poetics, time, body disruption and marginally queer solutions

Saturday, November 01, 2003

November 1, 2003
Release Number: 03-11-01C

MOSUL, Iraq – (Nov. 1, 2003) Two 101st Airborne Division (Air Assault) soldiers were killed and two were wounded in an improvised explosive device attack in Mosul at approximately 7:30 a.m. Nov.1.

The wounded soldiers were evacuated to the 21st Combat Support Hospital.
The soldiers’ names are being withheld pending next-of-kin notification.
The incident is under investigation.

blog reviews of my new book, iduna on O Books:

stephanie young's The Well-Nourished Moon @


Eileen Tabios's CorpsePoetics @

check it out!!!

from: low
much needed blubs

wiping my face of sleep, of dreams, of the plains and byways . . . or maybe a bad one-in-a-million searching for another one-in-a-million story, colorized to fit the environment . . . . not wanting to open my eyes, not wanting to tune into any particular station, just wanting to let the bandwidth skip loose and pick the remnants from the wind-whipped streets, crowned on half-plumed walls of glass. who said "what," "maybe," "where," or "when" . . .? I know it wasn’t the funeral of someone or the depot for holiday food distribution. what were they saying? the great one? from where? and what does it mean, born to the daylight red . . . and caused the weather to weather? I needed to know, I needed to have control of every second, plan every escape, find routes not known. I needed to find deep-dish discounts for micro-thread insights - there like a half-price course, a mersadizz benzzz, cat-o-lounge of drag queens. why did the weather change? why did I remember rats talking to me, especially the one with red corrugated eyes? who were these people in white spandex and why was I in a bathroom sized room where everything’s made of aluminum, that is except for the stupid purple spandex suit I am wearing and oh yes, spandex sheets . . . what is this? there must be some way to bend this backwards. I can’t understand these turn-around-misplacements. why do I have an endless desire to hear the mr. lime theme song played through the street, serving subzero lime stuff?

Friday, October 31, 2003

Yale law students sue over Defense policyAnn Rostow, / Network
Friday, October 31, 2003 / 03:56 PM

In the fourth recent lawsuit challenging the Defense Department's insistence on military recruiting, two groups of Yale Law students filed a complaint in federal court on Thursday.

The suits arise from the Bush administration's decision to rigorously enforce the Solomon Amendment, a 1996 law that cuts off federal funds from any institution of higher learning that bars the campus gate to military recruiters. The Clinton administration looked the other way as many of America's top universities made little or no effort to follow the rule, which conflicts with most school's policies against cooperating with employers who discriminate on the basis of sexual orientation.

But the Bush administration decided to get tough. Last summer, most of the leading law schools received letters threatening to cut federal funds to the universities as a whole if the Judge Advocate General (JAG) representatives were not given the same treatment as other recruiters. With over $300 million at stake in grants to Yale University, the Yale Law School was obliged to make an exception to its nondiscrimination policy on behalf of the JAG corps. Other law schools were placed in a similar dilemma.

Last month, a group of law professors and others filed a federal suit in New Jersey contesting enforcement of the Amendment on constitutional grounds. In early October, a group of professors and students at the University of Pennsylvania's Law School filed a similar suit. On Oct. 23, a group of 44 Yale law professors, representing two thirds of the voting members of the faculty, lodged yet another challenge. And now, two New Haven student groups have combined in a fourth attack on the Defense Department.

Thursday's suit was filed by the Student/Faculty Alliance for Military Equality (SAME), and by a group of GLBT Yale law students called the Outlaws. The complaint argues, among other things, that the Defense Department is misapplying the Solomon Act, by requiring that schools provide not just access to students but access that is equal to that given other employers. Further, the threatened funding cut should technically be applied to Yale Law School, not Yale University as a whole.

Also, the students note that the Solomon Act has a loophole for religious schools that teach pacifism. For the government to respect pacifism, while dismissing Yale's belief in anti-discrimination, is a form of viewpoint discrimination, the complaint insists. Finally the imposition of the recruiters is a violation of the students' rights to Freedom of Association. And by implicitly targeting gay and lesbian students, the law, and its enforcement, tramples on the right to equal protection.

[TWO] FACTORIAL is (finally) here!!!

This new, long-awaited issue includes:

--> a reprinted excerpt from the long out-of-print but wonderful Elements
of Performance Art by Fiona Templeton & Anthony Howell;
--> various acts of crime, fraud, fire, and prolificiency;
--> a discussion of (and excerpts from) The Collaboration That Started It
All (with poet Kerri Sonnenberg);
--> a very special back-cover collaborative self-portrait of the Couple
That Started It All In The Very First Place (The smiling Mr & Mrs Nakayasu
in their 60s, using a PURIKURA machine popular with young Japanese
schoolgirls, with the assistance of a kind teenager); as well as some
--> great, wonderful, writing.

The Lineup:

Norma Cole & Avery Burns | Sarah Ann Cox & Yedda Morrison & Elizabeth
Treadwell | Caroline Presnell & Bobbie West & April West |Jerome Rothenberg
& Stefan Hyner | Kerri Sonnenberg & Sawako Nakayasu | Sue Landers & Natasha
Dwyer | Dawn Trook & Jeff Lytle | Eric Baus & Noah Eli Gordon & Nick Moudry
& Travis Nichols | John Crouse & Andrew Topel | Octavia Orange & Accomplice
| Fiona Templeton & Anthony Howell | Zara Houshmand & Tamiko Thiel | ...&
some fantastic anonymous writings by your favorite writers!

How can you resist?

special! Order both [One] and [Two] Factorial for only $11 and receive a
letterpressed first-installment of 71 Postcards for free!

Order now:

Each copy of Factorial available for:

$6/issue, $11/two issues
($20 institutions)
international $10/issue

!Factorial Press
PO Box 153106
San Diego, CA 92195-3106

Announcing from O Books - iduna by kari edwards, Poetry, 102 pages, ISBN # 1-882022-49-1, $12.00.

O Books : 5729 Clover Drive Oakland CA 94618. Distributed by SPD: 1341 Seventh Street, Berkeley CA 94710.

Leslie Scalapino says iduna is experiment in which the text (like a personality) is as if 'set' to proceed by accident and mistakes of machine - but then, as such, in the workings of its 'accidents' (as if she is margins of pages and words from ads and 'theory' which are composing and revealing her: as if personality which is a machine/and thus the text is akin to the memory of a Replicant in Blade Runner) the effect is seeing passionate/ 'personal'/'emotional' (un)programmed memory and responses.

Steve McCaffery says about iduna "If benign linearity marks the last vestige of Cartesian consciousness, Vitruvian space and Spinozan ethics, then iduna signalizes its catalectic adieu. For there is no return after this. Kari Edwards has written and conceived a bold, complex text that pushes lyricism to the brink of an interstice, between the Dictionary and its scream. Auto-translative, self-contaminatory, iduna never renounces its splendid linguistic excess, fabricating a textural world of legibility and illegibility, gravitation and non-gravitation, that powers its dweller (for one must dwell in iduna) gesturally around and among its morphs and torques. If Deleuze and Guattari are correct when they aver that writing 'has nothing to do with signifying. It has to do with surveying, mapping, even realms that are yet to come' then iduna provides a special map to a certain dream of Coleridge's: the frontiers of a post-cognitive."

Johanna Drucker says about iduna "Paratexts and processing suggestions stream through Kari Edwards's iduna... The constant drive to make use of formal possibilities at the level of page and opening brings graphic format into substantive play...A machinic drive echoes in this work as a human, subjective voice struggles to come through the registers of current language events, noise, news, records, communications. The shape of a human outcry presses through the mass of mediated material. Form embodies possibilities enabled by the instructions of forced justification, font shifts, hard returns, tabs, chunked blocks, and other basic elements of text processing...Before we can ask what something means when we read it, we must ask what it means to read - and Edwards poses that as a high-stakes question providing the point of departure for current poetic production."

Chris Tysh says about iduna "Having evacuated the endemic patriarchal script, Edwards writes hir own rules of the game in the wee hours when the sky turns green and binary logic decamps posthaste. Under the ruins of gender, iduna is a wild garden where 'sexuality begets language.' The anarchic profusion of voices, discourses, idiolects, fonts and typographies that seem to rain down upon the page becomes the new 'formlessness' which is the political signature of this resistant and absorptive text."

The Holloway Poetry Series presents
the 2003-2004 Holloway Poet

Geoffrey G. O'Brien

Thursday, November 6

Colloquium with the poet at 5:30 p.m. in the English Department Lounge, 330
Wheeler Hall, UC Berkeley;

Reading at 7 p.m., Maud Fife Room, 315 Wheeler Hall, UC Berkeley
(Campus map at );

Reception to follow

Free & open to the public

Geoffrey G. O'Brien's first book, The Guns and Flags Project, was published
by the University of California Press in 2002.

If you have additional questions about the series, contact Jen Scappettone

from: dôNrm´-lä-püsl

this could be a reminder, a message of something that may have occurred and I am only saying this is this and this is the darkness of the past that leaks through clipping sounds. there is no option “a,” since there was never option “b”.

I could be somewhere else right now imagining being here, imagining being somewhere else imagining being something. I suppose I could be traveling on a highway just outside somewhere else, watching the thunder roll over a demoralized horizon, outside a captured territory of all those past-lives held in perpetuity. I could be speaking of solitude to my personal martyrs.

are you listening?

the random is on darkness . . . the verdict is in . . . they stack the wood and build the gallows . . . I saw the fire lighted, the faggots are catching and the executioner . . . build(s)up the fire further . . . hands won’t show themselves. faces hide. the corners are ground down and obscure. sounds creep through muffled ankles bound ever so tightly . . . it could be roaches or the hum of an invasion. maybe it is the cement crumbling from years of memorized transgressions. it could be the day the earth stood still consuming itself in large evangelist chunks.

the only edge I know is this cold embankment that seeps dampness into skeletal remains . . . pulverizing muscles with the constant pull from these chains. so, I work another miracle that goes unrecorded, watch each cell destroy teach other, with neat military precision. one soldier after another cut down with steel blade projectiles in a napalm moment, hold still and smile.

I know somewhere someone is working with someone to create the perfect offense, the inescapable question, the inscrutable nutcracker, the unexplainable iron maiden cause and effect . . . a joint venture . . . it could be patent pending . . . in the name of the queenking, country . . . bless amerika and all that.

this pain creeps through these pores . . . expanding along the inner layers of flesh, discharging urgent messages, assaulting the walls of my defenses, turning my body into nothing more than a dead zone of inarticulate tremors, longing for immediate extraction.

I lay here . . . move from one dead zone to the next with one second of reprieve . . . a second where my breath is not chopped in half in a gangrenous scream . . . a moment when the terror stops in anticipation termination . . . bit by bit . . . organ by organ . . . cell by cell . . . bringing everything to-a-close due to lack of recognition. and there . . . from within and from without, by which we may know. I know well that I have deserved pain . . . and . . . punish me wisely. for you will not do what you say against me without suffering for it both in body and soul.

in these moments when I can catch my breath . . . these perfect pauses before being submerged again in the anguish of a billion torturous shrouds . . . before I die again and again and again, there in the lesion that opens into a hallway to the lessons being given, chapter and verse on the red blood trickling down from under the crown, all hot, flowing freely and copiously, a living stream, just as it seemed to me that it was at the time when the crown of thorns was thrust down.

and then without warning long tumultuous shouting sounds like the voice of a thousand waters that slice a maniac’s path along my tendons, my veins my muscle’s to announce the end of sanity.
a moment longer on the edge and my body would void itself - collapsing to nothing but an impermanent stain.
I rotate to a position not recovering from the previous one dimensional felony.
I would rather die than do what I know to be a sin.

I catch my breath for an instant and focus on infinity, which counts more than gold and always comes before and after repetition ideology. how did I come to this moment of suffocation? who chose me? could it be that I am not here? could it be that this rusted rake being drawn across my skin is nothing more than a ragged sentence that has fallen off the page - a lifeless carcass telling lies.

it could be I have forgotten that I could suffer more as a reminder of the four ways of passion . . . the bleeding of the head, . . . the discoloration of the flesh . . . . copious bleeding of the body and deep dying.

it could be I have missed the endless confession of my sins and now suffer the abandon of torturers who douse me in kerosene to manufacture language with lit cigarettes - or was after being horse raped by trained pedestrians looking for more glass to break, after arrows didn't produce the desired effect, hacked from limb--to-limb and scattered on the future sight of a 7-11.
I was asked if I was willing to repent and mend my ways.
if I should say the heavens had not sent me I should damn myself.
if I could only see the furrows which have made a bed for themselves in my colorurless cheeks if I could perceive that which I can not name, that which crushes my body into a steel box or something significantly smaller than “a,” compacting me into neat symmetrical order, all accomplished by chatty machines, constructed and assembled at their plant of origin, labeled, categorized, numbered and shipped to the appropriate equivalent.
how many numbers does it take to convince the near dead to lead or a child or something else?
I protest against being kept in these chains and irons.
I come, sent by the heavens. I have no business here.

the world turns and I weep. the body turns and I weep. the body clock rotates with a momentum casting itself as the enola gay, bathed in sins, rotating on a spit stuffed, bubbling at the surface, leaving only shadows, no glimmer, no reservation, just a language vortex produced in a new floral nightmare.

if you were to have me torn limb from limb and sent my soul out of my body, I would say nothing else to satisfy you inquiry. as for signs; if those who ask for them are not worthy of it, I am not accountable for that.

this is all probably one of those dreams I will wake up into. one where the television set is on runaway and some savior is watching the blank screen. I know I have no choice but to listen and take off my red jacket, stop spinning and proceed . . . yes, it’s true I had many godparents, two popes, and the voices, sweet with temple honey, voices I confess to, voices that tell me I am here.

what here? a left hand turn at a cheap hotel with rude jailers before my birth and after my death.

this is the place where I begin and end, alaphebatchamegalo, klaatu barata nikto.

boning burns like artificial limbs, like pierced necks and backs with distinguishable lines protruding. like a dog without a bark. like friendly bombs.

the heat empties from the body, the after shock tears memory from a different perspective, oozes blood from behind mental armor.

it could be something else and this could be that something else.
this pain, this darkness could be nothing more than a reminder that something happened, a tear something leaked through, carrying clicking or electrical or heavenly something.
I could be somewhere else imagining being here. outside a wall shouting
I am sent by the heavens. I do my best to serve.

who has abandoned me to this darkness?
I don't know either a or b
I come from the kingdom of heaven to raise the siege and where am I now?
I was so horribly and cruelly used
that I damned myself to save my life.
hear my confession, my sins, all deeds against others . . . blood everywhere . . . caught in distorted bodies . . . too much to bear . . to confess . . . I have orders to follow . . . I die through you . . . I have orders to follow . . . even if it costs me my head . . . I have orders to follow . . . I ask for help from no one . . . I have come . . . I was sent by the heavens.

Edgar Allen Poe, The fall of the house of usher.
Joan Darc’s words from numerous text.
Julian of Norwich, Showings
Edmund H. North, screen play for: The day the earth stood still