A Frankensex Scroll

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I was on the stage

That isn’t a dream

I was on the stage there

Mostly men and occasionally

One wasn’t thinking

One was dancing then

I was on the stage

Whipping my hair

On the stage there

A seriousness sat

And a loneliness

I was on the stage

Looking straight into the faces

Opening my lips

Straight into the faces

Terrible untrained

Looking straight into the faces

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Both users accidentally flew several times when trying to

point at something while describing it. The flying gesture

also mapped into

habitual gestures (e.g., placing a finger on the chin),

again causing inadvertent flight.

An obvious solution … is to make the flying gesture

a bit less common and natural. However, this creates a new problem. With only a few, natural gestures, learning is not a problem; but as the number of gestures increases, and as they are made ‘narrower’ to prevent accidental invocation, they become more difficult to learn and remember. … There is no magic solution here: the more natural a gesture is, and the more variations the system will tolerate in recognizing it, the easier it will be to do accidentally; the less natural a gesture is, and the more stringent the system is in recognizing it, the more difficult the gesture will be to perform. 1

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I draw a breath

drawing fingers

cross- hatched holding

smoothed hatchet of resin

aim full of fake birds gray

aim only being hatcheted

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belly full of birds

peeping into hide that’s

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into fog of rooms remembered

(wisps) drifting

there like curry

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being so around yourself

whale – atoms

a drop do sway on

suspending self-saying

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(skinned) window

there of swollen tongues

speaking as holding it

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grayed aim not swaying

low to tone-a room is

where air carries different

invading scents

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whale you’re a boat (now)

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hair burning visible

tilting currents

around tilting aim

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I am a camera with its shutter open, quite passive, recording, not thinking. Recording the man shaving at the window opposite and the woman in the kimono washing her hair. Some day, all this will have to be developed, carefully printed, fixed. 2

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You’re sitting here now

Having written the rest

The rest now burning

Having written the rest

Monk’s playing

Having thought it would clean you

Monk’s playing

Having thought then

What if instead it wouldn’t breathe

What if instead you squeezed the muscle of the camera

And stole every thought a photograph

What if instead the man who was looking through holes through

You and instead the boredom kept clicking

As your body making the same course

In the air leaving

Without a thought which made it greater to aspire

In a human place

Making yourself

Making body repetitions

Like falling into corners

Where you were before

Body pulled into corners and proses occurring

In accord to how much strength is used to come

Out of the corners of gravity

Layers of gravity points according

To where the skeleton was before and after

But we were becoming inhuman then

So took no pictures as tourists

Forgetting can from acting only

Each reel I have

A strict series of movements

Neither comfortable nor natural

You know what’s coming next

You already wrote it

Even then you refuse

To make a picture

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escaping into life

“an electric hurting”

(I quote myself at some length)

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What happened in the underlife

We’re told this isn’t ‘that world’

It’s another where

But in a literary journal

Where a poet who raped

his daughter in some gobble scene and died in jail

Rather than deny that

By invisibility when we learned

In that ‘world’

We didn’t disappear

The ‘world’ which isn’t

Some different place

Think through things without knowing others desolation

‘The world’?

If one were in a life-bubble

Concentrating on only ‘difference’

Between comforts

I write a poem about someself weeping and thinking through other bodies

I write a poem to forget about the world but I can’t

In the literary journal the poem rested there

Think and Forget (Second Method)

Thieves, the blowing sand, only camel’s milk to drink. C. laughs.

A million stars. In Chicago I was going towards six, tied to Kid Jack.

New Orleans. Brooklyn Heights. China Doll. Popeye.

It’s not the name for what you give away. A quart of water, or a dish of soup.

We knew a neck had been there once. Horses. Blondes. Arabs. Dogs.

So down, so high that I jumped in the river. A shimmering, a stuttering

River of multi-colored water. Bumble bees. Submarines. God made me a submarine.

He took it as a sign to start singing. A snip of the scissors.

The disk of the full moon, the shade of your hair over me.

I took on the whole bunch of creeps. Even the midget, Memphis Slim.

What a roll! Even the apples weren’t red.

Red is to open the arteries. Blue is the veins. And the bronchial tree done in white.

He learned that in some flea-bag motel. The wind off the lake. The water-birds.

The ones with blond hair and blue eyes. Saying, save me thou one,

From witches who tie knots.

Five and ten dollar jobs. Fifty cents French. Such is the livelihood of a pathologist.

Palm trees made of wax, wax leaves and fruit, wax dirt.

St. Mary’s Hospital. Park benches, in Brooklyn. South of Market. Deaf and dumb kids.

Cripples. Chinese. You’ve seen a man chasing a wild pig.

They’re like something I’ve seen. But then again the mind wants to quit hunting.

Overhead, and all around, the flowering peaches. Boston. St. Louis. Memphis. Memphis.

Thieves was the other name

Because every line was

I thought through

As life tied to my

What I remember as sources

Which isn’t fiction only

Or couldn’t be

Though it’s been exploited

As the people themselves

Teachers had said this was ‘old talk’

Meaning these characters didn’t exist now

Knew it wasn’t true

And so must be repeated

A deep-eyed music

I wanted to remember someone who’d died which sounds stupid

I’ve done all sorts of idiotic things to make the

That was showing the world with its predators

Who are also being poets and others

Who protect(s) them (?)

Unless time upbraids

The song against

What is happening

Small quiet shocks

I could write it

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He was cool. His mind had tamed. No one could see him. He began to reorganize the city.

I want to leave these fixed words and enter the dagger cities. 3

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Knee socks-tennis shoes

Puffy bangs perfumed

Caved mother-cushion

Enchanted Badger

Standard Bearer:

Neighbouring King

Fragrant Elephant:

Northern Barbarian

Long Nosed Goblin:

White Elephant:

Southern Barbarian

Western Barbarian

Poisonous Snake

Fragrant Elephant

Knight
Side Mover
Vertical Mover
Buddhist Devil
Donkey
Wrestler
She-Devil

Foreign-spiced stink

Chubby bad tackyclothes

Spilling swollen baby

Skinny with hidden piece

Sharp graying beast

Tails-pony and pig

Jeweled former priest

Squirrel-eyed-puffy

Monolithic nurse

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We’ve got a frozen arrow, it’s not a hourglass, it’s a frozen arrow.4

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Don’t think I’m not thinking what moves

What moves don’t think I’m not thinking this pose

And I can tell you’re thinking in pain won’t lie

Don’t think I’m not thinking this pose in a half-life

This is a pose and it hurts nothing’s doing nothing natural

Got an eyeful we remembered real; that’s fake in the make

I’m not thinking all blanks of white when you first fist

Piss pricks the room smells like shit

Open eyes and force to look a kind of shame my brain’s

Getting hot heads up in a flame

Shut it up shut it up Open Up

Mouth open up what are you learning here

I try a pretty pose fuck you come off it

Try saying anything try saying maybe but repeat just repeat

Some loose nothing word of an organ one note on an organ

Repeat what I said now repeat say it again I will ask you a question

And you know what the answer there’s no question blanks white in your mind

Write in your mind and then pose to have this hanging over your face

A fate hangs here hangs hands are useless now

By the hair we’ll count

To the toilet with the head this has been an historical re-enactment

This has been fucked we wanted the specific fuck there’s your shame

And continues to sick so why such a pretty pose motherfucker

Head in the toilet

And on the other end really literally the other end

From the head and then the other other end

End other other end end

I’m thinking a skull is ripping

But am hot skulled so just continued to love sick

Why your leg’s so strong I could stare that

Hanging there hanging

And pulling begins kissing forgiveness

Forgiveness forgiveness

Head in the toilet

Forgiveness love turn around

Turn around I want you to look at me

Turn around I want you to look at me

Turn around I want you to look at me

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(insert redeeming philosophical conversation)

(insert yourself)

(insert a plea for freedom)

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The art part, why does it insist on visuality. To think they control everything that they can control everything they can't control everything. What is a male fantasy. What does a male fantasize. The 'male fantasy' defined along its gender only and not its class (as if

economics had anything to do with sexuality) (the impact of labor on a body) (the construction of consciousness) male or female trained to obey or follow or adhere to a strict set of coordinates, survival mechanisms, experience of scarcity, its impact on a nervous system, inculcated in a social system whose parameters are not to be explored or modified but adhered to, the shape or state of a mentality that adheres, sticks to, a thought like the mastery of basic tools or tasks, pleasure in the repetition, making the same movement over and over again, even if it's the same mistake over and over again, until your body, your hands, know what they need to do to complete the task, learning to type like learning to play the piano or violin, or mastering the codes for a program, that it takes a lot of duplicating--the discourse of the replicant in the conference papers from Rotterdam and Kassel.5

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Reading a book in which the author goes through several bodies, many of them raped or murdered, while flat and ‘well-written’.

It does not embarrass me. They’re things in the world. But at one point I have to toss the book (it’s a habit) across the room. People want to speak, or are angry for different reasons. One is stuck inside a country and has never been out. Who is not stuck and has been out has seen the same things in the minds of those stuck inside a country. To rather be a traveler and not pornography. But, saying this, a static pose is also fascinating. In movement to understand or ‘get off’ the tapes are stopped or a particular pose vibrates there even as the new pictures move past, leaving milky over-shadows. Other images that are static poses also attach themselves to a frame which one is arranging secretly. For another time. To do this is to ‘get off’.

But this book doesn’t seem like truth. People are photographs in here under sticky plastic. In one a broom is put into a little girl by her mother. Suffering that is everywhere is put into people. As the broom into the little girl? People are also fiction who move in the world as if through characters and lifestyles.

Is it the suffering through poses? What is also fiction is what’s popularly in circles called silence—a clean silence, as a visual form—it also equals fascism. To force to see what’s clean and empty. Go clear and earn.

The woman is imitating voices who apparently do not have ‘air time’. As a gift of air time, I concede, her manner is dignified.

I would like to imagine, and it’s not hard, that the woman is on a mission from ‘bad things’. Are these things from the news? Experiences? Experienced through the news? Are they speaking up through her, as a spiritual frenzy? It is sad to me then, it’s curious, how similar it’s to the sensations and presentation of the first pornography.

Used and handled this also.

To merely reproduce the world and spit it back? If my mother rapes me with a broom is it ‘radical’ for me then to mirror her, that is, to establish being raped with a broom is an art form and to demonstrate raping in public in the same manner in which I was privately raped? If my mother takes me to the town square and rapes me with a broom in public have I been redeemed, has she? What is happening here? Is anyone understanding anything, or are they ‘getting off’? (My mother does this in public under some pretense, my mother does this in private.)

X goes to meet friends who are visual artists. When he describes a work several times he is ‘corrected’ by them. They restate what he said in theoretical terms. X’s descriptions are not inaccurate. But making meaning from one’s own observance and mouth—to not classify immediately, as a professional. For me it’s the same as having to say ‘human resources’.

Do I wish to imitate this language? At what point would my imitation become ‘subversion’ of it? It could, to be sure, in some hands. Many of the hands don’t know the difference. Is there a difference?

Really. I don’t want to use any of this. It’s unusable.

Does this use of language make me suffer, does it disgust me? People are also fiction who move in the world as if through characters and lifestyles.

One is stuck inside a country.

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Thought sex was

Naked in the light

And offspring now

Discussing whether or not Rimbaud is

A bad poet because he was a bad man

Who couldn’t have loved

Someone’s heart is breaking

Written in the states

To afford freedom

Bouncing out of the fucking margins (visually)

Who thought that was freedom too

Ugly naked camps

So this is my freedom

I move over the page

As if wearing a suit

We’re wood and strings

There’s gravity

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Everything music-made

And I made my self (musicked)

An electric hurting

To have watched the inhuman

With paper assholes, paper names

I wrote this first

“We chased ourselves with torches”

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1 Thomas Erickson, “Artificial Realities as Visual Data Visualization Environments.” Virtual reality: Applications and Explorations, 1993

2 Christopher Isherwood, Goodbye to Berlin, 1939

3 Clark Coolidge, Mine: The One That Enters The Stories, 1982

4 My former manager at the non-profit boiler room, Patrick, shouting across the room the nature of our technical difficulties.

5 Kevin Magee, Components For Differentials, part one.