Tuesday, August 26, 2008


I have an idea for a book. It is a Creation Story. On the first
day the Creator looks at the void and he separates the Heavens from the Earth, and he calls the light Day and the darkness Night and he sees that it is good…

On the 7th day, however, when the Creator wakes up and looks at His Creation, right away he starts to notice the flaws: the garden—greenbelt—those two people, what do they think they’re doing down there, resting on lawn chairs?

He tears it up. He scrunches it into a ball he pitches into the hoop. Lobs at the bin. He sends a plague of something. Maybe a meteor hits it.

. . .

Now Night again, pure black. Obsidian. Patent leather. No moon, no slivery star shards, glittery as the dregs depositing their grenadines in the bowls of wine glasses left all night by the sink. The Creator prowls from room to room. He finds a torn envelope: utilities bill. Jots sth down. Maybe a list of what he has to do tomorrow.

But what is “tomorrow” now?

No moonglow safety-lights on the floor of the cabin to guide him to the nearest emergency exit. Eventually he drops off, hearing the distant song of consciousness: lung’s cooling breezes, tides of blood, waste processing. Without form and void. Tohu-bohu, he remembers from the brochure. Jumbled images of dreams. Refrigerator’s all-night truck stop. Noise leaking from the overhead bins.

Monday, August 18, 2008

after Figs by A. D.

white rice (Hegel said eating
is knowing) and blue shelled crabs
go a long way
to fathom
five fingers worth
of bilge;
a lunch of wine and squid

Wednesday, August 13, 2008

after AD, Sans accents!

C la question de si, la question de si je suis, si suis-je, si je est je est la cle de

Monday, August 11, 2008

New: Figs, If You Really Must Know By Amanda Deutch

Figs, If You Really Must Know

some strange vines along the brick wall
cockroach in the sink
fever meaning nothing but
white rice
till finally I snuck out
took one of the blue shared cabs
to the village, tetouan
bought harira, a roasted chicken
and sweets
the men all stared at me white hungry sick
eating consuming their culture
in these hot streets with dirty fingernails
groping for sweets
shbakiya eaten by hands mint tea
moon in the night
filled with sober people
facing west
I am trying yes trying to write about africa
specifically my reception of it.

As It Is by Amanda Deutch after "After Lucian Freud" by A.H., "Drink" by L.P., "Listen to the Blue" by J.K.D., and "Fire-Making For " by B.B.B.


one of those out in the wild days
wolves settle on shoulders
burrow underneath.
steal off, start fires.
sting. abbreviated landscapes
choke the memory.
brain untucked

in the aftermath of that whisky,
Bob, the bartender at Fanelli’s
mocks you, your life in heavy pours
of the sinking glass.
what’s been found slides
into your bedsheets.
body falls brazenly into now

t.v screens spill blue light
over heavy tits.
where we are
is torn from above
with dirty grace in
primal folds of empty streets