Semioanalysis Discotheque
Wednesday, November 19, 2003
Karl needs to take a little nap for a while. He will return sooner or later, never fear.
This is hard to do, someone earning the cash so I can sweat this out. Frail extension, with chalk-white arms that turn out to be just powder. Then it flirts with your extension. Pet rock?
I move heavy objects among mimes, Nick and Jack thanks you for walk in the park inspired by Motorola. Get back! Adjusted my seatbelt in the time it takes to foreswear enternity's bungalow. As I watch fronds disintegrate by the road I feel happy, engorged to the point of sweating hopeful memories of ground chuck. Fuck, the list enlarges along transistor lines. You appear to have a hairy back, as I so deluded into thinking I wrote what wills us all.
Friday, November 14, 2003
As I hear my own voice dissolving into that archaic space, so Bob brains a rooster with that salad shooter that he bought at a discount, or products split me into woodcuts I admire and am reproduced by. Fallow judgement, jargon confident in my long stride, of voice in more than one optative locale, I hear.
Thursday, November 13, 2003
Karl is chewing on the "social construction" hypothesis. My, how chewy it is!
Today I have a crick in my neck, on the left side of the neck, right here. When I turn my head to the left side, I feel a slight tinge along the muscles into the trapezius and across the Adam's apple. Though if I turn my head to the right and angle my face left, the pain recedes to nothing more than a twinge in my right ear. Is it possible for me to diagnose myself without readers, or responses? Then if I find I open my jaw and extend it forward craning my head diagonally and crossing my eyes, I look not unlike a Picasso.
Two clarifications I would like to make:

1) when I say "here," I mean here, not there.

2) I don't like Ellen Bryant Voigt's poetry. I put her on the Toilet reading list because reading her poems causes my bowels to suddenly relax in a kind of reflex action that is rather disturbing, but sometimes useful.
I was going to tell a goat-fucking story here, but thought it might be better to nip this trend in the bud.
Nice comments about Mike County's poem today, Mark. I think it's a really good sign to see that we're reading one another's terrific work and encouraging each other.
Monday, November 10, 2003
Your host has also decided to become a vegisexual, in this hopes that this will turn his elegiac impulses into a hunger for cabbage, broccoli, the defiant or expectant hum of change emerging from a ground, or root-word, soon.
I'm neither moaning nor rattling chains. I'm simply pointing offstage, to that thing, there.
Sunday, November 09, 2003
Your American Dominoes Pizza has the consistency of cardboard. While eating a medium with pepperoni this evening, this dilemma caused me to ponder the nature of the relationship between the pizza and its container, at which point I discovered I had inadvertently eaten the box.
Saturday, November 08, 2003
O blog blog blog blog blog those who advertise you

(doubt crept into his/her/its voice then...)
Whaddya mean "Who's William Carlos Williams"?
Maybe a William Carlos Williams bobble-head doll? As his head wobbles on the dashboard I could picture him saying: "The pure products of America / go crazy..."
Hey everybody, I just bought a Gayatri Spivak bobble-head doll!

Shit...this is more difficult than I thought it would be...
[insert gratuitous reference to pop culture here so I don't sound too elitist, ie, so I don't sound like a poet]
Is intimacy possible on the stage itself? That's debatable, silly ivy of performativity overgrowing speech, the difference being that the stage is bounded by three walls and occurs within discrete range of time, before others. Another layer of metaphorical removal here in the plastic forest: hey, I just slipped on that banana peel and died! That was fuuuuunnnnnyyyyy. Such a shame that you missed it, my voyeur, my (br)other!
When you touch me with your hand, that one, though I know it's not your hand, twisted into a vase of flowers decaying bonnet, overlord, toothed necklace, oh flatten me out, from machinery of the inert phrase like your "warranty guarantee," "cowabunga, dude," or "let's rock" (convenient euphemism for acts offstage).
Friday, November 07, 2003
Call it "Franco-Germanic poet's intuition." I should listen to it more often.
I could tell when I first got here that this wasn't going to work out.
Thursday, November 06, 2003
Maybe this confusion is what creates the "ghostliness" of the ghost city.
This is a good point you make today, Mike. Blogs being the site where self and other (or, at least some of the others) collide, a confusion is bound to arise between solipsism in poetry, which is often useful for the solitary writer, and solipsism in life, which is probably not a very practical idea.
Wednesday, November 05, 2003
Jacques Derrida beaned bases loaded Jacques Lacan
Judith Butler grand slam forkball Frederic Jameson earned run average whiff backstop Michel Foucault fielding hot corner to fungo top of the inning Luce Irigaray no hitter bag of errors outs Walter Benjamin strike catcher’s mitt bunt Theodor Adorno penalty box
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.
I do appreciate Chris's recent post, though. Thank for raising the tone, Chris. We should all have the discipline to try and say something at least once in a while. I do wonder about the fact that your commentary ends in a morass of questions without positing a solution, but then again, I just raised my leg and farted on the woman next to me on the bus this morning, so I shouldn't be taken seriously.
Three articles. I'm writing three articles at the same time. Argh! Hey, the plastic funhouse bumpcycle podiatrist! Got lungs? This blog cannot be a place for serious prose, otherwise my head would explode.
Le countdown begins: any of you on my blogroll who don't link to Karl in the coming week will be taken off the blogroll. (exceptions made for Xtina, who has no blog links.)
Tuesday, November 04, 2003
...thus evoking overtones of love without destroying love's life-giving vulgarity, and sustaining the poet's feelings towards the blog while preventing love from distracting him into feeling about the person...

(apologies to you-know-who)
Monday, November 03, 2003
I schedule machinery to run on time, but I am not a machine, nor do I aspire to be one ailment if only orifice short of cord, undulate changeward, false police, organize a roof gallery exhibition is nice, sack falling open bursting with seeds.
Today my armpits smell. Can you smell them?
Sunday, November 02, 2003
I thank James for his compliment, but it's not easy being a frivolous virtual character with limited dramatic motivations. There is much I would like to say of depth and significance, but instead I must sit here and patiently mold accurate likenesses of your movie stars out of my own shit. The body that is changing and opening into new territory feels itself stretching, scar staying as a remnant until it gets sloughed off. What wound, the point of a poem to stop time or transcend it? For some yes, I track mud prints in the hall, forget to water the plants and they die. I think, if I'm not mistaken, the wound of speech become writing...
Last night I had a dream that was entirely two-dimensional. I was inside a web-page, and the whole dream consisted of me eternally scrolling down this giant webpage. I never reached the bottom. I was inside this webpage at the same time as I also stood outside it somehow and could see all of it from where I floated in ambiguous space.
Sometimes I feel that I am no more substantial than a mannequin. The workmen come in at dusk and move me into a new pose, which I find upon waking.
And his favorite film? Godard's Masculine-Feminine.
What is Karl Merleau-Marcuse's favorite band? Why, Pizzicato Five, of course!
Saturday, November 01, 2003
This evening I was eating steak tips and a Sprite at a family restaurant, and suddenly the ghost of Aby Warburg floated out of the kitchen toward me, groaning "Bildwissenschaft, oh Bildwissenschaft." Happy Halloween.
Today I found a mole on my chest that had changed color since the last temps I looked at it. Last I saw it, it was small and dark brown, and barely protruded from the skin. Now it has grown large and flat and slightly reddish, with a small hair jutting out of it near the top. Mon dieu, I hope it is nothing dangereuse! In this light it is mostly red, though when I look at it under the (slightly bluer) bathroom light it is not really red at all, but a kind of orange with a speck on it. The speck does not coincide with the hair. The hair is jutting out near the top, but the speck is on the right side of the mole, further down toward the bottom. When I poke this mole, I feel nothing. When I pinch myself, I feel nothing.

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