Semioanalysis Discotheque
Tuesday, September 30, 2003
My other half spent three hours on the phone last night arguing with a Darwinian gender essentialist. I don't see what he's so upset about. It seems a central assumption in your society that the strong should crush the weak, then open a boutique. Everyone agrees on this, even Christians. Attention, you seduce me as a statue's gilded palm waves, your steel animals and lies drenched in hive-mind...
Monday, September 29, 2003
William Carlos Williams Crush List:

10. It's all in
9. the sound. A song.
8. Seldom a song. It should
7. be a song--made of
6. particulars, wasps,
5. a gentian--something
4. immediate, open
3. scissors, a lady's
2. eyes--waking
1. centrifugal, centripetal
What would a body that had not had history inscribed upon it look like? Probably like a chance alterior camel vase, napkins and vibrating head. It would not have a name you could stick a price tag or label on too soon. And that would be good, except for personal encumbrance of mooning clove, thrum inappropriate thus damp or stew, headed that way myself, thanks a whole lot.
Sudden impulse poetic crush list, in this unpredictable and disjointed age of shameless mass marketing:

10. Mark Lamoureux
9. James Cook
8. those early deKooning paintings where the subject's head appears to be dissolving into the background
7. Orangina
6. Gilda Radner
5. Ashley (my cactus)
4. a flattering wig
3. Ruth Lepson
2. Walter Benjamin
1. Gerrit Lansing
I watched two pigeons fucking during my lunch hour today. This has very little to do with poetry...or does it?
Betty is toothed! Toothed Betty -- that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
Karl's list of events this week (Boston & surrounding areas):

Jay Wright, poet
Monday, Sept. 29
Amherst Books (in Amherst, MA)
8 PM

Martha Buskirk, author of The Contingent Object of Contemporary Art
Wednesday, Oct. 1
Bartos Theatre, in the List Center at MIT
6:30 PM

Honoree Fanonne Jeffers, poet
Wednesday, Oct. 1
Russell House, Wesleyan University (CT)
8 PM

Nelly Reifler, writer
(introduced by Bill Corbett)
Thursday, Oct. 2
Wordsworth Books, Harvard Square
7 PM

Peter Gizzi, poet
Thursday, Oct. 2
Memorial Hall, UMass Amherst
8 PM

Sarah Veglahn, Nick Moudry, and Juliana Leslie, poets
Friday, Oct. 3
Wordsworth Books, Harvard Square
7 PM

Daniel Bouchard and Richard Deming, poets
Saturday, Oct. 4
Wordsworth Books, Harvard Square
5 PM
Quand le ciel bas et lourd Bacardi strategies for eliminating worry? Mon chat sur le carreau cherchant one step at a time pop diva! Laser hair removal d'une vieille hydropique success.
Great hooligans! To be several nights ago walking down a Gloucester street with the poet James Cook, and to be approached by a pair of burly men (no cowards they!) who shouted back "Hey, faggots!" while passing.

I was momentarily taken aback, until realizing that I had actually donned my "faggot suit" earlier that day and -- silly me! -- had in fact forgotten to remove it. Not knowing how to proceed for skirting your American values, whose caveman dissemblings eschew all discussion of the non-greenback variety, my musings were interrupted by James who called back "Karl, keep walking" and turned to face them. Like the chickenhawks who rule the skies in our neck of the globe, they crumbled when confronted, claiming they had merely meant to ask directions.

Later, we swish around in our mouths a kind of class-influenced questioning of New England: breeding ground for cynics, panacea, or divided territory? Destination, node in a string of destinations? You decide! (the only honest English meter, gloop, gloop).
Actually, Chris, I beg to differ. I myself would prefer an enormous (jumbo size) glossy book with my name printed on the cover twenty times in giant gold font that reads KARL MERLEAU-MARCUSE, ESQ., and enormous fawning ejaculatory blurbs on the back by those famous poets who write pretentious lyrical shit. And the book must be so heavy that no one person will be able to pick it up by themselves.
Saturday, September 27, 2003
Thus the virtual infects the real, and pus spews out of it, as out of a politician.
Today I found a canker-sore in the upper left portion of my mouth, adjacent to the right canine tooth, on the gums a little above where the tooth begins. When I run my tongue over it I feel a small depression in the skin, combined with a tinge of pain. This sensation fascinates me. When I grin it hurts a little, but sometimes it does not hurt. Sometimes when I eat very cold foods like your Cappucino Blasts, the canker-sore inflames and all the nerve endings ache.
I am the cynical, and thus the innocent, half. The other part, wizened and progressive, walks among you out there in the world, writing poems, earnestly trying to do something. Ha! I just constructed what looks like a chocolate bunny rabbit entirely from my own feces. Ha!
Friday, September 26, 2003
Can't decide whether fascism's symptom is anal-retentiveness, or noisiness and confusion. Mistakes we have in common, excluding parental guidance stickers, should become bonding in some small way. Kiss me. Huts littered around the decrepit edges of "it takes a whole pillbox to haze a child."
My poetic crush list for this week:

10. Joel Sloman
9. Gregory Peck
8. Orangina
7. Charles Baudelaire
6. Samuel Beckett
5. my TV set
4. Xtina Strong
3. the post office clerk
2. ducks
1. David Letterman

Apologies for my recent silence. A giant signifier had fallen over and crushed me. When I tried to cry out, I found I had no language with which to decry the trendiness of intellectual rockstars. But I'm feeling better, overall. To labor is hard, to think is a kind of labor, too. Elmer's glue.

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