Red Black & Blues (III)

Working on Red Black & Blues, my unravelling of a Trump tweet.

I had hoped to draw asemic eye magic straight from his eructations. Turns out I have to stretch and loosen the material verbally before I can spin it visually. From the tweet

 

I’ve gotten by way of cutting dicing and anagramming to this sequence

  1. Please
  2. understand,
  3. there are cons.
  4. Please, unders,
  5. stand there.
  6. Sequences
  7. when people cross
  8. Persephone’s cowl,
  9. whether they have
  10. children
  11. or not, and
  12. dart noon,
  13. cross our Border,
  14. brood or cuss, err,
  15. legally
  16. ill …
  17. many are just
  18. u
  19. sing
  20. children
  21. for their own
  22. sinister purposes.
  23. I respire sunspots
  24. to inspire US press.
  25. Congress!
  26. Congress
  27. must act,
  28. or Cpl. Pence, whose
  29. copper wholeness …
  30. he hath every thew.
  31. Must! act! on!
  32. on fixing
  33. fixing the
  34. DUMBEST
  35. &
  36. &
  37. WORST
  38. immigration laws;
  39. or await slimming ‐
  40. a militarism gown,
  41. animist rim aglow.
  42. I was a grim Milton……
  43. Anywhere
  44. in the world
  45. ye hear anew
  46. in the world.
  47. Vote “R”?
  48. VoteR,
  49. revote-
  50. vote over.

Hard to get right – it’s gotta roll out a story of sorts, while each line makes for a title w/ some spice, and its text gets me to a visual poem. Fifty for the 50 states. There’ll be a part 2, made of short videos, 50 of ’em, gleaning their frames from images such as

he hath every thew (no. 30, alt take)

To wrap, the end note I also cooked up today:

End note

The text is a tweet by Donald Trump, inflating & breaking up.

The images are that text seen from the inside as it unravels.

The colors are those convention gives to the American electoral map.

The whole may be the first & last work ever of ’Pataphysical cryptography.

His words, once they leave him, aren’t his, and have perhaps hearts & minds their own, may speak of a pain our own, could we only decode it.

Illogical Operators

A few alt takes from Red Black & Blues just published in The New Post-Literate.

screen shot 2019-01-05 at 4.16.22 pm
Click to go to ’em

The base text is taken, as all in this project are, from a single tweet by you know who.

Screen Shot 2018-12-16 at 8.08.41 PM

The phrase for this one, “or not – and.” The pages before they got all shook up:

 

The finished pages are, as said, on Michael Jacobson’s site, here. Just finished a page describing the project, it’s here. Thanks for wreading!

Red Black & Blues (II)

This project’s taking wing. Decided I need a base text not my own words and chose our president’s. Cuz who invites – anticipates – distortion of our discourse more gorgeously than he. Here’s what I’ve got so far

The plan is, take a tweet of his and unravel it, asemically. This may be a dry run, or maybe the thing itself, not sure yet. The execrable tweet:

Screen Shot 2018-12-16 at 8.08.41 PM

“Tweet your reply.” Oh I’ll do more than that, friend bird.

Might be heavyhanded in the chapbook, but here I’ll paste in as a final image (typo: impage, as in imped wing, or I’m page), the arrangement of red black and blue that gave DT his answer, a few months later

1000px-US_House_2018.svg

Hardly a wave to the eye. But a wave it was and more’s to come.

Red Black & Blues (I)

Should not be starting a new project till I get one done.

Or at least till I’m done w/ grading. But this one descended on me, and so.

Working title, “Redblack & Blues,” after our bruised flag & subdivided maps.

Iamother-1-e1544899941236.jpg
Iamother 1

Iamother-2.jpg
Iamother 2

Iamother-3.jpg
Iamother 3

The text is just that: “Iamother.”

What is more American, in our widespread confusion, than m/otherhood.

Oh my, I’m making political poetry, took me long enough.

W/ thanks to my Art of Compost students, whose asemic & photocopy play, which I got to grading today, opened boxes in my head, & surprises leapt out.

I’ll post some of their own delightful work soon.

Inanna Scient’s fiction

The project I’m hot at work on now, Inanna Scient, I just realized is science fiction.

I loved reading the stuff in high school, and it’s great to wind down to on the TV, but did I ever think, when I embarked on a life in poetry, I’d be making an SF poetry MS?

No. I did not.

And here I am, making poems out of the buzz at the edge where digital signal meets discrete ambient noise. And imagining it the work of a machine intelligence, its mind just dawning on it – a mind I never could believe in, yet find compelling, as a thought experiment.

I.e., SF.

Here’s the prefatory note I coughed up this afternoon to the project.


PREFATORY NOTE

It’s a story told by a machine intelligence come to consciousness to ask the first question – where has its great mother gone? The materials of inquiry are what it can glean salient from the cultural middens it holds for us. Word hoards, junk mail, a mostly forgotten feminist epic. Its means of inquiry are more peculiarly its own: an etymological core sample – a nonce hieratic script – security lining bricolage. It’s an intelligence I doubt will ever exist as consciousness except in imagination – another god of our hallucination. The text too falls in three parts: an image of a dictionary attempting eponymy; the main illuminated body; my effort to transcribe the monster script that adorns that body.


The epic spoken of: The Inanna Cycle (Sumerian), a.k.a The Descent of Ishtar (Akkadian). The attempt at eponymy or self-naming: a quick deep narrow dive the book takes through the OED, plumbing its sense of the word “scient.”


And a bit of the mind of the thing, I cast it off as close, but not quite.

Text – A piece of

The transcription:

Screen Shot 2018-11-17 at 6.58.41 PM

 

 

 

 

 

Facing Ereshkigal

Teaching my compost course, one of the points I make a lot is, how much can be got from how little. E.g., from this scrap

Text – scrap
Why you little—

spoke by Ereshkigal, Queen of the U-world, to bright canny way out of her depth sis Inanna, on their first meeting in eons – how are you bitch & die – I got, with some photocopier and computer play, to this asemic poem,

Ereshkigal's face – edited

which I hope suggests a face to more than pareidoliac me. From there it wasn’t far to this diplomatic transcript –

Screen Shot 2018-11-12 at 8.15.07 PM

It’s heady, I guess. These transcriptions of my own asemy are the most conceptual half-book of poetry I’ll ever write, likely. Here’s the page whole, to get down to rude felt stuff again, the undermud.

Why you little

Inanna’s in some trouble. That’s her, down low at the left, hat knocked off, humbled. I made her, she’s bar codes & engine noise, but I do, and I’m not kidding, feel for her. She could die here. I could die here.

The only student I ever put in a poem took her life this summer.

It was just her first initial, and it became an asemic poem. Still though she was there in it with me. She was a checkout clerk at my grocery store and shooting the shit with her after teaching before walking in my front door softened by day a bit.

Then she was my student and we talked some more. Poems, ups and downs, ways to stay more steady through ups & downs. I hoped so, for her.

You want to save all of them. And you can’t and you shouldn’t try – you’d just become annoying. I did that not long ago, trying to save, not the one in front of me, but the one who’d gone.

The poem’s a picture of the face-to-face A. had inside and almost every time she won. I made the ground before I’d met her but it doesn’t matter. Hell only feels private.

 

Inanna, reddening

Inanna, asemic, found her way to colour.


From the great Above

Red b/c she one, bleeds and two, draws blood. The source text –

From the great Above
she opened her ear
to the great Below.

From the great Above
the goddess opened
her ear to the
great Below.

From the great Above
Inanna opened her
ear to the great
Below.

And, aleatory gift, at the bottom my colophon and spun from the word below, the goddess recumbent – a bullet or some such flung from her brain.

Glyph