*created by modifying “glitchNES,” a ROM originally made by Don Miller (NO CARRIER), and
using it with the Nestopia NES emulator.

–>A. J. Patrick Liszkiewicz

–>richie_fire

–>Jason Eppink

A major part of my work in Glitch is reaching out and connecting with potential contributors, collaborators, and distributors. Sometime in late December I made a connection with Simon Høgsberg, an artist based in Coppenhagen, Denmark. My email was unsolicited. Browsing through links on my RSS Feed reader I stumbled upon Simon’s portfolio site and was quickly overtaken by an impulse to contact the artist with words of admiration and an invite to check-out Glitch1.2.

I often do this when moved by a particular work, but rarely get such an enthusiastic reply. To my surprise a message from Simon arrived within days and I was at once engaged by this energetic new contributor.

Our conversation began with the definition of the term glitch and its relation to the current theme – Connection Time-Out. Simon’s inquisitive and engaging nature took me by surprise, effectively steering the exchange in its own direction, away from anything I intended or could foresee. While it was my intention to get Simon to engage with Glitch and produce a unique, creative artifact, I did not expect this product to be an examination of my own ideas, nature, personal history and their connection to this publication.

I am tremendously grateful to Simon for his participation, his openness and his ability to inspire.

– Vadim

The following text is the record of our correspondence beginning with Simon’s reply to the invitation from Glitch – everything is presented without omissions or corrections:

- – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - -

Hej Vadim,

Thank you very much for your precise description of what Glitch is and the kind of platform you want Glitch to be. I just read the wiki-description of what a glitch is – curiously one line of the description says:

Normally, a glitch occurs once, but can also occur multiple times in a particular software (though also in nature and in human organizations)

Normally it occurs once… That’s interesting.

And then we have the theme for the next issue which is Connection Time-Out. I’m just thinking aloud – it occurs once AND connection Time-out. I immediately imagine a relationship where one of the parties has had enough and demands a break – a time-out – and that this time out turns out to be a time-out that is for good (because it happens once. Like the Glitch. After that the two people will end their connection).

A question to you: can you think of any situation in your life where exactly this has occurred – a situation that turned out like that? If you can I’d love to hear it. What happened?

Perhaps I can take up your thread and elaborate on your answer somehow – be it in the form of more mail-writing or something else – perhaps – I don’t know – a visual contribution to Glitch. It’s just a thought. But sometimes progress can only be made together – when there are two or more people helping each other forward.

Kind regards,

Simon

- – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - -

Wow.

Simon.

I just scrolled through your page again and noticed a familiar face.

The avant-garde dating project! Man!

This is really uncanny and pretty damn Glitched up.

Ok. So…

Laurel, from the New Life Shop project you were involved with in Berlin.

She was my instructor at the University of Connecticut. It was a sculpture class.

In a sense, we had a Connection-Time-Out.

Here is the story:

For whatever reason, and this is still unknown to me (why do some people prompt certain reactions and pre-judgements, negative or positive and others simply leave as they came without any effect?) I took a dislike in Laurel. I simply did not like her from the very moment of the first class. I remember thinking that she was “full of shit”. (whatever that meant to a freshman art student) Even though I havent given her much chance, she seemed somehow haughty to me, and very much an elitist. She used words like “paltry” to describe my attempts at sculpture (which were in fact paltry, because I did not like the class and/or really, was not very disposed to sculpture, but that is besides the point.). To me she embodied the art “snob” and I vowed to subvert her class any way I could. Because I was still developing and did not yet have the intellectual ammo to be subversive without being expelled from her class I became the typical case of a “bad” student. I would be disruptive in class, openly question her intended coursework for good reason or bad and was plainly a nuisance. I was openly failing the class, but would still show up at workshops and sit through the excruciating hours. This continued all semester until the time of the final project.

It was strange – there was something between us. She could have simply failed me, and she would have been right for doing so, but for some reason she didn’t – she did not entirely give up on me, she wanted to give me a chance. It was a straight forward and simple ultimatum – if I put “serious” work into the final project, she would not fail me and in fact would give me a good grade. This was very reasonable, but of course did not dispose me to her any better, and only fueled my antipathy even more. I assume it was due the way of her conversation – the entire dynamic was so patronizing and structured in such a way that to me felt belittling. I felt that Laurel was pretending to be this great specimen of an artist and that “I had to bow down to her might”, or something like that.(Now I understand that she was a older, and much more educated and eloquent woman and I was a young and very raw and uncultured and in many ways ignorant student…but still…i had my instincts and for whatever reason would not let them be silenced)

So. For the final project I basically brought a bunch of trash. I mean, its not really that simple. Because we could use any materials or found object I decided to make a “subversive statement” with my trash. There was, of course, a catch. I dont know how this happened (call it glitch coincidence), but I found a perfect “receptacle” for the garbage and a conceptual frame that would not make me fail the class, but in fact make a “real” art project…A friend of mine had a novelty beer cooler, a real replica of R2D2 (from Star Wars:). I have no idea how he got it, and how many there are out there, but it was real, magnificent and life-size! So. I simply emptied the contents of my trashcan and trashcans of all of my friends into this R2D2 and brought it to the critique. Thats it.

Of course I made up a proper description and real reason for its existence which had something to do with the environment and commercialism, but really, I just wanted to bring some trash to Laurel’s class. The whole thing worked, too well. She lauded me for my creative effort. And after the critique was complete, there was a moment between us. She took me aside and we exchanged a few words.

I think she was honest, and this made me feel incredibly small and guilty. She was honestly praising me on not being a total loser and the stereotype of whatever it was that I was trying to be, but actually take the work seriously and put some thought and effort behind it. She liked it so much that I think she gave me a B for the whole class (a grade I definitely did not deserve). When we talked after the critique, through her words I began to believe that maybe this was a great piece of art, that somehow I made something that was “real” and did not even know it…..For a second I felt like it was something else, like I was someone else….

Maybe thats the connection time-out…..Maybe that moment was what the connection-time out means. A connection time-out from your own self…. when something which you so well (your reality) ends up turning around on you and pointing a big finger and laughing in your face….or maybe its the other way around? Hrm…..

Anyway. It was a good looking piece. But only because it was R2D2. It had little to do with environment, or commercialism, or even sculpture. Afterwords, I emptied the trash back into the buckets, cleaned the cooler and brought it back to my friend who probably filled it back up with beer and other forms of alcohol. I cracked the top of it in the process of transporting from the gallery and had to apologize at length to my friend. But I never yet apologized to Laurel….and even today, I dont think I would.

V

P.S. I dont know if this counts. It just came out in an impulse. I really dont know what you can do with this, but I thought you would certainly find it interesting.

- – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - -

Hej Vadim,

Thank you very much for your mail and the detailed story. It is strange, the coincidence with Laurel – the aspect of both you and me knowing the same woman, not just superficially but pretty well.

It’s funny, I only have a positive impression of her, she seemed to me and seems to me to be very cool, sane, pragmatic, rational and good-spirited and likable, and then it turns out that this same woman triggered in you feelings and thoughts of a whole different kind. Crazy. I must say, it seems to me that she handled you – the class rebel (at least in the final project-case) – with patience and dignified self-control.

Hm.

Maybe you owe her an apology. Maybe that’s the project. The comment is really coming spontaneously and from the good will of my heart. Letting go of strong convictions is pretty damn hard. Especially if we’ve invested so much time and effort in them as you seem to have in the case of your relation to Laurel.

To me art is a form of inquiry – an expression of an urge to become more conscious. And how do we become more conscious – one way is by looking at ourselves and recognizing that part in us that really is not… very cool.

And what part is that? The part that doesn’t want us to evolve. The part that tries to convince us that we’re supercool the way we are. And which, of course, keeps blaming the world for fuck-ups that we ourselves are responsible for. It’s liberating. Unpleasant at first but liberating.

It’s just a suggestion. Maybe it’s bad. I’m not so sure it is bad – you could even include our correspondence!

Let me know what you think.

Kind regards,

Simon

- – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - -

Simon,

Sorry for the connection time-out, I was in a process of applying for graduate programs in graphic design for the past few months. (Maybe it comes easier to some people, but for me it wasnt so…the essay alone probably added a few grey hairs.)

I have often thought of your reply in the midst of writing letters or color-correcting my images and I think you are right – I will write that letter to Laurel. In many ways I was hoping for some stunning visual piece of work from you, a thing that would make me gasp and boost my very own ego for being able to attract such talented people into my world, but a different thing is happening entirely. You are making me examine this impulse and confront my own ego in very subtle and productive ways. That is a rare skill and a further testament to your creative energy and talent (please forgive for sappy compliments, but they are completely deserved.)

I don’t know if this is the end of our collaboration, but I really hope it isnt. I will continue to admire your work and hope for more connection moments in the future.

Best,

Vadim

P.S. Maybe I could include correspondence between me and you? What do you think about all of this? Maybe this doesn’t have to be done with just my story? What does connection time-out mean to you personally?

- – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - -

Hej Vadim,

Thank you very much for your mail. It makes me happy to read that your and my correspondence has been cooking in your head and that you’ve reached the conclusions you have. It’s not every person who’s willing to simply drop “firm beliefs” as your mail gives me reason to think you have – it speaks to your great advantage. I’m also happy that you decided to let me know of the thoughts you’ve had in relation to our correspondence in stead of keeping your insights to yourself.

The funny thing is that there’s nothing personal about the whole thing you went through with Laurel (it’s a totally impersonal cultural phenomenon). Almost every single one of us, me included (I’ve got a very big ego) have been raised to believe that we’re unique and special – not because we’ve accomplished anything particularly great in life – but just because we are, you know. So naturally that’s what we begin to believe ourselves: I’m number one, and I just am. I don’t have to do anything to prove it. I just know I am.

And then, if people won’t give me the attention that my parents (say) have been giving me all me life, and which I now crave, I become frustrated. See how many people running around trying to desperately direct attention to themselves in all sort of sad ways? We’re talking about a narcissism pandemic that is everywhere. It doesn’t kill us but it makes us lonely. Why? Because we can’t work together. We can’t collaborate. We can only talk about ourselves. Because we’re only interested in ourselves.

I – the ego – am the center of the universe. And per definition there can’t be two centers. So fuck off.

But there is a way out – a way to break free of this sad post-modern sense of being un-free – trapped, as we are, in this very small, overly self-concerned ego-world where the most important thing (ever) is ‘how I feel’.

And judging from your mail you’re on to something. Why? Because with your mail you’ve shown that you’re actually willing to face and push away a part of you that you have realized is un-constructive, stupid, self-centered. And if you continue doing that – if you continue to be very aware of the motives behind your actions, and you drop the pride-part of you and start facing everything and avoiding nothing, in the end you will have nothing to hide. And then you can really – I’m talking: REALLY – be creative. Because then you won’t have any reason to lie anymore. Then you will be only interested in truth.

I don’t know if that makes sense.

I was so great to get you mail. And so great to write you.

Simon

- – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - -

Simon!

Its been a little while, but I have been trying in vain to deliver the message to Laurel only to receive things like these:

——————————————————————————————————————

This message was created automatically by mail delivery software.
A message that you sent has not yet been delivered to one or more of its
recipients after more than 24 hours on the queue on server.everhost.com.

The message identifier is:     1NcFe8-0008Us-Hk
The date of the message is:    Tue, 02 Feb 2010 04:03:43 -0800
The subject of the message is: a letter from Vadim Gershman

The address to which the message has not yet been delivered is:

laureljay@aol.com
(ultimately generated from LAUREL@LAURELJAY.COM)
Delay reason: SMTP error from remote mail server after end of data:
host mailin-04.mx.aol.com [64.12.90.66]: 421 4.2.1  MSG=:
(RLY:CH)  http://postmaster.info.aol.com/errors/554rlych.html

No action is required on your part. Delivery attempts will continue for
some time, and this warning may be repeated at intervals if the message
remains undelivered. Eventually the mail delivery software will give up,
and when that happens, the message will be returned to you.

——————————————————————————————————————

Ha.

I was going to post the autobot response to you and talk about the irony of the whole thing – everythign coming back to the level of robots telling me that there is a “connection time-out” right as I am looking to re-connect.

Fortunately, my last attempt worked and Laurel sent me a response. So, connection was made again after a significant time-out.

This has been a very strange and unique creative experience. I am extremely grateful to you for participating and being an incisive and probing collaborator.

Thank you,

V

P.S. Whats next? Should I just post all of our exchanges on the Glitch? Do you think it needs editing or some kind of a framework?

- – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - -

Hej Vadim,

I get the irony! Interesting.
I think a lot of valuable stuff will start to happen to people who begin to become interested in knowing and dealing with whatever flaws they’ve been blind to until this day.

I don’t know how to respond to your question as to whether or not you should publicize our whole correspondence or an edited version of it – or none of it.

It makes most sense to me, I think, to let you make the decision. To me it would make sense to find an answer to this question: what would the motive be to publicize the whole thing (edited or unedited)? Are we doing it, basically, to brag about how honest we dare to be or are we fundamentally convinced that making it public on your site will benefit people more than it will harm them.

Hm… I don’t know. It could be cool – or the opposite. Who knows. How about this: you don’t know until you’ve tried it – so how about trying it out – that is, putting it up on your site – and then if it feels wrong then you’ve learned from doing it. No? What do you think?

After all, as we both agreed to begin with – art can’t be anything other than a learning process. Can it? I don’t know… I don’t think it can. That’s what it’s about – wizening up – isn’t it? Exploring new territory – ALL THE TIME. All the time. That’s it. That’s life. What it’s about.

Hm. I’m excited to seeing what will happen.

Regards,

Simon

- – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - -

Simon,

I am doing it – publishing this exchange on Glitch. I also thought about publishing my “letter of apology” to Laurel, but thought it should remain between me and her…

I have thought about what you said in the previous letter – and I think there is no escaping the “bragging” or the “ego”. The creative impulse, the thing that searches to connect still emanates from within, and no matter how much one is to negate it or try to deny its existence its still there. But from that impulse connections are made, and narratives unfold. That must be worth something, other than self-edifying lust to be seen and heard. Right?

I am gona send you a link once its up.

Hope to work on some more stuff with you, and if you are ever on this side of the world you’ve got a place to crash wherever I happen to be.

Always best,

Vadim

–>jasoneppink

-->jonty

–> dear_computer

MUST only
be one
cowboy
fluked
into place.

--> jonty

–> dear_computer

In September 1832, Myrna Kessler, the only known Jewish woman riverboat hand died on the banks of the Mississippi. Called “Kess,” she hid the fact that she was a woman by only pissing at night.

And now, 2009 — she haunts that giant movie screen by the casino: she flickers the pixels like slow river waves. Have you seen this screen from highway 70? The size of a building, it shouts only advertisements. Drivers get distracted when a white woman with teeth the size of minivans eats a hamburger that could crush your house. An Asian woman eats the word “Asia” with four-story chopsticks.

I’ve seen Kess’s ghost against this screen many times. But it was only in the microfiche that I found she was famous (in her time) for strength and meanness.

Where Kess came from nobody knows, but she was a man of the Lord. Tied His name to her head every morning at sunrise and punched anybody who looked at her crosseyed with the wrath of the Old Testament. The other riverboat-hands were godforsaken, baptized only by Mississippi mud and their momma’s moonshine. Kess wore God’s vengeance round her neck like a yolk, never ate catfish or took the hat off that fuzzy head — the newspapers speculated that religion was the sole source of Kess’s meanness. Little did they know it was mostly about waiting out that nighttime piss. And she howled as she peed, like no sound made by man or woman, like an orgasm but inverted. You can still hear it on the barges up by Choteau island.

Yeah, I’ve been reading all about it on the microfiche at the public library, AND I’ve heard it, so I know.

Kess could cuss in six languages, not counting the secret lawless howl of somebody who has waited sixteen hours for a piss (while unloading barrels off barges, even). Strong as hell for a little guy, cleanshaven, fine and rugged features, both. Never after the ladies, but seemed to have one in every town anyway. Dirty, but shit — look at that water.

In the middle of the Mississippi, between Missouri and Illinois, there used to be a sandbar called Blood Island. People had duels there because it was outside of both state’s jurisdiction, a kind of no man’s land. Kess was found there next to another man, both equally dead. Her secret womanhood put her story in the papers, though the true nature of the duel was never discovered. I’m not done with the microfiche and I’m looking for a medium or two — I’ll let you know if I figure anything out.

In the meantime, tomorrow try driving down Highway 70 at sunset, and look up at that giant movie screen by the casino. There you’ll see the ghost of Myrna Kessler muddying the pixels, tits taped up with a gunnysack. Ghost body rising up from the riverbank just after sunset, right when I take my cigarette break, silhouette taking up the full 5-stories, black against the giant screen. You’ll slow down to see her shadow piss standing up, triumphant.

–> nicky

–> dear_computer

TOMORROW love
a catatonic
affirmation
will ravish
the sleep
beam.

--> jonty

–> dear_computer

--> jonty

One Day,
The sun forgot to come up,
The day after, it was right there again.

2.

he’s like a talk show host; Radio. Laughs at his own jokes and uses the word “delightful” as if it where a screwdriver challenging a torque wrench to a pissing match. He believes in precision and sailboats but can never dig deep enough to get the dirt from under his fingernails. He ages his words like brandy and drinks them religiously. He’s a language alchy. He heads up a committee that determines the strength of arguments, even the most incidental are taken into consideration. If JFK was a Soviet, would him and Krushov be friends and then fall in love with the same girl and have a falling out?

The committee assesses values based on qualitative and circumstantial evidence and files it in cabinets shade coded along the grayscale. Special spectacles are used to discern the varying shades or grey and grayer. They are kept colorless to minimize irritability and quell personal conflict amongst the committee members. Radio Alchi scribbles on a stack of 3×5 index cards, kicking his cheeks around by virtue of madness and getting lost in limbic gyrations, drops his cards into manicured grey screening rooms.

3.

back in the den with Radio Alchi, P.H.D
Still drunk from last night.
Not me though, I don’t drink… I meant Radio Alchi. He’s a semantic whore. He wrote down Kings speech on those 3×5’s but dropped his briefcase on the way to work, messed up the order like any proper alchi.

Radio Alchi is a Birmingham bitch from a Birmingham radio bottle. Statistical cream pie would be known if by any other name.

While he is spurting like a wet clam, he gets right up on in his radio bottle, slugs on over to the thermostat and kicks off the a/c, cooking the air like a disease. His sweat coats the floor sand like on the beachside. Now this anatomical waterfall of a critical thinker eventually begins forming coherent words, though still mostly soaked in radioalchi bi-product.

“to solve a problem” he says two breaths short of abrasive, “you must be a critical thinker.”

Radio Alchi announces this over the bands… as those words make their way onto the radiobottles sandbox, a pack of house rats commit a mortal sin and are excommunicated, un-infested. A power sprayer turns on its owner and winks before spitting his chrome off.

This cat calls himself left but keeps his toes in the conservative bathtub. He opens up the phones for “Dogma Chat” and thirty minutes full conversation take a swim in Radio Alchi’s sandbox… Radioalchi’s Sandbox.

4.

“and you, Garcia Lorca.”
I don’t know when Lorca was alive and frankly, I have no interest in incidental details. Some people transcend even themselves.
Would I humanize him if a contemplated his context?
Would I imagine the way his cheeks float over his jaw as he resonates what kind of voice? Would he be sitting in a chair or on a “Chair?”
For now he is Garcia Lorca. Would he be garcia in the wake of our aquintance?
The real question I would like to pose is this:
Would his grandeur wane in the incantations of his words if said every morning, like a waking prayer?
“And you, Garcia Lorca.”
Did Garcia Lorca travel to hate Lima in his Yage birth?
Did he stare from a fishing boat and sing dirty sailor songs, moving the bowels with it’s rhythm.

//Full story: Here (this is a PDF file. If your browser does not open automatically, right-click and do Save As)

–>mishamake

–> hard_drive

The four volumes that I have date from 1973 to 1981, and every page is typed (on a typewriter) or handwritten. Most of the writing was done on backs of other things. Stationary from his wife’s various business ventures, fliers for a newsletter he put out in the 1970s, and records of stocks he must have been following in the ‘80s. One side of the pages tells the story of his fantasy, intellectual, creative life, and the other side tells the story of his work-a-day, practical, personal life. These lives exist side by side but rarely meet.

I’ve been living with the life’s work of John Alden Andrews for six months-it came from San Francisco in the mail unexplained, a gift from a California dumpster diver. Keeping and reading these books is uncomfortably intimate-they were never meant for me to see. I love them/I want to send them back to the dumpster/I want to track down his genealogy and present them like a treasure to his closest living relative, even though this is the person who most likely threw them away.

At the same time, I also feel like these were meant somehow for a person like me to find, read and become obsessed with. A new biography of Emily Dickenson argues that although she hated the idea of being famous, she worked very hard to make sure she was brilliant in the eyes of a few important people. Dickenson writes:

Success-is counted sweetest
By those who ne’er succeed -
To Comprehend a Nectar -
Requires sorest need -
Not one of all the Purple Host
Who took the Flag-today -
Can tell the Definition- so clear-of Victory -
As He-defeated  dying -
On whose forbidden ear -
The distant strains of Triumph
Burst-agonized-and Clear!

I like to think that my fixation on the life’s work of John Alden Andrews might be a distant strain of Triumph for him. I’m nobody important-but I am a captive audience of one.

Here you may find a few selected pages from the work of John Alden Andrews. To see the first book in its entirety visit our Flkr page.

———————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

–> nicky

Unmask down thyself. This image made a man die. Dressed in this garment of those pleasures — alcohol, drugs, sexual skylarking — marvelous rage is suffering. Being happy is whether from taste or travel the image; it is the true escape. Notice this: God said it is the garment of pleasure to eat it. Make no mist, woman! Joy turns to make the image of the sexual skylark; turns, commanding, to talking persons made of none of their order. Truly love the sexual eternity.

The lust of the thing tangible. The image — fulfillment and law — she obeyed only in the true escape from restraint. Power. The answer is satisfactory: Keep it holy. Be surprised if that issue is not comprehensible without the content from a grand crusade. Satellites and mania. Unity in neutrality. Two weeks of a common heritage, clearly stung. For all the given doctrine, the U plan may be in the evil empire.

To love the image is what he called the Dramatic Backwardness Union. No political leader knows how to deal with such an influence. Divide that new generation: the U plan may be the division. This image of lust made a man die. The thing tangible worked hard to believe a final, earthly, Spirit. Others seek casinos, or rich food, or sexual skylarking. Examine their role in the master plan: risking activities beats the boredom.

–> contraption_stl

–> alex_petrowsky

–> hard_drive

Not some old flippant re-utterance

NOTSOME OLIFFIPANTRY UTTER AUNTS

Neither some or none but new direction bleeding

Nee thirst summer nun-butt neuter, erection bleeding

Then when there is this over some four-letter:

“What! Oh, my God!” over some forletter werd,

Then when therwith is oversom forlet terword.

Then the we hen there withis oh versom for let

Err woe heard.

“We heard not comprehend or understand. No matter.”

Wieherdnacht com prehendorough under standnome

at her.

Rot of this and that into something from within,

in dirty little unseen network of life

that no sun see until up and at them.

Rot of the sand that twosome thing from we

thin indie dirtily it looms, see?

Net woes work off lie if life

that nose unsees until opened

and datum.

Not some flippant re-utterance.

Then when there with over sum four-let her wird.

Rot is this and that into something from within in

dirty, little unseen network of life that no sun

sees until up and atom.

Open-atom boom

Open it, ah!

Open, Adam. Boom!

Up Pen; a tomb.

I’m done.

Dead rot reassimilate

Dead rot reassimilate

Dead rot reassimilate

Dead

The rote reassembly simile up the rotary ass

I’m late.

Butt knew erect shunned

“Mornin’, Erect! New shine butt?”

Neither some or none but new direction pleading

for some four-letter word: word.

Direct pleading foursome-letterword:

Old flippant re-utterance

dEAd.

–> brett_lars_underwood

stool
predestined
horizontal / vertical        man & man

ii

think of it as | something like
a gauze, or, in 3 dimensions,
a stiffened sponge

1)    the fine grain, the quarky
waves in waves, jarring agaist
waves         OILY & PANEGYRIC
these    oiled & agonic

2)    passed through smoke
smoke as an erasure
erasure as spiral swirl of Keimer

with flecked red devils
sparks

3)    soap

We are the fallen
about the hot sand
the drying suds

iii

Keimer
back to / back towards
America

iv

Keimer’s eyes like ‘a pig poison’d’
I think of in a
cloak
do you see the lines of its folds
with their action straight down
(their action upon one another
refolding and deleting)?
it’s like a Brownian motion in
2 dimensions, Brownian waves

Keimer, befuddled at this introduction
then finished, impoverished
in Barbados
still in his cloak?
journeyman
slaveholder?
those cloak waves now horizontal wave waves
Comma?
Writing straight out of the typeface
where did Keimer get his ideas?
fuck the stove
I
the sweat the sand & blood
on Barbados?
I am KEIMER
creek    moose

–>richie_fire

–> hard_drive

I pretended to be a man so we could be true friends,
I traveled with you even though you walked with God saddling your skinny back like a knight, gimme a pencil and I will re-write a Bible for you to include girls who are half Man.
To include modern magic, Rapture in Kansas City, Exodus to Mexico, gimme a pencil and I’ll write:

Outside Pikeville, Kentucky, Jesus saw a djinn fall asleep beside a pine box, from which sprung a beautiful woman.

In Detroit King Solomon met a businessman so jealous of his beautiful wife, he bought a talking parrot to watch her.

Bryan, you played Monopoly with Mennonites and lost,
ham and cheese from mom’s diner dumpster,
riding freight trains with my penciled in Jesus whispering in your ear:

You can’t sleep in a car
with your arms round
that rifle in Mexico,
you can’t even speak Spanish.

I am googling your eulogies into tourist cellphones,
I bought a half used phonecard from a bible salesman
pretending to be a woman, I bought a talking parrot
from a djinn in Tunica and I’m standing in El Paso
to send the bird to Juarez, to whisper in your ear:

get back.

–> nicky

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–> hard_drive

A journey into the egg for newts in banal
landscapes and the wondrous beaver, mindless
of pitch and roll, fucks camber, enters
egg at egg-point, egg broadens shoulders

into acorn into bright gobbett
breath from gob called forth white pearl-
phosphoresent, palabral train brought forth –
The Shell: touched with glutinous after-birth &

candid half-feather into half-light, dense
paradigm of shell. Whose function it is
to contain. Apparatal strata:
sanded pearl, mother of pearl & soft linoleum lining

which I understand as I would have
liked to make myself ege then .
after his eyes bulge I’d like to
negotiate with this communal many

with this commingling memory .
delete chick we’re in the middle of the pier-strut
in the iron which is almost solid,
but with bubbles & black, cold & everything –

leg still point amid wheeling water,
pylon bears salt-spray, Good Friday
I dreamed: an elaborate set-up:
caught train to campus, picked-up

paper ate salmon sandwich walked over
Downs never out of earshit of A23
without experiencing saline epiph-
any of any kind, though came across

minor solutions for small
logistical difficulties
swore through fear while crossing
Ditchling Road then knees ached

on Ditchling Road checked cinema for times
& times were inconvenient confirmed low
regard for self in various ways. At the reading I listened
you were copying they are saying mass in the Grail castle.

Use ‘belief’ as

ii) Teaching

first stratum returns gooey to warmth,
second tincture of strawberry quickly, before
it becomes once again cold gold

contradiction, which is integral to balance
holiest to the of could send . a
her arms staring have seen . the moved. It but
for the . a of Morris Townsend’s .

via what’s cock’s for Dick enter egg
second section solar vital-
ity elliptical for what’s
cock for Dick, spherical

presence at centre suspended
with approximate equanimity
brightness as on wood path
within elliptical void

makes claims & substantiates
with evidence from CV
the embryo egg white & is
insubstantial, the otter dink

in the road begins journey
into death; moves out of shell
& becomes shell as we move
from shell to white within shell.

Yoke is sun of perfect spher-
ical shape at centre lit with
weak rich light of uncertain
origin. This mucus is the

embryo assistant, unbreathable
complex fluid, as at Assissi
specking this fluid that cloaks
vocal chords is impossible

or it is a speech adapted.
Embryo is in elliptical void
limbo, still at centre of spinning
Purgatory without ante-room

or vestibule. A great noise from
beyond the shell & the alchemical
transformative heat has begun.
Traverse now nebulous fluid.

Mist congeals about embryo
past embryo and enters yoke
to campus and across Downs, 9.2 miles
to Newhaven, to Dieppe

the duty-free mag with sexy
man hard and soft as sand
though more contiguous
bolt of foam in surf over

breaks and sprays against
contiguous man, Man
whole exchanging hole –
I felt a great weariness upon me

and met Sonia who is of Greedy beauty
& tactful neatness, of forbearance.
Clue: Given six eggs
from somewhere closer to home.

As with us at the reading
egg binds its section in resistance
(résentiment)

iii) Added Value

of broil. In the morning
I visited the worn seat of

sexual real-politik, the spirit world,
hand-jobs and chagrin.
The binding of the egg against the broil
brings with its forme a globe a more

ready stratification, the parts
of the egg & their borders
aimlessly walking through Hove
while flat full of commotion:

flame is plasma, around explosive
reaction of gas in air applied through &
passed through steel heats a little oil
and then egg/// egg-white and egg yoke

in pan. White presents cushion to yoke
& instantaneously
polymers contract within white
for the first time becoming white

reformed polymer rejects light; no see-through
white – yoke; yellow, cushioned on white
and more resistant to heat, should
retain its liquid form.

The very centre of the egg is maelstrom;
fiery internal unending cadenza;
yoke is liquid nourishment at
the centre of the egg, & less

readily altered through heat, rends
liquid a white becomes
ribbed around wall partial respite.
Sunday. In thickening yellow

hello Sunday.

–> richie_fire

This is the beginning of Glitch 3. | Current topic:  Connection Time-Out

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–> administrator