Wednesday, July 28, 2004
Monday, July 26, 2004
"The logic of the philosophies that informed this aesthetic implied that socially useful ideas would no longer be articulated in conventional intellectual forms, but would develop new means that did not privilege the abstract intellect. The culture of yeltaw AAAAAAAAAAAAaoooogah nik nik in intellectual INGENAFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFringals technad HOOMP! Beyond the ken of unh unh PTWENALLLLLLLLLLLLLENAAAD!!! My study, by reconstituting gunboooooooooooooooooooologga, logga logga FUMPO. Hun hup nik as the domain of those balllllllllllllaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa! Ankh! It requires rethinking what the froogeewataaadumpesta in keen historically found smkarkass. Instead, you "get this feeling" that gnawoaaaaaaaaaaaaaah nun getat FULSH! What ideas have been socially constituted fwarp dun glot buk buk, EEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAALLLLLGGGGGGGGGGwuh btenow 'discourses' glump. Shoon! Tootank Gherig fallawalla."
Friday, July 23, 2004
Meeting eurotrash in your downtown elevator, I feel right at home in votre group-think environment. Such maneuvers are unhomelike though relentlessly dull! Abba dada waco vegas, incognito jeune fille degas.
Thursday, July 22, 2004
Ebullient yet sardonic is difficult to accomplish without sounding nasty, which is why so many listeners flee when I begin to undo my boutonniere. O you listening types, I am amplified and have been dispersed by lions! Their manes chuckling at the edge of the dessert tray remind me that perhaps there were never really listeners, just grouper fish. The hysterical screams when Jan and Dean mount the stage are cued by anthropologists-in-training. I'm Echo, you're Gayatri Spivack. No really, I mean that.
Allen Bramhall claims that I can't be arch and scrofulous at the same time. Just watch me!
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.
What Narcissism Means to Me
($11.20, Graywolf Press, 2003)
I was reading Tony Hoagland's new book "What Narcissism Means to Me" this morning when I heard your ice cream truck go by outside on the street! How I whisked open the door and ran barefoot out to the yard's edge, purchasing two of your Klondike bars and a creamsicle. Metanarratives getting old is getting old. My feet are itchy and I think I may have contracted some variety of fungus. We are all out of clean towels. An owl hoots in the banderillas. Did I pay the phone bill? Which makes me think of my dead uncle and his valiant struggle with the gang of lawyers. What IS a dead uncle anyway, and why do we think about them? I am feeling gassy and bloated from too much ice cream now, and I think I may have bad breath. Would you confirm this for me? Is there a mossy-looking scrap of food lodged between my teeth there? Terrible things will happen if you go to the parade, Caesar. I think I just got BINGO!
But the most powerful element of this hairdo is the startup brewery. What's happening to Fred? He's got some kind of exczema and is going into spasms of hawkish abandon at the thought of invading Iran as well. I have had trouble with acne in the past few days, which makes me look like a fired anchorperson. Four ice cream sandwiches is too many in one day and makes me want to go take a nap on the universal symbol for "we come in peace." I never wanted this job, I wanted to be a shoe salesman. Which is why talking dogs appear so audacious in checkered bar-hopping atmosphere.
I want a new stereo. I need to remember to pick up milk, eggs, and kale at the grocery store this evening.
Bobby-Joe is down in Aerosmith this week visiting friends so I have custody of our four komodo dragons plus Dudette, a big sweet puffer fish who belongs to my colleagues Missy & Lou, who are in RuPaul on an academic junket. So I'm sitting here on a Wanamaker evening listening to Alternative Indie Rock & feeling "generally laid back." J'ai le strong sense that votre American voters are going to repudiate the extremism of the Bush administration come November, out of pure apathy for politics if not an understanding slightly less complex than that of professional wrestling commentators. The komodo dragons are geniuses of pleasure both energetic & mellow. I warned Missy that when she came back the place was going to look like there had been one Franco-Germanic poet & five puffer fish living here for a week. So today I swept up what must have been pounds of komodo dragon scales & grit tracked in on all those big & little claws, made sure everybody had their allergy meds & etc. etc. This is when, barring pathology, you Americans exclaim, Life is good.
Wednesday, July 21, 2004
Today Semioanalysis Discotheque received its umpteen million billionth visitor!
Congrats to everyone "out there" who has helped to make this limpet orgy so grotesquely bodacious!
Today I entered a local store of votre Curves corporation, only to be rebuffed on account of my scrofulous, Baudelaire-like appearance! An aspiring soccer-mom avec les cheveux corts lifted me up with her little finger, spun me around a few times then flung me out the door until I bounced into a kiddie pool several yards away behind one of your omnipresent chain-link fences. As I was recovering from my wounds and began to crawl out of the kiddie pool, several faux-slovenly Somerville hipsters(TM) passing by in Dickies began to swear profusely, labeling me with the epithet "crypto-homo." When I begged to differ that I was actually "pro-Bono," They deluged me with bad imitations of a Boston accent and began quoting Red Sox scores. I am ambivalent! I am startlingly fluent in your condominium architecture! I have learned your Brittney Spears protection racket by heart and sneered back at your Harvard students! I have had your SUVs backed into my corpus and my oeuvre at alarming rates! There are no sweaters, no existence that seems not futile in pixeled envy like Bonanza or Le Big Chill! It is all a great tycoon, your soliloquizing getaway! I want to be alike your police state and your garbageman. They see me, then they start up, and vibrate like knives...
Friday, July 16, 2004
Bringing me back to a body that has no set parameters, like someone else’s schnozz on my face, against a taxidermist’s background. Your metrosexual American yuppies suck bubble tea from straws like a hangnail caption to the article. The The has broken up by now, haven’t they? I was completely uninsured that my arm was not someone else’s corpus, written up in Finnish by Aalvar Tapioca, depending upon size and shape of the blister in question. You throw that stuff around like that it’s going to stain! When I smell tapioca in the morning, a remembrance of things past their expiration date.
Your American crotches and rear ends in my face, like Dante's fifth circle of public transportation.
Thursday, July 15, 2004
J'ai visite your Museum of Dirt and have concluded that vanitas is the new "new," like a weak poet with food-stains on her clothing. I'm operating on automatic pilot, between one ism and a velvet painting set on "stun." Aisles of undead packaging, simulacral vertebrae. Alas, poor sports-bra, your James Dean's looking fey-er.
Today I had my testicles scanned with an ultrasound device at your American Mass General Hospital. How coy and benevolent they seemed, suspended in their scaly liquid and bloated like Donald Rumsfeld's "foreign land" checkbook! It all becomes more difficult saying it, like the words were never part of you or strenuous living detected "preassembled kitchen sets" to take home to dada! I live on hospital wires reaching into a leopard-skin pool across from Friendly's. This is comforting, Kirstie Alley's butt, I want to describe your indigenous wa-wa pedal. When something really isn't part of you, but can give a sort of Pillsbury germination to new connections failing like a Lasik Surgery gone wrong in Marseilles. Hey, residual goo!