“Such a powerful matrix of concern — transmitted so completely into a world — i.e, to take a limitation &, stuck in it, push it to the maximum level so that every aspect of it is grounded, so meant, that it becomes the thing itself.”
– Charles Bernstein
“It takes you a long time to shed the specificity of your desires; in actuality the task remains unfinished.”
– Lisa Robertson
It starts & flits, darts & flips, quacks & spits, turning into rhythmic mist,
Lurking in the Unclaimed Murk.
It smacks smudgy magma in its illusory materiality.
It, it. Composer. It blends.
Composer like a, is a, it’s, it’s…
One has a conception of the schizophrenic categories.
Who goes there?
No one. A composer. But only one.
A door opens the door. A wave opens a wave.
Shark, a shark, a shark-bite on the ears.
A total gestural plasticity in a
Temporary periphery, like this guy
D/P/I: forager, farmer, butcher, chef,
Sous-chef, sommelier, waiter, busboy,
Dishwasher, mopper. His
Amniotic fluid, his semiotic fluidlessness.
As in a composer, here.
A composer composing,
Composing a composition.
The composition, composed
In tears amid the alien porn
Encrypted in the décor.
Weirdo or weirdly obscure; perfect or perfectly bizarre.
Powders, stocks, online flecks, city-sewer molds, all
Thru the hush as the looked-for sound clangs,
Smudgy, thick, cold
Like water with a hint of something gloppy —
A quake of noun-blasts that
Weaving together plundered glitches w/
Any kind of originality all gone, only
The excess of pleats & folds & tongues sewn together, languageless.
He combs the ineffable to produce sounds with no limits,
Fashions with no runways;
Poems with no poets;
Paintings with no painters; &
You guessed it: compositions with no composers.
Music left for dead, buried then unburied,
Never confusing the puzzle for the solution,
Composer for the composition. Because D/P/I knows
The composition can hybridize or disappear. It
Gets with the times like not to have to not to say,
Not to have to say, not to have to feel not like
Not to have to have to feel the sumptuous
Wreckage at the edges of sensing, with no solution
Between the non-real & the probable &
The composer composing sound contamination, w/ embellished spoilage.
A tear in the verbal fabric via
Palaces, multiracial architecture, palm trees, motors,
As in to proceed or invent a procedure.
Yeah, something like that,
Like to the moon, via the city.
Something like that.
But, but, but I
Think that I think that
“The Sound of the Internet”
In theory — in theory —
Could, like, it could possibly, again, in
Theory, could possibly, could
Possibly — where was I?
What I meant was not my words,
But actually this quote (tr. Rosmarie Waldrop) by
“The ladder urges us beyond ourselves.
Hence its importance.
But in a void, where do we place it?”
Composer is that ladder.
Composer is that beyond.
Composer is that importance.
Composer is that void.
Think about that.