Semioanalysis Discotheque
Friday, August 22, 2003
 
It's a hard life, being a Franco-Germanic poet in Cambridge. Your flashing lights and sirens confuse and disorient me. Your billboards cry out "De Tocqueville was here."
 
My favorite hobby is bricolage, adjusted by seatbelts and fermenting stares. Next to your platelets, the current rushes in on Newsweek and aftershock, culminating in a wave of party favors. I sense myself speeding toward a new gastronomic distress.
 
I now declare the following things to be dead:

art, poetry, the individual, sex, love, rock n' roll, God, religion, communism, tree-hugging, human nature, the book, peace, the artist, the author, compassion, guilt, the intellect, the intellectual, freewill, fate, the democratic party, culture, civilization, government, small business, diplomacy, conscience, meaning, the self, identity, identity politics, nostalgia, the past, the future, the present, science, writing, the avant-garde, activism, philosophy, silence, nature, community, truth, justice, freedom, privacy, anarchism, feminism, the family, the "new man," social welfare, equality, and reading.
 
No accents, no umlauts, what am I to do? Othered by hidden ideologies of blog structure, I seek solace in your Pretzel Combos and Sprite Remix.
Thursday, August 21, 2003
 
Vous me faites rire avec votre discipline intellectuelle, Puff Daddy.
 
As the great writer Emile Depuis le Temps once said, "I like a little literary criticism with my literary journalism." Then he was squashed by a train. I would like to filibuster on you today, but decisions await the servant of capital, neon and cold bloom. We speak in hushed tones within compartments, as a majority eats and was eaten.
Tuesday, August 19, 2003
 
Today I am clipping my toenails while I listen to some of your American Indie Rock.
Monday, August 18, 2003
 
The computer screen is a jewel into which all other jewels are drawn. Strange lingo, its utterly conjugal attraction for my paste-impulse. Hot dog, butterfly spit-up. I want things to freeze in their unutterable tongues, as a falling vase smashes open and outward on the tile floor.
 
Sometimes when I am at work working I want to smear feces all over my face and scream "There is a solitude like black mud!"
 
I am the poet and the Karl. As I sit here eating my bowl of cheerios, I think of the world and its animated fund-seeking dialects. I also think of my dead uncle but that's less interesting. Oh, while I eat your American cheerios, I listen to the Pogues and Wilco with great intensity also. I am wearing gap jeans. I have many megabytes of ram in my hard drive.
Friday, August 15, 2003
 
I leave you now with some lines by one of my favorite American poets, Beverly Dahlen:

"the world was a promise, he said, the mustard seed. this
homely proverb becomes unhomelike, everything creeping
away, suddenly, a wind comes, it turns on its belly, crawls
away, the thing under me, crawling."

Note how disruption of syntactical unity creates new means of signifying, localizing meaning in nomadic structures, right here, but retaining an echo of a former structure. That boundary interests me.

I think now I shall go make some duck a l'orange for dinner.
 
I dreamt last night that I was playing football with the Marquis de Sade. He was wearing a helmet that had a giant phallus growing out of the top. I held a rosary in my hand very tightly, and as we approached the center line, suddenly a gondolier sped through the matter of the field between us, as though the astroturf had dissolved into water. Then fatal shoes descended from the sky.
 
I wrote a poem today, and then I burned it. Therefore I cannot share it with you. This is the generosity and freedom of the true artist.
 
Yesterday I went bowling with a group of American Poets, at an infested hellhole called Sacco's. The damp and sullen demeanor of the place inspired me to steal a pair of bowling shoes, which I wore to work the next day. Everyone informed me that I had discovered nothing new, but that in fact hipsters had been wearing these throughout the nineteen-nineties. I felt ashamed, and slunk home that night to watch my Mork and Mindy videos and be comforted by them.
 
Hello, my name is Karl Merleau-Marcuse. I am a Franco-Germanic poet who has recently immigrated to America. I am doing my best to make sense of this confusing, alienating capitalist culture swirling around me every day. Join me and my friends as we discuss contemporary American poetry and other vital cultural matters.

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