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Preamble with Banter

Preamble with banter

I dreamt that the sea was drying out
but it wasn’t.
I dreamt that the snow was burning
but it didn’t.
I dreamt I won the state lottery
of poverty.
I dreamt I was somewhere under
the rainbow.
I dreamt impossible dreams,
dreamt that I dreamt impossible
things. I dreamt
that I could not love, but
only dream.
I dreamt I was being dreamed
but I woke up and it found it to be
just a dream.

post-human hot potato and other cool cats

411 West’s bleedin’ Bloody Marys, progressively worse for the post-human hot potato: John

just your average Sunday morning harbringer of doom, a lucky turkey vulture lurking

the birfday tapes

in praise of the Goddess of Slow, or Hope

ladybug ladybug fly away home

Dear Ladybug of Hope: this is the world as you left me in it.

Hope’s unreal Real leaves me emptyfull or Three New Heads for a Future Easter Island

the people of my world in pictures

for the academic factoried

Also, can anyone give Joaquin Bueno their thoughts on: the discursive belligerence of universalising texts and their pretensions of extrinsic referentiality, and how the intrinsic, infinite truth of the work of art in the classical sense can suggest a riddle-space in which such external truth-processes have no origin and violence is thus abolished? And then, how to fashion a thought from this space of infinite, possible decolonized silence? Please.

Some thoughts from a cold night:

[Why I really wrote the Quixote]

I wrote it again ‘cause it was bad,
a bit too wordy, just a tad too long.
I wanted real giants where there
were simply windmills. I could not
envision such taut sheets stretched,
tossing me so high in the air, nor
such a helmet fashioned upon my head.
I wanted to stay longer in the Sierra
and ditch the trip at the gates
of Barcelona. I wanted my pen to
dwell for seventeen more centuries
of paper with my name on the very
first page. I wanted to sit in silence
with pirates and forget about my
dream of freedom, forever. And I
wish to stay asleep in my study and
never see the light of day until
someone writes me all over again.

-Eduardo Ramos

clackin’ away in ole cackalacky

typing ’till my fingertips are nipped by numbness. until my senses are dull dull dull like a ladybug imprisoned by winter. for the moment, enjoy her and my finger, before both are dulled down to shadows of themselves. also, a treatise on dullness.

[dullness]

Dullness is essentially
a dull thing, that is to say
a not-so-sharp thing. It is
dull, being dull, dull-witted,
lightly dull and light dullness,
submissive self-destructive
dullness, ideal dullness which is
ideally dulled down to a dull,
the art of being dull until
dullhood is fully reached and
full dullness is a dullard’s dream realized.
It is then that we can truly come-to-be the
dull-nation of which we dreamed and
built will be our dullhouse so may we go
dull-stepping into adulation of dullity and
we can forget about being or seeing
or being ready to live a life of being
and just be dully and thus be duly
dullfaced, content, and reaching for
anesthetic to dull this feeling
of plainly and simply living.

the world today is shook up like a rain-globe