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Chris Pusateri

BlazeVOX [books]
Buffalo, New York

anon by Chris Pusateri Copyright 2008 Published by BlazeVOX [books] All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without the publishers written permission, except for brief quotations in reviews. Printed in the United States of America Book design by Geoffrey Gatza Cover art: Untitled by Drew Kunz First Edition ISBN: 1-934289-67-1 ISBN 13: 978-1-934289-67-9 Library of Congress Control Number: 2008920520 BlazeVOX [books] 14 Tremaine Ave Kenmore, NY 14217 Editor@blazevox.org

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chapter 1 One long line is the trans-Siberian given as a series of procedures in time, an excursion that one arrives in, not at, the end of. The first and last frame, winds mass casts no shadow, this the different sense we use to notice it. The wrong kind of nozzle regulates (governs) the flow, but theres no choosing: your skin dies and falls away as your cells grow upward and out. Manifest density.


chapter 1.1 The senior author is the first one listed, an et. al. Othered at the ass-end of the listing experience. Conquistador we use as synonym for explorer, a descriptor more indicative of the task at hand, turns on the linguistic assumption that all things may be best described in English. West is not west if youre west, south or north of it. The coast is a warm demander, too often left in the hands of our impressions, as some fight not to move but to stay put. Storm the meta-narrative and set it alightthat which molds everything to consensus by increasing its heat. Whose information is it? Whose system?


(directors cut) Vocal tropisms throwback to period piece, an insect quivering, musica electronica, the right binary of lipstick to kiss in. Kicked to the gutter in figures eight, the circus performers worked without a social net. Binocular box in which furtive fantasies are separated by one hundred yards.


chapter 1.2 Clocktime welds a right angle to these vehicular pragmatics. Writing is doing something youve never done before, and todays exercise is the same vacation spot we keep coming back to. Where everyone knows your name. Experience in syndication: not so fresh, but when we come home, just what the doctor ordered, an incident repetition has made passive. Words are getting smaller as the price of sending them increases. Something to do with licensing fees. OPEC ministers paint by numbers, octanes catalytic, converted to baht, a rate mistaken, though its the only game going. Fine lines, she said to her queue. Listen to my lips is a deaf breath, like a wind out a window you cant feel indoors. Not words, but what suggests them. Imagine torture as an end, not a means, and then youll really be disgusted. Effete creations as a manifestation of the masculine. A non-music made with musical objects is an empty orchestra pit, a chromatic loop walking out of an empty room but never quite crossing the threshold.


(addendum to previous) Sometimes they need a little push. Theres an unwillingness to let go of that last syllable. The unlike foods made war in his small intestine, and there seemed little to do but dissolve them with whiskey. Mountains divided the weather patterns, so on one side was desert, on the other endless rain. Like two sides of a pillow. Threads of water sought lower ground; he sayed up straight, locked posture and wondered if a similar process was taking place within his frame. The humors loosening, a shit taken. He must be getting older if the only talk left to him involved piss & wind. He said something about his pants, but I couldnt make out the rest. Its a pisspoor foot to start off hopping on. Jutting and inward toes are indicative of incorrect adjustment. Is that a question or a statement? Its the or that makes it fighting words. Wouldnt it be funny if all wars were the products of misinformation? Gosh, the 38th parallel wasnt where we thought, weapons en mass, destructive and such in fact werent, containment doesnt work with ideologiesgolly gosh, give me back my missile, lets test fire and call it a Roman holiday. Rage is anger that doesnt follow the recipe (though some would say its a matter of degree). War is the giving of ingredients and a match for the gas. Once the events are set in motion, time will do the rest.


chapter 1.3 I called you by your mothers name despite your being male. You get to a certain age, and you pull names from the air; I might have said: dust, nit elite, elide miter. But I didnt. I called you Mom.


chapter 1.4 We go out into the world and mistreat it, only this time intentionally. Return of the four hundred words which habit has bred, a naming system of so limited a precision, how could we ever have dreamed of exploitative control? If we live together till death, youll have transferred enough of your mannerisms to me that you wont actually die. Personality is nothing more than trace elements: over time, your words, gestures, and prejudices will remit. Thats what they mean when they say I become you.


chapter 1.5 From where the butts accumulate, you can tell where he likes to stand, what sort of view that affords, and the parts of the panorama that are forever off-limits to him. Something he perhaps didnt wish to share. Or didnt know himself. What do my habits suggest: the re-use of certain words and syntactical constructions? What does this tell you that you could sell back to me as self-growth? A busy left hand is a virtue in pianists; it makes the ground that much more lush and colorful.


chapter 1.6 Anecdotes as a compositional procedure. End legato, the maestro tells us, hoping to remarry the roles of teacher and master, a guild we undestroy, a pedagogy collaged back into being. Reverse take: everything exploded leaps back into the frame. My assumptions, my hatreds, the nervous tics which betray these, and you, my love, to note them in that little pad of yours.