The Alarmist’s Anti-Sun, image by Daniel Y. Harris
ALARMIST
O sick
physick of the anti-sun!
When
finality is the first
To say that
A
light leads a-
way, that
Nothing
sources
the blue in blew, the red in bled.
Blessed
injury of the germ
—its initial shine
A
might of matter.
To spinning
rage, its tangential—
To speech,
each
Other.
Because
cause cannot
be not
bent & rent—
On waking,
the automaton can walk
with breath re-
verberant
Into the very
data of the day.
REVERSING RIVER
“The
system is blinking red.” That's what the man said.
Then what
is stopping us? To arms, already!
Does the
Revolution wait in words? Where do we find those (s)words?
Did the
door dilate like an eye? Then what is located by the X of want, the Y of why?
I would
argue that language allows the animal to jump out of its skin.
I would
argue that information wants to be communist.
Dear
maker, thy form = swarm.
* *
*
But isn’t
the in-drawn, life-giving breath a silencing? And the expelled breath,
necessary to voice, a rehearsal of the last breath?
necessary to voice, a rehearsal of the last breath?
Are we
exiled into sound? No, call back the animal.
The shock
of being human, as it passes through the body, is the shock of language.
—Andrew
Joron
