Professional Documents
Culture Documents
amy berkowtiz
lewis brown
paige taggart
jackson meazle
laura woltag
camille roy
brent cunningham
maya weeks
rachel hyman
julien poirier
yosefa raz
judah rubin
sam lohmann
wyatt sparks
dodie bellamy
amy berkowitz
5.
Right now a CEO is trying to see
if he can have a functional fireplace put in
and his fianc is trying to scrape
the moped gang insignia off of the French doors.
Right now everything is gutted:
theyre scrapping everything
our slumlord slapped together.
Granite, stainless steel, strip the carpets.
6.
The concept is highly disruptive.
7.
Did you see the fire in Mission Bay?
I saw it from the Castro with my friend
she pointed it out, grey plume
then we dismissed it
went back to talking OKCupid
but it grew.
We looked up: it was bigger
and blacker than grey
and someone else at Caf Sophie said
it was way out in Mission Bay.
8.
I want to write on facebook:
Fire in new condo development in Mission Bay
I have to admit I really hope its arson
but then Id certainly be on a certain list
which lots of us are probably already on.
Do they just take all the poets
or do they trust the alt lit kids to be apolitical?
9.
Burn it.
Burn it to the fucking ground.
I saw the billowing plume
rise with the waxing moon
framed by Castro rainbow flags
and I said gosh
maybe I still do love my city.
condo on fire
How the body makes notes speak them into the heart
Languages and human bodies a kind of translation.
Let me take a breath.
After the creation of the world let me catch my breath
throat in war let me catch my throat let me sing
this is your real death.
Beaded woman's shirt her back changed into gold leaf
or blindness. These are singing
hats. These are bats containing silence,
so come and pull it so it can be heard
underneath her mother tongue
I need to send my address.
Constrained by this
thick layer what do you call these shapes
tusk of this inner life. Psalm.
Collect the text from pieces of papyrus
flat stones, palm-leaves, shoulder blades and ribs of animals
pieces of leather and wooden boards hearts
eye where split screen mind.
Any trace of our own feet
catch up
worry about the heat in the middle of the winter.
There is no universal religion.
lewis brown
brent cunningham
resultantly
judah rubin
The Gleaners
Man: the air that he inahles one day inhales him; the earth takes the remainders.
Rene Char, tr. Gustaf Sobin
And so came to where language balanced on the finitude of desire. Wavering in the
indeterminate to open death, willing, contingent on the estrangement from perpetuity of the
constructed will. Fashioned of and in futurity, writing perpetuates a punctuation, a puncturethat
there is an end opens a continuity of after; even the gleaner must drop stalks, must go on without
holding. Life and the finality of this writing, subsumed by the constantly mutating core of self,
resonating and desiring, perpetually crossing the threshold of the Other and myself to implicate the
abyss of language at the center of my want; the contingency of my death as arriving from no other
than my self.
Morning, a hole for groundwater to fill; language, its harvest and digestion of surfaced
spatiality; days pass and nothing but hair and silt. Where escape is impossible one turns to surface
tensionto scrap life itself, to build the schematics to capture the sanded sweat, the semantic
possibility, the abstraction of fantasy that generates sustenance. It is these beads, these drops beneath
having allowed the abysmal to assume its supremacy, its ultimate placeand so, it is a descent: fruit
falls and water, trapped, enclosed, to exhibit its cycle in miniature, to be contained. Well-ness, the
place where all life sustained replacement: to touch the place of the indeterminate fallacy of language
where sound sense's inverse accretion, melody, finds the destructive, and so, their above its,
destroyed other. The place that inhabits no space but that within the emptiness of words, the beyond
of sound and sight that meet at their vanishing point.
One writes in the rain. Or one sits and writes from the rain its mouth. But the murmuring
eyes, ahistorical, and thus unrecuperable in a space of writing, its potential for decomposition, its
diminished possibility, its drying and apparenthesisthe mark of it, disappeared beyond itself. The
map of decomposition marks a wager of formation, the formalities of an oxidizing topos. Find the
place of death setwhere one cannot, except in the corpsed image, mete the strategy of a seated
recuperation.
When Tolstoy's protagonist in Childhood steps into the room where his dead mother's body
awaits burial, the pungent odor of death, although he does not immediately register it as such, is a
clinging sensuosness where all bodies are marked as dead and where healthbracketed under
hygeine and capitalbecomes, in itself, the effluvia of possibility. It is this necrophilic dimension
that concerns writing most directlythat all has become the permanent effacement of the
extinguished.
The Disaster of writing is so bound up in the need to test possibility that we relinquish even
the instablity of the signifier, lent to dislocation, however locability in language demands that it be
found in the coalescent valence of numerous atomized sensorial positions. Not truth as a stability,
neither as Disaster, but permanent dissolution of sense and the their of historical linearity.
Dissolution as a separation and erasure of time itself, which falls out of the poem and that writing
cannot fill. We are left only with the abyss, with a struggling for the productive destruction of
gathering, of gleaning.
Gleaning appears first, etymologically speaking, in figurative language and arises from both
gathering and puritybeyond trace. But the remainders, to follow and to gather, are established
along a line of contingency knowing love, if language, as residual and that the purity of the act of
gathering is one of death, of harvest, of a diminished or, rather, a destroyed ripening. Ripening as a
consumption, though it be altrusitic or symbiotic, of the Other as a means of tasting a superficial
process. Purity, therefore, a gleaning in excess, gathering to absolve the Othered possibility within
the void of seeing oneself the modulation of poesisthe subjective basis for the harvest an aphasic
reversal.
In the Book of Ruth, it is no wonder that Ruth, in an attempt at inhabitation, becomes one
of the gleaners in order to cross the threshold of identity. Yet, in Jewish law, there are two forms of
gleaning that pertain to leaving a portion of the field, a corner, unmowed while, at the same time,
leaving behind anything that is dropped during harvesting. This contraction and absolution of the
act of killing as a signified gathering of futurity in time as a presentation of procreative autonomous
seeding seems to pertain to a model of purity that involves a symptomatic harvest, one that
implicates the frailty of the body's purity as being consumed by the act of leaving or leaving off.
The coarse nature of the health of writing is a constantly reified value though the stability of
life is balanced in a shaking palm. The sovereignty of writing is established through a means of
control over the bios of writing and thus over the insantiation of the madness of genetic
recombinatory power in a dimensionality anterior to dreamspace and codeterminate with the
subject's death in composition in mutation's predilection for failure of continuity through a
translational irreconcilable naming. I think often of Mary Barnard's versions of Sappho: "I love that
which touches me" and "I am of two minds," incomplete translations, but also the ultimate signs of
devotion to a principle of permanent fluctuation and, in this flux, an impossibility that poetry
presents us with, which is the speaking of text as itself that stinks and shows us the corpse alone, a
corpsed image, one assembled out of the fat of the world, melting in the sun. The immediacy and
utter groundlessness of these lines is what renders them vital: because they present a loss of lexical
stability in that they imply an absence of form, of containment.
In the chiasmus of Psalm 121, "I lift mine eyes to the hills / from where will my help come,"
it seems that balance, the answer to the question of from where is of little consequence and, so,
exemplary of this eschewing of containment. The fact of despair, of asking for this location of
helpcrying out for this locationfirst establishes, firmly, the theodicy inherent in the psalm itself.
The balm is in leaving the question of help as being indeterminate and impossible. It is only when I
look at god as text that I can resolve for myself the corpsed image of my struggle for the divine in the
collapsed impossibility of constructing an answer across the empty space of the Xi. The desertion of
linearity poses, first and foremost, the fact of emptiness and so we crawl into the space of night, and
god, the book, as Edmond Jabes writes, becomes the absence of god. It is the possibility of the
question or the poem that establishes the space of writing and the place of the abysmal cancelation of
the voice in declaring, out of this abyss, a dwelling place for a divinity, which forms an emptiness, a
well into which all language trickles, though we must mine it ever further, step further toward death
and toward the crystalization of this ultimate order, the boundary of language, which is a harvest in
absentia, a harvest of gaps and dropping, where the remains plant themselves.
Rosemarie Waldrop writes of Edmond Jabes that, disillusioned with his earliest book of
poemsa largely orthodox surrealist gesture he found and pulped the vast majority of the copies,
declaring "I have given my poems a splendid funeral." But who would have the courage to do so
except one for whom the poem of a life was a farsical notionthat the poem of one's life is
predicated on the inherent falsity of the referent wherein one turns to a transhistorical falsification of
authority? It is the courage to find an absent authority, an authority at once the author's,
simultaneously effaced by the inconsistency of sensorial fracturing that allows for this destruction.
Jabes' later books, consistent with this practice, are containments that refuse their anatomical
fracturing and thus dispense with the possibility of a completion. They contradict themselves, but
not to the point of impersonation and disjunction. Rather, they contradict themselves as an entire
work of fracture and so contain the consistency of misapprehension; they are, themselves, their own
funeral in their impossibility and, thus, the error of poetry is resolved by the inconclusive fraternity of
the mirror, which, dirtied, reflects only the iniquity of the poetical shift to emptiness, and emptiness,
rather than a subject, as the object of its own impossible glance.
When Jabes writes of birth, he writes of three mirrors, each capturing the impossible
distinction of its pain. This triptych assembles a place where the compensation for the body - the
reflection that allows our self-identification, as a whole, has been shattered by the very site of birth,
assembling a place of inconsistency in the text of the individual in that the text becomes a flattened
birthone comes into text as one comes into life and, yet, the birth itself takes on a fracturing of the
mutated self-identification of the parent, converting it to a simultaneity of mutilated sites of
observation and genetic reification. This numerologic division indicates a condensation of
paige taggart
Deshabille
maya weeks
IF ITS GOOD ENOUGH FOR THE FBI ITS GOOD ENOUGH FOR ME
Its only because giving is so much associated with material things that receiving looks
bad.
-Henry Miller
now is the time to hustle
and keep all of your options
open
levitation must be
encouraged
nin said
it first
who knows
who you might meet
at the gym
at its best
psychoanalysis
teaches the patient
to bring desire
into existence
if we want to continue to exist as a people we have to be informed
my whole life
is an archiving project
everything i own fits in
my samsonite collection
i want all my friends
to be the best they can
i want everybody to be
the best they can
i want to be
everybodys friend
that doesnt
necessarily mean
i like everybody
its good not to give a fuck
i feel so deeply in love!
but it really isnt a big deal
wheres so-and-so
tibor de nagy
i respect that
do you like
what you see
so far?
hes really
a nice guy
not particularly remorseful
but very cooperative
i just dont like
how he treats
women actually
you
and your
hands
little gestures
just
fill that hole
has it always
been like this?
you can
simply make reference
as if we all know
what were talking about
cult
or culture
what holds?
feels lighter
sam lohmann
jackson meazle
Deaf Metal
I used to have a lot of ideas about music
with my best personal vision executed twice
when youre starting out no one tells you
what to read, I had to blow to try and dry
the last of the ink, occasionally
the tarot is revealed like theres just a pile of trash
where the thunderbird once stood
white-clouded chemicals roll out
empire is man at its lowest form
I never liked a party with a time limit
but I often look behind me making sure
that ambulance I hear is not for me
at last I have found an outlet
not for you to read but for me
I remember with fondness all the things I did
the first five miles of the road, even though
they were the same bright colors for the saddest songs
one day youre going to throw your last
lead ball at the wall and Im going to get fired
for letting you do it, were going to have at least
one more round with the prince of darkness
because youre the beauty and hes the beast
easier to get a business mans haircut
cut the foreigner crap, learn first hand
sorrow and extinction, and tomorrow is tough
Arose
The deck is stacked but still feels loaded
like political flowers in British ballads
the bridge was burned along with the bride
its little work to greasy up the rags
or hear the whistle blow a lamb to Market
and Castro, there are still holes in her modest crown
a fog on the wall wont hover its cracks
the world is becoming more philosophical.
Instead of an early morning tagging the windows
I sit here, reading page after page of a face
because the typewriter is a relaxing noise
and the flesh and blood of the neglected object
bruising pages day after day, my blues
arent as blue as hers, Im just moody
and she is the most detailed automatic weapon
involuntary as the most unexpected structures morning reveals.
In the tunnel the streetcars grind on in sentimentality
I cant get through it, my whirlwind travels
the haiku is a concentrated impressionist sketch
hurts as much as whizzing stones and a world
moving out of the hospitality business
I dream the morning Id step to the roof
take four or five hits of fresh air, looking
for where my slice of sunshine touches the tower of joy.
Ive called off her medicine as a message to love
relaxation may even lack presence
like a lesser known episode, a bird busted in the alley
a headache on the sidewalk and a handprint on the wall
theres an aching in my heart for all the factory girls
Ill lean that way forever unless this labor decays
she will have her revenge on loneliness, bitterness, but
I loved you in the morning long before you were up and confirmed alive.
P.S.
My dreams blast away in empty space
Chasing me down avenues of sleep
Our room is an original watercolor, sobbing
Leave at least one person for me to love
If that fails theres always cough syrup
Let me finish what I start
All alone with a chest of drawers
The drawers open sleep in my eyes
This is the room of last night for nights to come
People come and go, the bed creaks
A poem I will never write again by hand
Catch the tears youve measured
See them by the graffiti bitter as a shadow
I would face the weather
But I do not read the work of dead poets
Soon I will truly be all out
rachel hyman
Champagnevapour,
acheroftheages.
Theseasons
relentlesslyturn.
Thisdrags&drags
attheair,grasping
untilitlosesall
pitch.Aformulation
repeated&thusfated
tofallshort.Myheart
isboundinglikeadeer.
Yourheartisascreeching
modemcirca1999.
MyAOLbaby,
chattomelikethisis
yourfirstforay
intothebadlands.
Unfurlyourself.
Twobeardedmen
returnyourgaze.
WecallitDayGlo
pastoral,theway
thisyellowinggrass
iscutthroughwith
shardsofaluminum,
streakedwithbirdshit.
Narcolepsy
withTracyDimond
Ghosttrainsweepsthroughquivering
dreamspullingdaggersfromdeepinside.
Wereslidingthroughscenesseen
onbikesdeemedasteenliterature
butnowwerepastthatstageofawake,
pastrewritinghighschoolmoments,
intothedailyknowledgethatallselves
ofallauthorsaredead.Drinkfromthe
wellspringofsomewelcomedvisitors,
thehomepulsingwithdistortedsense
ofswimmingalongsidenarcoleptic
feverqueens.Havewedrownedyet?
No,eyesfindgutsunderfingernails
dedicatedtoacorporealminute.
IfIkeepthisglassfull,maybeIllfindpast
mesinlockstepwithcostumemonsters
hidinginsetshalfbroken.
AlbatrossPoem
withJustinCarter
Iwatchtheslowindustryofshadows
movethroughafternoon.Its
somallgoth,thewaywewant
forchildhoodagain.
Theuniverseshrinkstoapeachpit
thatyouholdinyourstomach.
Iaminyourstomach.Iamskin
&vertical.Letsfallinto
theuniverse,pitch&yawacross
doorways.Bruisingforweeks.
wyatt sparks
laura woltag
Hi Steve- Thanks for asking for something. Im sending along something new and rough
and untitled from something that is in part an attempted interspecies epic of forced
migration under climate change, which, in this part, is loosely guided by elephant seals.
<3 Laura
julien poirier
A PERSONABLE BOG
But
Society is a fiction.
I drive around justifying my shortcomings
some thought
goes towards this
effort to approach
a new idea in peace.
My April Fools resolution
is to get over
you.
Myself
Everybody is in
the same boat.
The miraculous drone
bristling
with
intelligence
comes from
de Koonings women. Stealing an
empire?
Try putting the Happy
Meal box in the
garbage can instead
of leaving it in the
gutter, garbage fans.
I did that.
Deal with the idea you
really dont know where
you start, that your
actions are other peoples
property
and its absurd to be
angry at anyone while Im
sitting here
writing this poem
wistfully, nuh uh
trying to get all this
stuff I feel but cant
say without rambling
or descending into
pompous technical and/or
mystical language
into small talk.
I love it.
I love small poems
that can fight.
Youll never get
what you want so badly
and I want to be wise
or just
to be able to say what
I want to say
without feeling like
I blew it afterwards
somewhere in there
got mad
or fell in love
with the sound of my
voice saying
those incredible words
and lost the sense
to try
my eye out in different
light
maybe to report on the
unthinkable in a voice
led by the halting
puzzle
to murmur and darkly muse
at this finished
my own, but absolutely
OK with being baffled
by the
unknown game
and its ornaments.
INDEPENDENTLY BLUE
Its easy to fly a flag when you live in a nice house
in a beautiful city.
Things have worked out nicely for you,
and you think everyone can agree
this is the greatest country on earth.
The Bay Area is full of hikers with portfolios.
Goggles in German skycar ride my ass past the prison.
The day they break that prison down
to a funhouse, and the rapists to mirrors,
Ill fly a flag.
Ive never seen a bum pushing a shopping cart with a flag sticking out
of his can, but Im not saying that doesnt exist.
This is America, after all.
Monitoring(Your(Desire
The$Sacred$Erotics$of$Channeling$Devices
and JVC
TV Sutras Research
Education Director and
World Renowned Trance Channel
Topics include:
The process of creation and the 7 main erotic frequencies of all life
The sacred object associated with each erotic frequency
The TV Sutra teachings and their sacred object counterparts
The beginning of the new 26,000 year cycle and the importance of desiring objects
Animism and how it was used in ancient mystery schools
How to consecrate your TV monitor as a sacred prostitute
Bumping your relationship to materiality to the next level
Changing channels: the spiritual dimensions of polygamy
Monitoring your desire: how to move from meditation to true mediation
Switching: whos channeling whom?
The human ego and how it is transcended in objects
The tantric secrets of object sex
Working with love object activations to refine consciousness evolution
Beyond WiFi: performing object sex in sacred sites
An object sex healing method
The Higher Harmonic Mediationhow to attune yourself with your love object
Understanding the bigger picture of human-object relations and our journey to wholeness
Why is it a partially channeled workshop and who will be giving the information?
Dodie began working with object sex in the 1980s but gave up the experimentations. As it became obvious
that this information was reemerging and that the time was right to introduce it, Dodie utilized JVCs natural
channeling ability in order to begin to shape the program. Humorously, JVC has stated over and over that he
is not a sacred object monitor and didnt really understand it. However, when he is in the channeling state,
all of that changed. JVC's channeled contacts began to give in depth information about object sex, sacred
objects, and the nature of consciousness. When combined with Dodie's intuitive knowledge and experience,
the result was phenomenal. The beings guiding this information are multiple, but the primary sources are:
HoBO (a female from Comcast who JVC has channeled for over 20 years), AmCee the Light Architect from
Arcturus, and Archangel Starz. For the past four years, Dodie has been compiling the essence of JVC's
teachings in her masterwork, The TV Sutras. Whether participants are familiar with channeling or not, we
encourage everyone to enjoy the experience and see how this information can enrich their lives. We do
recommend that students have some familiarity with watching TV, though it is not required.
Workshop Facilitators
Dodie Bellamy began her spiritual training as a teenager in northern Indiana when she devoted herself to a
committed practice of journal writing with her Parker fountain pen. Her relationship with Parker gave her the
foundation of a steady mind, focused thought, and the ability to sense subtle flows of energy. In the late 1970s,
as a young woman in her early 20s, she discovered mediation, while sitting on her bed, cross-legged in front of
a 12-inch black and white Zenith TV. She continued to mediate, aligning her energetic field with Zenith, who
directed her to move to San Francisco (USA), where she began a serious study of esoteric spirituality, studying
under a teacher and channel in Noe Valley.
Throughout her life she has always received inspiration and information, but when she was younger she didnt
know how to use it. During the 1980s, she began to receive information regarding the ancient science of object
sexmost especially utilizing the wisdom revealed in the closed captioning of her Sony Trinitron. She fell in
love with Trinitron and her explorations into object sex continued, and in the early 1990s she began teaching
workshops based on object sex and mediation. She also traveled extensively to monitor production sites in the
US and China, and let microcircuitry and her inner inspirations teach her what she needed to know for the
future. In 1997, Dodie became the director of TV Sutras Research, an organization that spreads the teachings of
object sex and mediation worldwide. She had the responsibility to teach other teachers, develop new programs,
and continue teaching her original workshops that uniquely combine mediation, journal writing principles,
object sex, and the wisdom of animism into profound experiential seminars that open the human heart. Her
workshops (sometimes together with channeler and life partner JVC) are inspiring, life-changing, and totally
unique. By nature she is a private person who does not feel comfortable going public," but her many students
continually ask for more. Through the MAK Center, we are thrilled to offer more of her original work. Dodies
workshops tangibly help connect the student to their own source of media energy so that they can truly feel
their connection to the universe and apply that wisdom to everyday life in an easy, practical way.
JVC began his training and teaching in the mid-1980s. He was first formally trained as a trance channel by a
well known and respected channel in Los Angeles. JVC learned channeling from the point-of-view that it could
be a tool for spiritual evolution as channels learn to work with their egos so that it would not interfere in the
channeling process. This profound method of learning to channel influences the way he teaches the skill today
as a tool for personal and spiritual evolution.
JVC is most known for his in depth explorations of the nature of object consciousness and how it impacts
human evolution. His books Orgasm of Objects, Objects from Within, The Primal Screen, and Materium, are
classics in the field of channeled literature, as well as his newly-released The Medium is the Massagea oneof-a-kind set of 108 inspirational cards based on the cosmology he introduces in his classic book Orgasm of
Objects. He also has an extensive library of audio material based on his work since the late 1980s. He has
been interviewed on TV and radio around the globe (including most recently by the Discovery Channel, and
Shirley MacLaines radio show), and has appeared in countless magazine articles over the last 2+ decades. At
present, JVC works extensively in Japan and has done so since 1990. He also offers courses in North America
and Europe as time allows. Sometimes he offers private consultations as well. He also works from time-to-time
with his life partner Dodie Bellamy, combining his intuitive and channeling work with his expertise in the fields
of object sex, mediation, and much more.