my want is to care about the ways I want to care about soil ph levels. to take off your samizdat
scruff and hush my nothing in the hush of a collective nothing. our mutual empties to cozy over
while the earth is marbled with coffee grounds and diapers and acetaminophen. our choices,
imping toward stasis: to be young and express a chair doing most of the talking. would you
believe the heath is more beside you than this?
“I am not utterly uninterested in humans.” but just how into the over-codified ideal of maleness
am I? I mean, I’ll perform a network analysis of windblown collectivities of street trash. for had
the sun not glinted on this mass of miscellany, I might not have stopped, pulled out my glowing
architecture and captured the assemblage. I am fully aware of my materialism, but the fact that I
own it does not negate it. I realize it requires “buying ever-increasing numbers of products
purchased in ever-shortening cycles.” the more objects I touch, the less force they exert upon
me until their desperation to exert force moves them to form the coherent waves we find
smooshing us into the sand. these solitons inertly decode our composition, the composition of
our desires. so how do we know the tide doesn’t recede by choice? again, whiteness in passive
objects to our active subjectiveness. do we even qualify as active? any moreso than the kinked
ping-pong ball or the ripped highway tire or the lead paint chip or the squeaking floor joist or the
frozen asteroid which each move and are moved in the matter flow? this movement constitutes
a form of autopoesis in which the proto-actant approximates the activity of the actant. the
thing-power of the gun powder residue sampler inscribes in the thing something resembling the
will of the spirit, equally unknown, unproven, and yet voluminously expounded upon for
centuries thanks to our centering of the subject in our onto-poetics. on the ethical radar screen,
the I is our god, and no amount of semiotic swerve will pull it from its orphaned royal throne. no
kinship of all things. no sudden mineralization of idea into concept into being. non-identity holds
sway over qualitative singularities, over the mobile set lacking a mineralized spirit. our faint
gestures toward some hedonistic self-denial, that commune we never form, are what kill us in
this fugitive dimension.
a common anomaly, or some shitbird culture?
mining for white noise, I’ll show you my road rash white cartilage. I’ll ask you into a game of dark
darts—which is just darts in the dark. we’re not here to read the sea within the sea.
we spill white spit from our cheeks and lips when we fall in the white stone shit ditch. we wake
up little by little by the shit we wake littled by.
do you wake up in yards after a whiteout night on the tracks? if so, how is your sheepskin
blanket so bloodlessly white?