kid_hideous

So, is anyone else absolutely hating the new homepage interface? I feel like SG has decided that every time we've all finally gotten used to how a certain set-up works, they'll go ahead and change it. Is there some algorithm they used to determine how quickly a particular system becomes familiar, and schedule all changes on the basis of its predictions? Are they afraid that familiarity will breed boredom, and thus institute changes sheerly to rile us all up? Tension breeds activity, surely, but are complaints the only form of activity they can imagine?

In short, WTF?!

Okay, I'm done venting. Not to much to say about my day-to-day life...still going through the paperwork and background check stage of the new job...just downloaded something like a hundred pages of forms and orientation packets to read and fill out...feeling not even the slightest desire to do so, of course. Employer's demands that we all fill out our life histories in these tidy little geometric forms are becoming so onerous - especially when they have the means to find it all out themselves - as if they were merely asking me as a test of my honesty and memory. No one told me that I was supposed to be keeping records of every move I've made for the past ten fucking years! In the past decade I've lived in ten different cities, had half again as many jobs, and long to do nothing but forget the greater part of all of these!

I'm tired of constituting my self through forms and figures. Hasn't anyone read Foucault?!

Alright, alright. I'll quit venting.

Here's the bright side: I'm the featured poet of the month at
Venereal Kittens, which includes a short interview detailing my opinion of the modern literary world, questions of genre, and the desirability of androids. I'd love to hear anyone's thoughts on the poetry and the opinions found there.

If you're looking for a good book to read, you can still find my recommendations at Black Heart magazine (recently voted the fifth best magazine in Montreal, WOOT!)

And the whole of my first android-themed poem "I discover i is an android" is up at Shampoo #30

And finally, here's a work in progress:

desire: habit of mind: resultant
of the roving eye: fate chance
destiny: all desire, only writ large enough to cast our lives
in its shadow: I
think: what I'm thinking at this
moment allows me to think
desire: pencil compass ruler scribe (a whole inscribed
hierarchy): both predicating and scoring the arc of a life across a grid defined by two axes
:x/y: born of this flesh it (desire i mean, you/i:it) somehow
transcends the bonds of our membranous limits: we imagine the skin
a cage -
hard, geometric limitation -
certainly there are
a variety of openings, limnalities where the asymptotes
our skins make with space crash open and spill out
impossible enormities, a jingling of keys: standing, talking with you I receive the fine spray
of your saliva as a benediction. feeding you you're said
to eat the excess of my love. sleeping beside you
i tuck in beneath a shroud of shed flesh my horned and callused palms
have flensed off, rawly pink pumice, obsidian
dreams retroactively birthed
from an Aztec afterlife - for getting
how porous this shell
is: the limits of eyes'. ayes.
so: a rusty red
rat crossing the street: soft in-
terminable twilight and
above it night lights burning.
if you and i could see
the space that yawns at
center this stormcloud skin.
eye that spawns desire. mornings:
hot milk, cheese pastry.

And a finished piece:

[New York]

four pillars
of shit
and a hurricane of sooty pigeons
plashing in putrid spectra
of petroleum

sunrise grumbles
up the immense elevation
an old man enamored
of the spiny palms
pricking his fingers

dawn's halo spills over
tight-lipped
mouths

that have forgotten all
their hellos;

nickels and
dimes
pour locust-like
over the orphaned bones

and the first to step
out
onto the cracked arterials
know
in the strain
between ulna and
radius
that there'll be no rapture
today
beneath palm leaves;
they know they are going
toward the light
of the Word
bound inside
the broken spines
of law-books and lotto-tickets,
to the jobs where
the I is
both inter-
changeable and over-
abundant

the light here
interred
beneath ash-heaps
and the centenarian groan
of subway trains,

daybreak: barcoded

in barrios and ghettos,
financial districts
and manicured suburbias
the somnolent wander
too weak for another donation.