Friday, February 26, 2021

the case of edward mordake (poem)



the case of edward mordake


impossible the people behind to see

who think i see the smile they smile

while i weep on ahead

into rush of slime wind

or when i laugh they rush

up behind offering kleenex

so concerned is the world

but i myself adjust to living

with the mirrors both out of date

to the image formed in lieu

in this age of terribly frustrated vanity

where all plastic surgery perjures

opposite effort & what said

uncobbles the mouth


unseen brother/sister mug

a moon-side facing forever away

from the front of me in flash-flood of consciousness

all would perhaps be well

were i not talking out the other side of my skull

out of ear shot, meeting people

the other half of me never know


Jeff Gburek

Dublin, 2017

Monday, February 22, 2021

ENSEMBLE PHUTURISTA (Brazil). Thoughts Upon Listening to a New Album on Mahorka netlabel

"A collective live improvisation planned, performed and recorded in the first edition of the event Onda Phuturista, at the Galeria Paciência (Patience Gallery) on January 12th, 2020. One year, one month and one day after that, on 13/02/2021, the album "12 de Janeiro, 2020 – Antesdurantedepois"

Musicians in Ensemble Phuturista are:
George Christian – acoustic-electric guitar, electric guitar
Heitor Dantas – live electronics, samplers
Maria Phuturista – vocals (track 3 and 4)
Talionpills – voice and electronics (tracks 3 and 4)
Fernando Fernandes – percussion and drums
Vítor Rios – banjo,
André Miranda Filho – cello, electric bass,
Paulo Roberto Pitta – tenor saxophone

Reducing as translating. as exploding or scattering. describing a multi-media experience, portraying it in words, is almost as difficult as recording it. harrowing the illusion of any recording. bringing the real thing to you via the real-thing medium, the vibrating cone, the flashy image. no images here. only the vibrating speaker cones. brain decodes breath, people, tumult, a room, the guitar plays a figure, another guitar (or a loop of the same guitar -- one can't see --). the notes say there's banjo. is that a tinny banjo I hear? no way to be sure. drums: they weave under and crest up occasionally against the guitar, incessantly honking like a car-horn but perhaps guided by something the player is watching, the steps of a dancer perhaps. some moaning voices, a horn perhaps, a bowed simulacrum of a horn, the cello below the bridge. a reed enters very confident and off color from the rest, forcing the others into response, they bend up, or disappear. cricketty tapping of percussion. some voice. at the bar, on the street, in the cafe, in the mind. toy horns, bugles, samples according to my decoding apparatus. a guitar arpeggio. categorization and identification of sounds become mentally draining. but the dark and mellow figure played on the cello takes the mind away from left brain calculation. then it disappears in a wave pulling back. finally an image emerges: a harbor, vessels bobbing in the surf, waves, people shouting directions, wires clanking on poles, whining of wood against docks, barrels rolling down planks, birds, sirens. then the image vanishes. small percussion flourishes and samples.
I read the notes and see details concerning the event, a gallery, two rooms, visual art, performance, things I can only guess about and not experience here while listening. Does the absence of multi-dimensional things mean anything? At certain moments, no, at certain moments the sound carries something on it's own, even if it's quite lo-fi, in the second track, there is brooding cello, orchestral samples, sound chunks heave like wreckage of ships floating in storm winds, slashing guitar, purely elemental forces.

At other times one feels in the presence of a film set where the actors have not entered the frame yet, the illusion of the music creating a scenario for something that for them is there and for the listener something they must supply with fantasies.
Into the third track a desolate deserted blues wrangling hollers at the moon, guitar and saxophone as if two different canine  species howling for the lost pack, a bass figure moving in figures, notes, it takes some thinking to resolve, a drum pulse starts to pick up the pace and a lumbering pattern provides the support for the various solos, until they break down, the figure picked up by the banjo and the entry of pitch-shifted dwarfish voices until at moments it sounds a bit like a wild party jam to "while my guitar gently weeps" played by the voidoids and the vocals of a acid-drenched bootsy's rubberband had walked in off the street to manifest their funk. then there is a howling feedback break down with the drums trashing out metallic dirges and high pitches voices manifesting their funk and a general swamping swirl of noises for some time before new guiding vectors of glissandi appear and a sandstorm begins. impossible to see what's happening. a voice, apparently female, speaks, there's mumbling all around, pitch-shifted, chorus: a sudden reorganization, a drum-roll energy picks up the pace...then it fades out. reading the notes again one learns this was originally a 3-hour event. the recording has been edited. the build up again of whirlwinds of sound become oriented around a repeated pattern in bass and intensification by the drumming sending it to a peak, throbbing via very dramatic, dark, gothic psychedelic vibe the voice chanting and eventually it all retards into some arpeggiated banjo or perhaps electric keyboard until there comes, abruptly, but fittingly, the end, with applause.

what I haven't said already I won't be able to say again. what I heard seems to be the exciting search of a large ensemble for a mutual cooperative language of some kind. guided by some scripted frameworks. the notes describe it all more accurately from the point of view of one of the players. the phrase he uses is worth repeating "a great mutant sound enigma from the urban tropics". what I admire most is the collective energy and genuinely explorative nature of the players, all of whom seem to have skills and listening abilities. the recording points us to a social event, a happening, taking place before the pandemia displaced all such activities, if not dismantling their possibility for ever. something to think about for the moment as the world forces of control and conservative steering of the manufactured reality postpones acts of resistance and creative being togetherness. time to take back the stages. first step is to become immunologically sound.

-- Jeff Gburek, 2/15/2021

Friday, February 5, 2021

Trans Beskid Radio Volume II (Natural Complexity of Zombie Signifiers) new release on Mahorka

 We happily announce the official release of Trans-Beskid Radio Volume II by the Bulgarian netlabel Mahorka.

 "Many of the old signifiers have disappeared and neo-zombie signs become newly coined to describe the old or completely novel zombie-signifiers which proclaim meanings to exist which have not been acknowledged, accepted, recognized. I read in my own transformations here a future in which I am entangled and evolving with thoughtful moves. I paint in radiographical terms. I set out in my listening and remain contemplative, receptive, peering around the edges of the noise." 
 -- from the liner notes, Jeff Gburek, 2021

Previews with voice-over:

Previews with video by Filippo Panichi:

 Trans Beskid Radio Volume II (Natural Complexity of Zombie Signifiers)

Live Set @ Paradigms Hub

Floating Cloud House, Wisła, Malinka

August 2020

1) Unmasked at Last (Light We Can't See)

2) Indian Ocean Aerials

3) Papal Boomerang Drone Attack

4) Every Sound a Singular Beacon

5) Anadadanta/Nadadanta

6) Biomechanical Sonority

7) Interactive Integrity

8) Natural Complexity of Zombie Signifiers

9) Hunting for Deeper Anamnesis

10) Not Happening Is Still Happening

11) Maritime Artefacts in Mountain Morain

 "New technology consumes the forms of the past, and in doing so, transforms them. The content of a medium is always another medium." -- Marshall Macluhan

 "It occurs to me that an eddy, a whirlpool effect is in the movement of the blue light energy round the globe of this planet earth. This is completely separate from earthling roots. Artificial Intelligence is driving and amplifying the speed of this whirling made up of fragments of incomplete storying's, facts, fiction, surmise, guessing, falsifying, and distortions too quick to catch, subliminal imagining, violent images, catastrophics..."

-- Carlyle Reedy, 12/12/2020 (via Facebook)

 While radio signaling may not be entirely separate from our earthling roots, the radio signaling sphere has certainly expanded in range and density. Like a loosely thatched roof or cyber-crown on top of the ionosphere, the 5G bubble expands. My radio and my own ears can receive now from further realms of accidental cooperation an unheard of propagation of waves and a new complex of commingling mass inter-references. Shortwave and medium wave radio captures recorded and mixed live in the Beskidy Mountains are the source and subject of my work here in this release on Mahorka. (Bulgaria) and continues the momentum kicked of by Antenna Non Grata label in Poland. With my radio captures I express the wish to re-inscribe my experience on the skies and an desire to transmit my own reception amid the virtual and real celestial beings merging with the creative forces of the universe. And to share and invite you to do the same.

 Radio was one of the ways I was getting to know the place where I was confined during the summer of plague year 2020, on the border between Poland & the Czech Republic. Culturally connection to humanity reduced to invisible waves. Naturally an admixture with foreign yet unalienable earthly experience was the continual communion. Stream, trees, berry bushes, birds, bees, wasps, snakes, deer, rain, fog, sun, moon. Humans off in distances, cutting, motors, megaphones of ceremony, sports? Mysteries of Lockdown.

 "The effort to know a place deeply is, ultimately, an expression of the human desire to belong, to fit somewhere, " writes naturalist Barry Lopez. "The determination to know a particular place, in my experience, is consistently rewarded. And every natural place, to my mind, is open to being known. And somewhere in this process a person begins to sense that they themselves are becoming known, so that when they are absent from that place they know that place misses them. And this reciprocity, to know and be known, reinforces a sense that one is necessary in the world."  When I would slip between two trees or ford the stream and brings my microphones through the thickets shyly, I often wondered who would take note of my passage. An owl's feather on the hill felt less like random molting and more a thoughtful gift. I did not feel necessary. Yet I felt somehow integrated. In stillness belongingness would follow in the space between abandoning too many thoughts and dwelling on the margins of the senses, alert & calm.

 The forest was filled with critters, anomalies, novelties and micro-process. Listening to the winds and then listening to the radio waves decode in the crucibles of the high mountain cabin, I felt a connection with a meta-language of polyvalent systems and the flux of cosmogonic coincidence inside my own fleeting construct of identity. Trees seemed electrically charged, the Perseid meteorites skimming overhead. We seemed part of an unfolding of both broad-scaled and miniscule gestures. When meteorites could be heard influencing the bounce of the radio signals I found myself thinking again of Umberto Eco, his semiotics "the ability to identify messages where it is supposed there are only gestures and read signs where there are only objects".

 While I was in the field I received notification of a commission for Radioprhrenia Glasgow and I began to imagined how some of these radio recordings might be used, happy that I would get another chance to transmit via radio what radio transmits to me.

 "Culture is brimming with relics in the form of zombie signifiers, " wrote Zygmunt Baumann in his "Sketches in the Theory of Culture".  Since the old meanings of cultural signs  are constantly shifting, there is an emptying of significance. If the Zen concept of the half-empty/half-full glass can be invoked here, I would say that whatever we are saying these days, one half is the old school sense, somewhat obsolete, while the other half is filled with the codifications of the new generations, ahead of us, somewhat unrealized and potential. With the realm of the radio, there is a ghost half always half empty and a ghost half always half full. Many of the old signifiers have disappeared and neo-zombie signs become newly coined to describe the old or completely novel zombie-signifiers which proclaim meanings to exist which have not been acknowledged, accepted, recognized. I read in my own transformations here a future in which I am entangled and evolving with thoughtful moves. I paint in radiographical terms.

  I do not speak only about the meaning of radio as a cultural manifestation or as mass media, as propaganda, spreader of cliches. Whereas we attach coded electronic pulses to the radio waves in an effort to communicate between ourselves and government enacts control thereby, I have always been as equally concerned with how radio waves, as cosmic forces per se, communicate themselves through us. I set out in my listening and remain contemplative, receptive, peering around the edges of the noise. 






Friday, January 8, 2021

"Re-Charting Time" & "Ebb Tidal Delta, Findings & Intercourse". Soundscapes by Jeff Gburek with Text and voice by Ilaria Boffa.



 Re-Charting Time

Featuring the voice of Ilaria Boffa reading her poem, "Charting Time" ("About Sounds About Us", Samuele Editore, 2019, page 38). Soundscape composed in live session by Jeff Gburek, December 22, 2020. Instrumentation: field recordings, synthesizer, prepared speaker elements, zither, ebow, wandering microphone, floorboards, cellophane foil, pumpkin seeds, glass jars, african shakers.

That window through which we look
it's your window.
A window with blinds banging
fiercely in the cold.
We chart territories, oaths,
peoples walking, mapping stillness.
Unexpectedness opens
and we face the crevasse, the vastness,
I've crossed time for you
past and future.
I'm here, immobile, a whiteness in me.
Leaning against this wall
I yearn for the calm.


Ebb Tidal Delta, Findings & Intercourse

Venedig Czwartek 926 music by @jeff-gburek
Sonopoem by @ilaria_boffa
Pic by IB: view from Fusina ferry boat, Porto Marghera Petrochemical Plant

'Ebb Tidal Delta, Findings & Intercourse

Upon progression, stasis.
The planimetry of transgressive deposits
detects nonconforming incoming signals. Findings?
Maximum flooding and ebb tidal delta on our faces afterwards.
Our channels capped and monitored by safeguard norms. We’ve been
rounding down our drives. The exercise of replacing intercourse with course
although an inter-course is a course between. Shouldn’t we map an intercourse?

For the sake of science.'


Sunday, December 6, 2020

-- when you have seen 100 pomegranites fall within your own eyes and collected the seeds -- a blotter of mental wandering during confinement in pandemic 2020 -- poems, anti-poems, revelations, rants

   set out with the desire to create rather than inform
assuming the art of redemption consists in the idea every acre of dust leads somewhere, 
amounts to some thing or congregation
 if you start out with a crown of sonnets, 
don't pluck the readers nerves
more useful perhaps a list of beers
that require lime to make them drinkable
  and don't say it in tattered English either
but what else is there for me to think with?
after tone leading of vowels, we still have limes 
drying on the counter, rock hard by the morrow
after the tone leading of vowels
broken pavement all the the way through 
the new, not yet roaring twenties
  the days inside my stork's nest apartment 
start to get numbered
and spinoza reveals each agency in the peak of
some bullshit endured I'll have to reverse 
into coin and pay forward
    somewhere in cyberspace zombie nihilists are at work because they want to ban conspiracy theory videos from YouTube and this move troubles me, is utter madness. it will collapse the internet itself. the vacuum underlying the information age will lead to an implosion of all virtual social surfaces, the hollow earth will suck us inside. it will be the death of the left and the right. there is not one credible socialist theory that doesn't begin its sociological alphabet with a logically coherent narrative of conspiracy. 
who's in charge here?

 happy in my own cells plural happy in my cell division with my cellular self post celluloid tweaking dreams skipworthy gold buggy drone-borne in the chem trails. 
science always divides itself between obsessive self care and the spectre of social control dressing up naked emperors for parade. Carl Sagan likely meant well and even Novalis can make sense of the language virus of Doctor Seuss and Willy nilly Wonka and Bill Burroughs in Tangiers during the filming of Planet of the Apes the never-ending story directors cut of Mister Spock passing out in the mind-meld in the particle beamers, the geyser of anti-matter, the rush of entities past out psychic ears
where? type by type by type the font of nothingness configures from tiny squirming jiggers in the triggers the letters configuring the atoms snapped to the grid of time, half-time, between wars of the worlds one and two. 
the fish in the clear water suddenly have time to come up on the beach and think about their next step in evolution. let's make a plan, leap, squirm, flop and fly. a fish plan but a plan, understand?

 I hate to recommend drugs, violence or insanity to anyone but they always worked for me 
-- Hunter S. Thompson

 now that there seems to become evidence that world leaders are 99 percent rabid syphilitic goons with razed brain stems the poets and the radical artists dieticians and visionary engineers will come out of hiding perhaps and help salvage what's left of the century. let the count-down begin...

 dipping into twitter again and seeing it's the perfect medium for extremists and wise-asses, trolls and para-trolls... and I had the sudden realization, they all write with their thumbs. there must be a hidden meaning there.

some suppliers are more demanding than others, some demands higher in the chain of supply. make the masks obligatory 3 weeks into game punishable by fine only after you build up a supply of masks to sell. last night the mass celebrated the fact we die as we dream alone but keep your feet first distance march to the new drum a more perfect fear a new invisible force of control which lends resonance to antonin artaud's declaration that microbes are god but let's keep that between you and me babe

it's always struck me as important to be the book rather than the author. never as important to be a figure in culture like jean paul sartre but rather like spinoza: a line of writing that enters one's mind and as many minds that are open to reading that line and having the multiplicity of meanings and the unity of actions that do not have any awareness of each other's reactions. until much later. marveling over the miracle. shared and yet separate being.

the interview I and Marjorie Van Halteren conducted with Alice Notley in Paris has been published

 "Most people don't know and don't care who you are. You know, I think I'm kind of like pennies; you have them in your pocket but you don't remember they're there. Nobody knows who I am. Sometime if I tell someone who I am they'll say oh no you ain't. Or people just don't know, never did and don't care."
 -- Bill Withers (from a 2009 documentary)


this is the message you have been waiting for

they keep arriving out of nowhere

the poems cluster like hiveless bees on the fence between seasons

if you are an improvisor you just stay in the game
even when there's nothing to wager
and nothing to play for


 Finally composed and released Arpeggios of Silence

    An arpeggio, poetically speaking, is a chord that cannot keep itself together, which breaks up into notes chasing one another in an endless cycle; tones, following, repeating themselves in a samsaric search for lost origins across associative distancing. It is an intelligent dance organization, a melancholic gathering of a mobile of elements jiggled by invisible forces. As the broken chord staggers over the soundscape, the death knells of individual silences burst onto the shore and withdraw. There are so many sounds for the attentive listeners that it is actually the unsound or the silence that speaks, issues though the fissures, the speakers. Here we have a potential structure for bearing numerous iterations or migrations of voices in isolation carried on one wave. And in this particular journey, which I should have properly performed live in concert one month ago, we who listen can meet the poetry and voices of Susan Howe, Ilaria Boffa, myself and #KamauBrathwaite, although there may be voices in the pulsations and frequencies themselves and I don't know all their names just yet. Those who listen can perhaps help me to understand them. We finished the mix on Easter but awaited the cover art in response from Karolina Ossowska. The album of the same name is published on Bandcamp with an extended instrumental version and a splinter composition based on the main electric piano theme. Please support if possible. May we all succeed. 

been poetry riding shotgun for them 40
riders or so of the apocalypse
when it's been the apocalypse riding the drivers
burning the empty rubbers
but who told you that you can speak this way
or who told you that you can't
where is the dictionary coming from these days?
the streets but they are paved
the jungle but that's been razed
the river but theys been drained
divine reason but that's been bained
been the the slaveship turned spaceship
to get the wrong people out of the game...
wrong or right ? you know the game is tight
are you what you think? look at the flow
don't dare to speak low
go for the neck, keep loose
let the ghosts out of the bag.
say what the words say
say... are you a believable text?
walk while you may or take a few steps back
and run while you can
a new religious schism is on it's way
how to divide the worm from the state
leave the rose one thorn


 temperature outside 5 degrees, mostly sunny, windy as shit,
temperature feels like 5 below, feels like bullshit government,
calling pot-shots from the gated community of wrecks
some junk yard of dreams I'm supposed to salvage
& patch together into my own destiny, I'd rather sleep
looks like tsunami of bum rush capitalism gonna take down cities
actual mileage may vary according to how much cash you carry
wisdom in the pocket shakes a fake tail like davey crocket
the lady with the ermine didn't make herself the coat
but there's something in the way these keys jangle
that makes its seem something's gonna blow the prison
run with the jackals and fly with the crows
something with an opposable thumb will close
over the shoulder of the cabinet of sinister ministers
and administer the medicine that makes the mind, blow


air on my fingertips!?
what joy! ...
but how more aware?
can life be?
shadowed by the glove
muzzled by the mask
where does more awareness flicker
guess the smiles through
the eyes glow quicker
go out on the air and see
go on... go out...
escape the fire
escape the landscape
the soundscape
the dreamscape
escape the thought
of what everybody nobody
everybody wants
perfect ripped bod
perfect blown job
perfect vile of blood
escaping escapes us
ideologies wandering
free deserts, mown towns,
hacked trees
life's spices diced
into scapegoat traces
history fistory
uppity dock
slashed in a flash
in the pandemic memory
down the bio-clock
in an extinct ivory
horn born from
b or c movie
x rated post-truth
strip tease the metaphysics
down to...
whoever you wanna
get skeletal with

go to the good looks cook-book and fetch another recipe
stereo binaural
scanners long distance
balloons over the river
radio krankenhaus
blixa's geshichte
over loaded lords of
money in the bank
slip lipstreams
smells like your neighborhood
caught up with a nice
fire insurance policy agent
cinderd turn in leaps of faith
now every car will be a club
every van a bordello
church mobs imaginary
one man's ghetto, grotto
another's chemical urn
the ashes of the burning
man canisters rolling


 a few weeks ago when the parks were still open I sat on a bench with Karolina drawing words back and forth between one another as if drawn across and even weaving with the rays of the late day sun there came a woman cursing strangely but with humour into her black cell mirroring her black sun-glasses and black lipstick against the pallid flesh not unhealthy but decidedly off-white maybe and the long dress as you could imagine black maybe of felt I can admit to being distracted and imprecise but she pushed a black hearse-like baby-carriage with gold handle-bar, a pram, all in black, black, black, also with golden-trim and molded fleur-de-lis joint-fittings and hub-caps all gold (rubber tires: black) and this sumptuous death-limo richness, stately deathly pomp and gliding circumstance the wheels of the carriage being 4 wheels and the baby could not be seen because of the black screen drawn over the closed lid of this funereal float in the last parade before the quarantines and lockdowns would in earnest begin -- as it were a premonition of some sort -- what if she was selling dope? or vaccines?


 the meteor will hit
any minute
knocking arms
off the clock
although the system
bearing complexity
races to label
the off switch
other hexers
fill in the blanks
just check

afterthought title: 
let the scapegoating begin


where do we go now?
what time is it really?
we used to run from the crowds
we used to run with some crowd
lonely but never alone
my drum beat me to the difference
on the isolate peaks the valleys
virtually folded greenly in the voice
of Maria Calas the grass
burnt too quickly
in this recording of Donizetti
one can hear the creak of floorboards
feet shuffling a choral strophe
or floral catastrophe
not a single word makes sense
melismatic throughout
an endless sentence
where did all the people go?
down the street on the corner
bottles without drinkers gather
Nothing new about that
flute mimics aria and airplane
over scores the Donizetti
now she sounds like a simple siren
operatic ambulance sans Doppler
where do we go to find supplies?
the feet fall like simple rain
what do we find essential?
is this purgatory or the ante room to Hades?
is there always opera here?
where can I find what I need?
where can I give what is mine to give?
can all these sounds of voices
act like tree leaves to filter
poison of political speech?
maybe life is too difficult after all
maybe our life is over-involved
but then again who's asking?
perhaps the quantic snap to new
time space manifold is enhancing
reception and you in the corner
turn to look at these words
stretching out of view


daft bourgeois
go to the cloak room
go to your closet
take the clothes
woven with grief
and rend them
walk in the rags
ten years at least
or until one tear
falls for something
other than what you
seem to own so well
you have forgotten
daft bourgeois
what rhymes with orange
unhanding us


pimples appear on the surface
and ruins of a face wander various selfhoods
from adult to adultery to adulteration
the past is being rewritten by the victor & victrola
the vector of identity learning cosmetics
and flotation from water fowl
who winter the siege of micro-mongols
foraging with tails upturned for
their food is of great concern
having no parliament of devils to haggle with
about the meaning of the worm for control


time sleeps
pulls the blanket over space
it is your birthday
in terms of years
your birth minute
in terms of weeks
your birth second
in terms of centuries
incalculable your days
and nights inside the forest
the first tree
learning to walk
but lo! behold:
space has closed
over the book of time
where nebulae murmur
timeless arguments
in celebration
of what we maybe
never will know

(false poem for the buddha, lately of timeless
ageless universe where years are 450 million) 


when you have seen 100 pomegranites fall with your own eyes and collected the seeds

boom room is where you go boom like everyone like no one will hear like poetry scratch pad days lines of oblivion etched into the feathered forehead of God's list in flight you lost me there at the crossroads of poetry and politics. boom. every word in the truth there is no substitute no paraphrase poetry Iies faithful to love no template for industry nor congress conspiracy of pharmocorporal wage-punishment fake peoperty document's please, you dinosaur fossil. poetry is the dwelling harmonic hambone hydrangea hydrophone hydra schio-analytics of doctor kryptonite. boom. muhhamad ali plus typing. It will not be there to argue class distribution curves but may be dress gender issues in colourful terms of the celebratory imagination and go fund the me the synaptic ligatures of identity. beep beep. whizz. scratch toe hold let your wing tips touch your peak drop those Martian maritime mumbly peg martini holding praying mantis hands to the ground. and boom. gravity goes quantum this mountain is naturally bald not arranged like Chopin. bam. bang a chopstick rattle its the Chico Brown eye pattern flare in the foveal grove showing you sun's plasma in freckles of your mitochondria. the angels are supported by the song you need the angels so you sing. simple as that. even I'd you dial the number wrong it gets you a where world were-world were-where. and you don't stop. the barrel scraping is infinite and the empty glows like howl-along



polarities by virtue of hardened age gaining maximum flexibility seem to lead me to pointing in all directions like the quantum brainless scarecrow -- the direction of your fear of loss, your direction for your hope for gains -- the heraclitean directionless direction -- the tao where all roads are the crossroads... i don't wish to be one person or even when that one person was okay it was doomed by being one to particle decay and clamber scatter across despair stairs of value -- who could be a poet after pasolini? the personal auschwitz of the leftist fermenting in procrustean beds? they will plow your car over your bones... michealangelo's shattered pieta the arm hanging too simian... the break-down of social barriers, the way anybody's soviet childhood meets with your own monkey family farms 

In Crimean Tatar, the name of the city is Aqmescit, which means The white mosque (Aq—white, and mescit—mosque)

the one dimensional gag-order
weaponization of facial wear
versus multidimensional
gag-order, denial of services,
death by nostalgia, attack
the flaque not the flicks

they say delete your cookies
put your cookies down on the ground
and step-back, hands on your head
back out of your history
learn the new narrative
and it's cul-de-sac of rebellions
cul-de-sac, chicken shack
rooster in a hen-house
melting icebergs
the volcanoes mega


raped serially by the death monotony cult of capital with enchanting intermitencies the designer diseases passed randomly down predatory food chains whose bottom feeder calls top dog down stream of the bourgeois rage for consistent development technologies telling us which side this titanic is broken on determined to keep talking while the boat goes down while I suggest all you lovely people instead learn your swim against all the spins and yes they are sharks all around confused by it all maybe as much as you keep your distance the eye on the eyes take aim relax its all over anyway get on with it 


humans not in it. humans within it. humans surround some segment of it. surrounds humans. it does yet don't have any ain't. don't know what it is don't know themselves but make doughnuts make doughnut holes and sell them and grow bigger themselves. what have we been doing in the goldilocks zone but feasting on the rightful supper of the bears...

the optimist sees the glass as half-ruined, cracked, looks for a new one

clampdowns on cognitive freedoms rarely get reported. or only ironically. freedom itself is often not efficiently cognized. are any of you reading this? what pill was it that you took this morning? I have a theory about island people. a theory about goats and boats and ayahuasca and dreams of a theory of broken down authority. resolved into riddims. you with them. theory about landlocked nations that dream to be boats with children at the helm in pirate hats made of newspaper. there will be no election to perform itself incompetently on Sunday. are you reading this or only what you want to see in this? I think when artaud wrote all writing was pigshit it was in translation but he likely meant writing for the man is cryptofascist. let the word be free. to connect in the mind the numberless days of liberation. but what pill will we pick from the pharmocoligical sootoproletarian kindergarten and what is up with that numbed down dumbed down thing of flat roads and drained swamps that our civilization calls quality. put up a laugh emoji from the bank of emotions open offer. yesterday a swan walked ashore straight towards me and I didn't run away but there were cops in a hummer I hope will disappear over then summer I dream of djinn with the green glowing hair and kelp that walks. it is gentle madness and pineal clarity. type this and forget. poets never die

radio curvature -- spherical triangles - the social armature, armor, amour, casting spells in sound
moor mothers tangled weather
the kickbacks of apriori
ante-deluvian backwater
diamonds drawn from the moon
(ice crystals) did the virus come from mars?
surprised eyes upon dresses covered in vibrant green vowels,
apricot inside the apricot, starved fish for the fishers
because all causes are between 
bells do not ring in the cathedrals any longer
and the darkness of theater extending tendrils
devices design separitis (an inflammatory disease caused by being alone)
the inflammation of division

touch of a scandalous fair play may day's delayed rapture, extended mix par cour, par terre, par-tay, par-tau, square to the pi dwarf ancient c

brave the eternal why not now brave the teddy dreadies

under the paradigm shift the quick fix of the flipped ecliptic will re-rotate the total bliss manufacture--- 
let the judges be warned how judgement burns both ways
 surf the tidings of disaster, let the rubric read liberation

where fantasy coils with reality where the dream animals gather and give bifurcation a lift into town

Thursday, December 3, 2020

Wasteland with a Faerie Queene -- Sonic Youth in Pisa -- Florentine Notebook #2, Nov. 1992 --


zoom in on this for details...

 "sometimes you get so lonely, sometimes you get nowhere, I've been all over the world, I've left every place"

Don't tell me to stop now when it's beginning all over again. I'm rumbling in treno via Empoli a Pisa, brain moving faster than all words, towards my own Sonic Youth, with 3 Babbling Devils on my shoulder, eagerly absorbed into the whole of the night, like a sponge sucked into the drain. Don't ask me to stop singing, oy, fare le laude ai compagni assiem wherein their words and hairs fly so causeless in the wind headed into the nowhere we never been before. Through rushing air of window late, November as it was, moon a daub of semen or milk (some of us think like both) (some can tell the difference)(across the black velvet skirt (sky). The sky (skirt). Blends in with all the advertisements of the sky (of Tuscany) you see in Nature Magazines, sky porn, anna livia plurabelle, just ahead, anywhere. Skies backdropping the architectural crusades of progress: churches, tenements, malls, aracades, factories, living graft, then skies again, full, empty, the train's throttling intonarumori. Like the lovely lies my friends here tell me about the future while we laugh empty the mind and the bottles while filling up the heart with something like a ladleful of Italian sky-noise and by then I'm already hearing opening primordial haywire feedback space junk whistlers revolutionary spin (dreams that rise in wavelets thereof whistler's mothra, therefore) such dreams as music is made of, the wasteland, the Arno flooding in the heads of the Santa Croce residents, the abandonment of the City of Flowers in time of Re Pesta il Terzo, the paper boat we chilluns float upon, oh, well, someone else will tell the history of it all, the hooked trout, the factitious bait. For the moment there's only this grinding and fleshly feeling of moving into unknown Pisa Centrale Stazione, getting out &... no one is sure of where to go. Yet.

Where are they playing someone asks. Scott's laughter backwashes into recalcitrant Coke's lattina. Danielle is doing up the Botticellian whiplash tresses into a golden wasp's nest. (We are still on the train, we haven't even arrived at the station but the wheels are starting to whistle). Jill laying down between us how we in young adulthood or old age exploit our teenage scandals in later ages to extract legendary gold from the rank ore of coal dead dinosaur paddies. I'm the only one listening apparently. My dad, she says, has been, she seems to say, the has-been, hus-band, house-band freakin'... she seemed to have said, something. * About. We've all been wearing the wedding ring on the wrong finger lately. And if you have begun, my dear and be-mildewed reader, to lose sight of our narrative ship, then rebel! Stand aghast, don't give up the fight: I must remind you this is a facet, a fragment, a colored tile in a Byzantine mosaic of a life made of all our lives and you may, if naughtier than nice, see the assemblage therefrom years down the line. We await a bus at the second piazza up from the train station and ticketlessly steal ourselves into orange colored butt-holds of the pullman where I get involved talking to a pixyish Pisana fashion-plate who sells English lessons (by the pound) from swank portofolio and she's going our way. Score. We scramble off the bus and confront.

Illusory and deceptive as all hell, we confront the unknown people, the official wall, acting as if common granite. We dissimulate normalcy while feeling out of place, we decollatoed this and capitoed that through the well-suited lines of gently grunting nodding carabinieri, admitted, ushered or shooed along. We are all too legal these days to be long-detained and we got our skins, visas and hairs gathered into a vestibule. Once inside... 

The venue was like a tent, huge big-top or some modern gymnasium ** but once inside, we melted into the warmth of the throng. Huddled just a ahead a ring of steamy-headed Italians backs turned to us, smoking up an incense storm some sacramental hocus-pocus making us feel fine, smoking up a storm in fluted columns, hookahs, rising as the censer in some Tibetan shrine, murmuring outward, inward... 

(Pavement is in the distance on the set, a band I know di nulla).

Outward, inward, suddenly pressed up near the stage, without knowing how it happened, leather flesh fur denim scents hairs overlapping. The year is 1296, 1965, 1992 as far as I can see. Dante verses in my mind but babble in the ears, modern europes, Coltrane on the house-system whoozing so misty blue dark enraged out of nowhere but gently over the gen-X crowds, manna, some De La Soul, but the Trane back with the Sophic rain of the journey there and back again. Soothes. Excites. Ethiopian freedom saxophone. And then the Sonic Youth come out looking not so young as before but ageless as ever and I find myself in this ancient physical colloquoy of smiles, moving bodies, shaking out the dreads, the damp musty falanges, the rug of willied souls pressing as they roll out the first few noise-eloquent numbers (where's the fiasco of Fibonacci?), the whine of feedback, the barrel of the skull-drum thudding as the pit shyly at first seems to form out of the pointless core the spiral. Advancing into kindredness, oblivious to cause. Or several causes clicking. And we go weaving into the whorl, the ravished flower of this many-petalled collective dance. Girasole. We are all too temporary to withhold, not get thrown about, it's bloodless, there must have been this, always, but I only know this, now. Too eternal. Lest we forget. Mixed into this Mill of Life again. Heads and hearts in one silver bowl. Orphic, Sapphic, Bacchic all one. Jesus Christ and Judas Iscariot reconciled in the time-machine with flappers. Who do they think they are anyway? God it sure is hot here in Heaven. I step back and fan my jacket a bit, still swaying. For the first time in my life a girl boldly pinches my ass, an Italian, unknown, giggling, during  "Tom Violence" , then goes rushing back to her circle of friends. I just smiled and waved. Not running away, not chasing anything.

And someone on the stage says, "you better stay away from poets" and we all know why Henry James said "paint loneliness on your banner", if you would write your culture inside out. And that's what this is, this moment, flipped, Sonic Youth in Pisa, leaning over the stage, my inverted expatriate consciousness straining to see where the two shores meet. (That's what our notebook says, take it or leave it). The crowd is friendly genuinely the gentle throttling of the pit is nowhere aggressive. They seem to have a hard time hoisting anybody on top of the hands for too long since they are not packed tight enough. Stage-dives don't come off too well. Given my own imperfections, I am all open arms. Hope of open arms stupidly wasted on the perfect. Each song comes smashing out like baseball bats on windshields. That song's name takes a long time to come to mind while its goes, ah Drunken Butterfly. 

I love you, I love you, I love you, what's your name? 

Then some new songs I don't know too well, maybe improvisations, then something like "don't you touch my breast" very no-wave this one and after Sex, God and Angels, surprisingly or unsurprisingly, since it's been more like an hour and a half of something that one can't believe is here and happening anyway it's up to that tristesse, that sad, detached, fatalistic moment when we realize we must forever leave.

Let us the fuck out. Nothing is worse. I am always the-forget-to-leave-early-dumbass-king. 

Mezzo kilometro camminando. Following hunches, some people seen on the train here, ears bleeding, following the red trails, winding up at Cascine Stazione, chilly, waiting with the Florentine resident contingent of the throng, Chilly, waiting (you typed that already). Then talking until 4 in the morning about our lives in motion then at home more talking more until deep night alone talking in the mind then...

no more talking... what's that sound like?

"I am going to hate to leave this Earthly Paradise" ***



* This is a lovely moment to recall. It's too loud to hear what people are saying but we all were smiling and happy and acting as if we understood. That had become our habit in daily life: hearing much spoken and pretending we understood everything so as not to be too conspicuous. Pretending to understand when you don't but also because by pretending you also understand something else: it's being together that's important.  

** Teatro Politeama, Cascina, Pisa

*** quote from American poet, Charles Olson