, heard the truth in each word, standing in unity, in a state of equanimity? What would we fear standing along with incorrect prepositional phrases, if we did not fear each others perfect imperfections, while we climbed, bound by bone, fasten to flesh? Would we need nationalistic borders, entry committee quotas, bleeding silver fish infested dictionaries? Would we need to pretend we are the most enlighten locomotion, all the while scheming economic survival, if we held each others love while climbing? If we are doing the doing, can the flame that can, consume us, a drift in motion, if we only talk while we fall? And can the faithful fable driven by passion to be a fable, be more then a fable? Can the over wrought abstraction, help us dust off death while we all burn?

You are Wallace Stevens. You are a sad, beautiful
insurance salesman. You write sad, beautiful
poems about nature and impossible things.


Which 20th Century Poet Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

Flash update: Man held for hitting urinal work

A 77-year-old Frenchman has spent a night in custody in Paris after attacking a plain porcelain urinal considered to be a major artwork.
The urinal - called Fountain - was slightly chipped after the man hit it with a hammer on Wednesday.

subjunctive rearticulation project

trinity has been illuminated, the water poisoned, time table spies are at each corner and there is trouble in paradise; wisdom quits, shut out again, and again. We have reductio ad absurdum, repeating violent paradoxes by stunning thought’s antithesis, forgetting it is the passage, not accumulation. Repeating how can one, within a context, flesh-out wild speculation, before and after the beginning, now, forever and beyond time, that which can never be described. Each with its own effect, that effects the effect, an undefined rhythmic whole, predetermined without an original inherit end and or beginning, sending something mind longing for euphoric squalor or useless unsafe post card perfection. Waiting for whatever, claiming it's in the mind, it’s all mind, nothing but mind, claiming mind claiming something fluid; geography bodies, surface probabilities, accumulation procedures, sugary denotations, fenced voices that dwindle without broadcast, useful mountains of neatly stacked lumber, lollipop paws on the counter of everything. Development and progress of the world regulated according to some measured, sounds good divisible by a sentence, exchanged for points in space, worked out in advance, is a result of . . . that is in relation to . . . whose war is . . . whose lite heaven receives the most sponsorship in anticipation of g-d’s limited engagement, for those believing in air conditioned patterned polyester, plastic wrapped rubble by the second, burying the dead and tirelessly speeding away.

Subjunctive rearticulation project

The complaints keep piling up, I count 12 x 12 x 12 x 12, it is another world world, writing blank blank about blank objects, getting blank complaints about blank x 12 x 12. So, let’s begin with a place, an ideal (not so ideal) place, something ideally ideal, 12 x 12 a place space, static pile-ups, human and non-human merge through detour psychic cartography and non-qualitative personalities; metric objects, by lack of rigor colonization. Interior forms immerge by document worn blank, suffused by 12 x 12 complaints, about blank something ideas or ideals (no so ideal). There are fundamental errors in fundamental human non-human static thought form interchange, core errors in the original statement, in the incapacity, and impotencies, fortifying self limitations, opaque over-payments for import / export convulsions, returning immortality to immediate panic energy surcharges, x 12 x 12. So, blank plies-up, crashes mad hatter into judgment hour, fails to acknowledge the vast two hand machine, the beginning place complaint machine, without the question, “how did narrative happen to produce a normative blank times blank, with a lack of psychic documentation?” Something too non-human, too human emerges, cast darkness to sex, or to the sea or other non-localities x 12. Question marks disappear, trampled by coffin alphabets. So, let’s (not) begin another (not) ideally clean colonized metric object. Let’s get out of blank fortified mythical panic rigor, close in semi-reality reality, both human and non. Let’s create a space place in matter operations of matter something subconscious 12 x12 12 x 12, someplace to bear witness to the slain in a corridor of dead clocks.

Three girls somewhere in Jaisalmer

Some wonderful shameless self promotion

Happy New Year Book anouncemnt.... NEW - obedience - kari edwards - Factory School Press - .

I would like to welcome to the New Year to you from India by announcing the publication of my new book, "obedience" from Factory School Press.. You can either order it directly from the publish (Factory School - see below) for $10.00 or SPD (also below) for $12.00..

I do hope you enjoy... and for all those that helped and who but the book thank you..

kari

obedience
Poetry
Factory School. 2005. 86 pages, perfect bound, 6.5x9.
ISBN: 1-60001-044-X
$12 / $10 direct order

Description: obedience, the fourth book by kari edwards, offers a rhythmic disruption of the relative real, a progressive troubling of the phenomenal world, from gross material to the infinitesimal. The book's intention is a transformative mantric dismantling of being.


www.factoryschool.org

www.spdbooks.org

Close-up of wasp hive in India