that will not change anything

because a pig is irresolute

and committed to nothing

is to reject the floss

that dances between mouthfuls of flesh

I am thinking about pigs that fly

that is I mean

people wholly entrenched in their manatee life

that is I mean

pigs that swim

where the alligators and motorboats fly

Because you know you’re a pig

secretly in love with the big bad

the big bad

blowing at your brick house

breath so hot and sweet your spine warps like unearthed worm

drenched in muddy water

I have contemplated the hairs on my

chinny chin chin

Sometimes I dream of the wolf

and then the forest is not clean and cool

but infectiously soft

like the gutting after sacrifice, pearly greens and blacks

underneath the bright

and I let the wolf inside me

howl and root

because it had already happened

because there is only the one.

LOGLINES

1. MARS VIOLET

2. MINOS

Introverted schoolgirl who can see into the underworld befriends a jaded but brilliant teenager in trouble with drug lords and gets dragged into the fray.

3. MASTER APHRODITE

A modern per-version of the venomous love triangle of Aphrodite, Eros, and Psyche  leading to the suicide of two children, set in a summer camp.

4. MEAT FAIRY

A lonely fast-food worker grows pathologically attached to the food products he makes, believing them to be sentient; meanwhile, a meat packer dies in a meat packing factory.

In other news, I have an interview at Radioactive Moat (Ugly Fish is now a free download!), and my book, Butcher’s Tree, is now available for preorder. It ships right after AWP. Speaking of which, I will be doing a book signing on Saturday at the Black Ocean zone. I will, however, be reading at 2 readings, Thursday and Friday nights. Thursday night will be a strange affair inside bathroom stalls with Lara Glenum, Lucas de Lima, Johannes Gorranson, Kate Durbin, and other strange people at a location TBD (because I don’t know where, and I’m hoping it’s off site so I can actually do it) and Friday (I think!) will be a Black Ocean reading with my awesome Black Oceanographers. Details to come.  Why is this year’s AWP sold out? Has there suddenly been a population explosion of avid poets and writers? Tough times call for feeble literary types?

I’ve also been reading this http://www.scribd.com/doc/42995065/PONGE-Nature-Things book by a french poet, Ponge, who loves snails and talking about pebbles. The one line that sticks out to me regards the secretion of humans, and this secretion is not like/unlike the creation of shells by mollusks, but rather than calcium, we secrete language.

Finally, I never thought I would like a show like Downton Abbey. But I am getting old, and historical dramapics are becoming more and more interesting to my wrinkling mind.

Also, looking forward to the birth of my book. Look at this amazing cover design! Thanks to Janaka Stucky and Josh Wallis and all the hot people at Black Ocean for this:

Cover Image

Nerve trash dominate the wrold.
Nerve trash dominate the world.
Nerve trash dominate the world.
They floow the sun and make nerve seedlings for you to eat.
Nervelings are full of omega 3 fatty acids and protein.

*

Is it because we have two eyes that we can only see two things?
Because I am alive that I am the measure of all things?
Then it is time to die.

*

I mustn’t think too much. Silence is worth more than a pretty tinkling urine charm
made of petroleum
and more than what I can say about any one of my brilliant mothers
under whom I writhe and cry out my written memories given to me by boys.

*

Almost done, I would like to make this line reach the edge of the page to manifest destiny, where the shore of no page will lap at the edge of poetry feet
scaly feet with pores underneeth each scale
holding up the giant exposed spinal cord of the gigantic nerve ring.
I keep beckoning for you to jump through the nerve ring.
You are a tiger with a mane and the face of a monkey.

*

Angel are small and have no front teeth.
Purely rational being are close in size to the potato
and are replete with microbe and worm ring.
In the night I curl up in your tasty meat.
A woman body is a angel factory.
In the afternoon after class I come home turn on the tube when I relax into shiny shiny squares of children singing. I remember that someday my cat will die.
I cry into the mouths of exploited angel. Each pore of my body blubber open and try to grow teeth. All the boys in my choir have your nerveface. Boys within my boy
all the boys in my body like speshul snowflake.
Boys have clitorises like pygmy seahorse because they are pygmy seahorse.
Whole angel bodies cover in boiling blister.
In the night I am a sprawling sea coral
inch long cherubs wrap from my sponge nerves.
Somehow I, a burned mummy, am responsible for war.

*

Into the toiletplant I water.

Hair water flutters in the bet.

I water my mouthplant.

Mouthplant water the meatplant.

Nourishment from the mouth water swum up the stalk to the anal cavity plant.

*

Plant speak is not like the color green or the smoothness of budding stalk.
Plant speak is the startled nerve ending in the halved molar.
Illegitimate ghost babees fall gently from plant lips.
How can I disappear and love you all at once?
The ghost buds whisper and scream like gout.

*

The powerlessness of the page is close.
I pet its imaginary fur.
Black mark indicate murder. Mother indicate
how many dot occur on the crime index
to me. Where my dot is in relation to the other dot?
Last night my brother start to blossom.
He call to me with his face.
I am going to die when I am fifty, he say,
my genitals have to betray me.
Some kind of power
rip me out of my socket.
No one die in my dreaming, only approach.
Now I am going to get kinky
because I can’t handle
the approach.
Brother, your meteor face enter my room
and go up in flames hitting
my atmosphere. So personal
history.
I know something about shame. Shame
that ebb when you approach.
When the obese star of your atmosphere
come without consent.
Confront the textual neuron.
The line you have died.
You are not fifty yet, yellow scoliosis mermaid,
somehow the dream killing
stroke something in me.

Am I singular or am I stupid? I am so so dumb. Dumb as a elephant
in clown suit. Dumb as a finger as a proboscis as a cyclopian eye
puckered flower thingling
for what does it mean to speak of flower now
that occur in a face
a blossoming face
my dumb neural disk face.
Mummy, where do I come from?
Where do krakens come from
whose whale bone sculptures dumb all over the ocean floor.
I pick up the babees
and put each one on a dumb fossil at the bottom of the sea.
I have grown tentacles because I am so dumb.
I use these tentacles to move the babees.
Telling each babees
you are the future.
You cannot yet imagine yourself
maybe that is better off.
I am putting glass bells over each babees
to collect the falling skinpetal.
On each skinpetal I embroider different tentacle touches.
You know what it will be like
when the seas dry up and the babees uncover.
Aliens take off the glass bell and the blind fingerlings stretch out
O it is not beautiful it is something else
tiny incomprehensile world of fingers
dumbly feeling again the life of matter.

It is impossible to write in america. Inside a drain
bleach pours down a huge poison drop
cut off from bleach mother.
White roaches rustle, toasted
from a far away oven.
You will not come to my class?
I will not fail you.
You will not come after hours of obliteration?
I will not fail you.
I is tolerated for my paralysis.
I will not fail you.
The teeming Amazon sends us hashtags
that burst out of the toilet whitefaced translucent
as reptile eggs.
I am not funny enough.
I cannot fail you.
I is here like a banana.
I cannot fail you.

Beans are a recurring motif in my writing and picture making these days. Also, the new cat farts like no cat I have ever been farted at by.

Lines of repetition make my life venetian blind and I’ve been bumping into things a lot. I finally read (sort of) or re-read Pound’s Canto I and found the word “swine-wed” (misread from wine-red?)very marriageable. The parts I like are the kennel things all over the piles of language:

lynx-purr (I just mistyped that as lynx-puff)

eye-glitter

pad-foot

green-ruddy

etc.

and somewhere in my reading came across “human bean” but can’t retrieve it… apparently it is also a coffee house…

While loathingly working on my project in animating the infamous late Gu Cheng, came across a quote on Jackie Wang’s website through which the drumbeat of his name tumbled and in my experience her ballerinas dance with machine guns has really been a place of strong energy transfer and then of course,

To write my poems,” Khanan Zhuai remembered, “I listened to everything.” He continued: “I would go into the rainforest and sit for hours to listen to the trees and the birds that live on different branches of the trees. I used the sounds of different birds to convey human emotions. For instance, the cry of the cuckoo, gu? gu! gu? gu!, is heartbreaking, and I use it to stand for human suffering.
— Song and Silence: Ethnic Revival on China’s Southwest Borders

I found this poor dead bird on the way to campus and it was clean and soft and yellow, but it wasn’t decomposing because it was on cement, so I took it home. I plan to bury it. Right now the bird spirit is in the fridge inside a tea box.

—

Gu came to me again in a dream. When my friends ignore me, I slap dreams in their faces.
Little do you know that only in dream are you not in exile.
It is where I have loved you and the cry of the cuckoo
I could say that the cancer that falls off the bird is a journey towards perfection
that now the bird is perfect
but I don’t tell the truth nor does the truth tell me.

—

It is 11 degrees out. Celcius. I think. I’m not going anywhere. Also, David Lynch twated:

What is this UNIFIED FIELD of sacred bulls pooping?

I believe that we are all a part of the unified field of insanity, made flesh, the uniform field of fog-o-war and fog-o-war and poetry. I enjoyed this comment to the article… it’s probably my favorite part actually:

Thanks or the article, but it requires Americans to think beyond their own selves, if it could be accomplished it would be a Miracle in itself.

—

“your self-review is up at WWAATD today:

http://wewhoareabouttodie.com/2011/09/13/feng-chen-on-feng-chen/“

—

hahaHA:

“Pigasus”

I love it!

And friends far away, I miss you all and unite with you in the unified field.

Top Searches

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ON MY EASEL THAT IS A CHAIR:

I title my painting: The Ritual that Fertilizes

INSIDE MY GOOSE PIMPLES:

Internal Nebula
(crystalline)
Rocks growing slowmo
(crystalline)
I conquer claustrophobia
(crystalline)
And demand the light

It’s the sparkle you become
Conquer anxiety
Sparkle you become
Conquer anxiety

One poet speaks of love and one of mastery, the animal kind of mastery that means
tight sinews and survival. The animal kind of love that means
you will think it is not the animal.

I shall speak of guilt.
It relaxes you more into you, until you are soft, indistinct meat whispers.

The fault under black water under fat under black blood.
Everything you cannot see is black.

Sometimes the tumor rises in the heat of the mattress and seizes.
Alive! Alive! She’s alive!
When the tumor touches me I feel sick and high and salty the way I do
when the plane lifts off and something in me drops.
I watch the young eat the young and the old eat the young and it is the mewing
I cannot stand.

Mother’s mother: As I jump from piled crates and punch my round belly,
she’s alive. Still alive.

The brown ghosts surround me and applaud me for my responsibility.
I list it on my resume as a defining trait.
Agatha cries when I feed her less and claws at my nipples.
But you’re fat, I say.

Somehow when the stranger drops on the pavement in front of me
spitting blood and his whole body shaking like an ecstatic dog’s
I feel the dead inside me.
According to my research, this is a kind of presumptuousness.

All the animals inside me are dead.

Someone held his head as he spit blood and jiggled.
In another life, I went on the ambulance with him.
I held his head as blood came out of it.

Do you know that she was buddies with the late Paul Thek? Paul Thek is great. He makes sculptures of flesh encased in glass. And he paints. He also made some artifacts of the Pied Piper.

L introduced me to him, I think, and I fell in love with the meat man. Susan was also in love with him. It was a tumultuous, repressed kind of vibration that went on between them, with lots of affection and lots of fight. This book I’m reading is dedicated to Paul, whom she once asked to marry, and to have a child with. He complied too late. Eventually he died of AIDS, estranged. Paul used to say, “I’m against interpretation”, when annoyed by art critics. Criticism is boring, but boring can be rewarding.

Su says: “Interpretation, based on the highly dubious theory that a work of art is composed of items of content, violates art. It makes art into an article for use, for arrangement into a mental scheme of categories.”

Sometimes, I guess. Allegory and narrative/illustrative things seem eager for interpretation/explication. It is made to speak to, against, or from ideology. The stuff (like crazy modern stuff or avant garde) that is difficult to explain are what Su calls “flight from interpretation”, stuff that is born on the run. But this is somehow done through transparency. The less symbolic, the more flighty. The goal of criticism should be to show “how it is what it is” and not “what it means”.

“In place of hermeneutics we need an erotics of art.”

Su says content is an illusion.

I don’t feel a great distance between hermeneutics and erotics. Speaking of erotics eventually turns into a kind of hermeneutics or interpretation because it is about the relation between you and the object, you have to put words to sensations, name them, pattern them. It would be more consistent to not speak at all, if I want to leave the object as what it is. You can say it exists as what it is before I see it or before I say something about it, or you can say there is no such thing as “what it is”. This seems redundant to me. Perhaps she means something similar to the way Elizabeth Grosz speaks of art as the production of sensations, affects, and intensities rather than concepts or problems. The issue then, is subjectivity. Being subjected to art includes both planes, being jolted out of one (sense) or the other (concepts/language). You are the content, in other words.

One useful thing I got from this essay is Cocteu’s quote: “Decorative style has never existed. Style is the soul, and unfortunately with us the soul assumes the form of the body.” The style is the message, the medium is the massage.

I am also reading “Ordinary Sun” by M. Henricksen.

“

… She felt like flesh. She wasn’t hanging.

‘All answers are hells.’

“