21 enero 2013

California history previously unknown (to me & Ben at least)

View of Sacramento City during the Great Inundation in January 1850
[lithograph by Geo. W. Casilear & Henry Bainbridge]

None stir the second time —
On whom I lay a Yellow Eye —
Or an emphatic Thumb —

Sphindigae, hawk moth, still alive

Jennifer Scappettone’s From Dame Quickly is hard to read, hard to warm to, modern-culture-critical, ingenious, feminist, funny, & fascinating. Not much like truth. Frequent beauty. She seems to begin with [un]quoted texts & alter the words (grandiloquently) until the result is a language puzzle sense peeks through.

from Thing Ode

Say, what thing — Darling — what thing keeps you

up at night? — security, collaboration,

innovation, client satisfaction,

productivity, the new black

global pipeline of sharing,

channel’s faultless banishing of rats?

a garrison’d ecosystem

waxing margins of the sure thing

now neither fish nor flesh

nor a damn of Mater

equipping itself to torque and spin

this leak of social substance?

Jennifer Scappettone [pic courtesy of The Disinhibitor]

da s

I was pre-Pandoran once, clear & amok, scarlet free where scarcely

orange or purple romed: all

font, Greek, drunk, then, then Tyred, vinegar spect for breakfast. How I seam

now in video

footage of national folding where only arson lives lives. Its source is valid because

Google

calls it 100% relevant and government, which is apt since it’s an historical event. I reseek

and

pall this chunk’s vocation. Viatical my neighbor asks if I’d ride in the trunk, no kid; my

hatchback is mined in the parking lot for its sparkplugs beyond the bar. She masking

he then is captured by the faith-based; once she creams, he stops calling it

vocation. Down here, they have imported the clouds from Japan, and I hear them, sardine.

Keez me, gaghrl, yer old wahn. Geta-crushing Shoji of the air will remember cat-noise

and -fish for complements as the King of Terror will never have forced

the possible Fed you you you’re not — not. Postal will be yours and you, bulk predellal,

tardy

urinals on vehicles, art naught but an empty he-port. Grey they err over joy, toupeeing

space

as picture meant to do. I stream, hand mover, reek, occupy ice and call that night. Of all

indecipherably

you finally type to say you hosted Uncle Chen in your backyard exclusive. Wake,

it’s time to smell the smoke. Darling I

incensed. Once could have been your she-port; pretty noun

look ahead to repast and yr Gruyerer aspect. Hype alone remains inside the box.

& then there's Tadpole in costume: