Home of the Bill T. Jones / Arnie Zane Company
Passion overwhelms comprehension. Comprehension kills passion.
humself, shamself, hymnself, shameself—. / lameself, lambself, numbself, unself—. / sing anger, goddess, of—. many devices—.
500 billion years ago—the dark touches itself in the dark and experiences something like ecstasy. Except that ecstasy isn’t a feeling yet—the sensation is just kind of sharp and warm. Afterwards, the dark feels happy and breathless. Afterwards, the dark feels lonely.
When I was thirteen, two missionaries from the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints came to the house to follow up on a conversation from the week before with my mother.
The story’s “contents” are spun from actual events: in August 1973, Klaus flies to Los Angeles to meet his then-partner, Lynda Benglis (referred to as “Her”), who was to drive cross-country with him back to New York. Instead, he drives back alone, lost in a disputatious reverie circling around language, Gertrude Stein, modernist literature, mapmaking, and the act of writing.
Finally back in the fold of Hollywood—one imagines him advancing mistrustfully, mistrustfully looking up at the high and useless palm trees (an immoderation which serves no purpose: the palm trees “planted on both sides of the expressway in order to purge an already pure sky”).
…gossiping, type-setting, weaner, weaner of the child—heir to her / own epos—her trip round the table. Tomorrow a letter, or a few / letters to make it like an anatomy lesson even, will rip right down / this table
You are on a sidewalk packed and fierce and fueled by desire greed ambition come on come on miracle.
The hymn for the time is bone on bone. / One man’s anthem slaughters another. / I know you’ve seen it all before— / a boy born wrong is opened up by the law
Filled with hairspray and dog-smoke / and cigarette meat / at the meeting in the big town-hall / of the small provincial town of / sleep
When you don’t have the words / what will you use to speak (to truth)? Whiteness is structured like a language
The professor reads the submissions with his hand cradling his sparrow and when he reaches hers, he masturbates profusely, rubbing his sparrow’s feathers until it is nearly bald.
Vast plates shifted littler ones / with constant sounds and heat terrible / Then there was a cleft and so a river
when you say / erase / do you mean / stop existing?
I say something about the time and he replies, “I cannot sleep in this lifeless room, I can’t, I can’t. I won’t. You can’t make me.”
In the letter never sent, / the one constructed / entirely from photographs, / Polaroids of moments, or / elements I have been / attempting to suppress.
It was a long period of peace, prosperity, refined sensibilities and national self-confidence. And crumpets.
When he could no longer stand her chatter—in France I made myself a dress of leaves stitched together with stems and I wore it by that river, the big one, the sludge, and that’s how I met many interesting boyfriends from the National Geographic Magazine—he left Nancy on the hotel roof with the chef from Mumbai.