Damn.
Just let me write toward a composition-made hole.
See its edges: round and lean yet scraggled like a horseshoe.
Is this “that “first step toward poetry”” or a step around?
Art-riding or dick-writing?
Expressivist or Pony Express?
Click here. Or here. Or here. Or here. Or here. Or here. Or here.
If I were to write a literacy narrative, I would talk about that one time, at Giant Eagle, when I found the book of my dreams. I was just a child then, and my mom had curly hair. She had a pick with a fist for black power. 41 souls murdered in 50 hours.
Make this my modernist masterpiece, my waste land.
It is a certain disequilibrium contrived within the indifference of white paper; it is a certain hollow opened up within the in-itself, a certain constitutive emptiness—an emptiness which, as Moore’s statues show decisively, sustains the supposed positivity of things.
Oh, so David wasn’t meant to turn me on?
I felt as if I had experienced life with the person this brain once belonged to, even though I had never even knew his name, his story, or anything about him.
Who is it that I write to? Do you have a body, too? How does yours feel? Well, I guess mine feels just fine. Is it strange that I’m always hungry?
In the past, if you pictured events, like a black tie / What’s the last thing you expect to see? Black guys.
Post-Google, Why Is Citation Important? (Always trust the dot-e-d-u.)
Red coat.
Did you see that photograph of Peyton Manning riding on Tom Brady’s back? Giggling on the sidelines.
Here’s to Quentin Pierce, the words that have never once fallen, and a Sid Vicious riddled with bullet holes. Now wake back up and dance with the poor kids.
If Paul Revere and Yankee Doodle had been friends, would they have put together that fucking Yankee Candle Company?
Now click here for the Susan Kipnis-Laura Griffin-rock-till-your-socks-turn-blue multimedia (read the comments) presentation.
Jackson Pollock over Andy Warhol, eh?
Is he he?
turning brother into a crack baby
turning somersaults into a cracked baby
turning somersaults into a two-lane, double-decker highway
the fascinating insanity of a bumper-to-bumper heart attack city death knell
Is the indecision to take a life or let it live productive enough for you?
I realize any recuperative history like this will smack of nostalgia and idealization. I suppose that’s inescapable—if the art and theory of the era didn’t have ideals I felt were valuable, I wouldn’t look longingly back to compositional ideas I feel were abandoned too quickly. But please don’t think my nostalgia for kickier times blinds me to the problematic aspects of the Happenings theorists; there are aspects about them I find troubling. (28)
(Here, I refrain from scratching.)
So, Bartholomae urges a course “that investigates the problems of writing at the point of production,” in which students practice the ability to produce a critical reading” (28, 28, 28, 28), but what he offers is nostalgia, a course in art appreciation: “the point of the course was to teach students how and why they might work with difficult texts” (26).
A whisper from inside the stall.
April is the cruelest month / my uncle called me ghoulish once
Jesus did many other things as well. If every one of them were written down, I suppose that even the whole world would not have room for the books that would be written.
Punchier.
Touch each other in black and white.
I was there to touch but just out of reach.
The soul thinks according to the body, not according to itself, and space, or exterior distance, is also stipulated within the natural pact that unites them.
Look, I found her.
