Poems and Poetics: Search results for Hangman

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Wednesday, October 9, 2013

John Bloomberg-Rissman: From In The House of the Hangman, with a commentary on the work in progress

At that moment, an explosion occurs. At that moment the sumo wrestler dives; he enters the water and makes no splash. The prisoner’s strike is on. Often I wonder whether my teeth are rotting. On Tuesday I had my hair cut. In the bathroom I kill a cockroach as it tries to run past me. My breasts hurt I am pregnant perhaps. This prepares the manifold, earlier, immaterial representations, the mounting system centralized, happily groomed as yoga for planets. The earlier bonobos touched it and squirrels did their math to empower the mergers and exchange. That’s part of what I believe. Remember how I was stressing out about my essay on Wittgenstein’s Tractatus for ages and then about my essay on the role of sympathy in Kantian and Humean forms of Metaethical Constructivism? I got firsts for both of them :} Just call me fun bags. I know what amateur porn is. The best dinosaur was a flower. The dawn of something, following a night of else. You know Mies Van Der Rohe’s monument to Rosa Luxemburg and Karl Liebknecht (built of bricks because “many of these people were shot in front of bricks ...”) (destroyed 1933 by the Nazis)? My friend Aindriu plans to rebuild it. In my waking dream a vessel similar in appearance and age to the one in X-Files: Fight the Future filled with enough empty containers (like the ones in the movie) to hold several hundred thousand people — with similar intentions for them as in the movie — was approaching Earth’s outer atmosphere. In a few seconds, another massive vessel became visible and fired some kind of weapon that destroyed this ship instantly. A flash of light illuminated the northern hemisphere over

Russia

for a brief moment. The vessel that fired on this ship (don’t ask me how I know this) was a military vessel from an extraterrestrial civilization that considers our species as an emerging life form that is very rare and endangered. Perhaps I’m guilty of an overactive imagination and so be it, but “It’s so weird out. What do you think is happening with the air?” A good example is “Laundry Lists and Manifestoes” which takes us from Noah through the Odyssey to Robinson Crusoe to opera, to Tristan Tzara and Malevich and Khlebnikov to the present day and ends with: The screensaver image of a broken SE10 / Madame C’s nine cognates gather around boxes dropped / By Ever Afterlife Balloonists working on the script / of cargo cults. They argue (the cognates) that a manifest / Attached to shipment listing all collaterals and cogs, / Codes and codices for Mme’s Nothing Else Cockaigne Machine / In fact are elegiac poems, that David sings for Jonathan, / Gilgamesh for Enkidu. They inscribe themselves as / Manifestoes which proclaim their faith in algorithms of an / Unknown field of force. They're cognizant and they can glow. / They're coeternal, and they rise to an occasion. / Although they tell no stories of their lives, their little trumpets blow. Some grubby pants & death in the chest (Right on man!) I’ll see you there by the wall / just past the loading zone / : Mezcalito casting posies : Earth & its opposite : deer silent as the noises at their weddings You shouldn’t go / but you should go We transformed caressing the ayayay of every wound ... Gray is the Theory ... Red the fuzz of Cannabis / The Wireless / / The fight? — How much for the singing rabbit? — Happy Un-Birthday / The piranhas of the day before yesterday are iguanas of the Waves : waves : waves of — Would that be 1 Sirian haiku? 1 water poet in the sierras? dickfaces & fucktrarians? “What was friendship in the plague days?” I cut his hair while he slept to prevent vines from stretching around his throat. Things happened then they changed into squirrels. They got squirrelly with lab coats filled with dollar bills. Let my phone vibrate out: the notorious files have ceased to elongate posterity. I came all this way for a single glass of water. Only people like you who will not talk with their wives when they get home about what they do all day are able to … [garbled] … protecting us from the ‘terrorist threat’, but let’s let everyone here hear more information about karaoke. Anyone that wants to can go. What if one day they find Shakespeare’s codpiece? In other words, ‘Life is good,’ says the T-shirt with a smiling cartoon stick figure that is waving crudely. The fly lives for a day. An elderly man falls. A bus with hissing brakes. ‘Are you okay?’ I ask. The most stupidest question on Earth. Pulling his veined hand to help him up. Sticky fingers. An apple cider bottle on the ground. “Avoiding everyone's pupils” is oddly more precise than avoiding their eyes. Listening to the sound of decomposition, however, is curiously affecting. As the lettuce’s cell structure and water content changes, so, too, does its voltage, and thus its sonic output, from the bright, tinny, and surprisingly speedy pulse of a crisp, green leaf to the mournful, fog-horn honks of a five-day-old composting candidate. I guess this is where I quote John Olson saying, “You can change a circumference but you can’t change pi.” “Canty soon faced an alternating cycle of unpaid work and job-search placements, his benefits constantly threatened by petty infractions — alleged ‘failures to comply’ (FTC) beyond his control and often lacking a basis in fact. ‘I stopped believing there’d be a job. I said to myself that they gonna keep FTC’ing. Everybody was getting FTC’d.’” “So I used a sharper, more ‘confrontationally clean,’ I guess, font, and made the coloring inside the letters this beautiful little photo of raw meat.” It was only a two-hour drive across Central Florida from Disney World to Weeki Wachee Springs, but the distance traveled was much further, from sleek theme parks, hotels with room service and package vacation deals to a rundown motel with broken Wi-Fi situated across the highway from a thrift store and a Hooters. To get there, I took State Road 50 through mile after mile of swamp and farmland, which was dotted with pawn shops looking to buy guns and gold, and billboards with photographs of babies and reminders that “my heart beat 18 days from conception.” Strip malls were broken up by new town-home complexes, old trailer parks and churches. When I reached the intersection of 50 and Route 19, a faded blue-and-white sign welcomed me to Weeki Wachee Springs, which is both a very small “city” (population: 4) and a 538-acre state park. It is also “the world’s only city of live mermaids.” Yesterday, 30,000 California prisoners refused to eat. The people on the lawn are nice They are adaptable The people on the lawn are pretty cool when you don’t get on their bad side You are so funny and adaptable Can I adopt you It’s like you’re singing all the time in the woods The forest is long It is long gone like a stick. Once, I let a doctor stick a tube down my throat, I was so broke, and take pictures of my esophagus and stomach for $200, the same year I wore an Easter Bunny suit in Quincy Market, my furry rabbit arms around tourists (I’m probably in more of their photo albums than my own family’s.) Is this an example of Rachel’s Hyperaesthesia-wha-wha (web.2-in-1??? It is not that we cannot talk Tiqqun talk. Look: The Man-Child has two moods: indecision, and entitlement to this indecisiveness. The Man-Child tells a racist joke. It is not funny. It is the fact that the Man-Child said something racist that is. The Man-Child thinks the meaning of his statement inheres in his intentions, not in the effects of his language. He knows that speech-act theory is passé. Why are you crying? The Man-Child is just trying to be reasonable. This is his calm voice. UPDATED: A Phillips 66 pipeline with a record of prior accidents spilled an estimated 25,000 gallons of gasoline in a remote area outside a small town on Montana’s Crow Indian Reservation, but no public health problems were anticipated, federal officials said. This is not like when training a dog you must look it in the eye or other aphorisms of good sense. What’s the word for an undiscovered word? Julia Lesage came to the U of Chicago in 1985 and said that: Citations are world-building, acts not only of admission but of promotion of ways of thought, and so not only feminist but fundamentally what induces others to read what’s inconvenient, not already canonical, and on behalf of capacious *solidarity*. It completely changed my life and practice to hear that. Since I have begun to quote, it is difficult for me to stop doing it (it has already been the next day for a long time, and it is almost seven o’clock in the evening already, and thus questionable whether I can at least finish these notes today); specifically, I want to note down a few more sentences about the meaning of openness to the idea of transcendence – to which, I believe, the idea of utopia would also belong. I wanna know what it’s like to be Scarlett Johannson or what it would be like if I became (I mean actually became) Linux OS gazing tenderly through animal eyes at you from a billboard when you walk by deep in thought over a Mark Rothko painting from 1959. Free Mumia Cheesesteaks. In 4th grade I endured a field trip to Prachovské skály and the

Rwanda

genocide. After transferring to a language school the Yugoslav Wars took place. People don’t know what they’re thinking about for half a minute. Polarity. Grillwork. A blue flame. Audible. Quick, thin digital, hot, seizing right to acute. I’ll be expecting you. Repeating the tune to a song on the window. The power is out. Exclamation point, question mark, three dots. In this situation, it seems natural to ask: How does the space-time known to all of us emerge from the primary states of quantum gravity? And since normal space-time would be born as a result of the interaction between matter and quantum gravity, can we be certain that each type of matter definitely interacts with a space-time that has the same properties? I mean, he says problems in

Israel

will be solved by extraterrestrials, and I admit he can overplay the artist thing, but I like his paint-dripped pants and raggedy parka. He has no need to make extraterrestrials concrete. “It’s moment to moment with them, it’s local.” Illicit carcinogens — contrail scars on the Blu-ray — only more better ye butter the saline skyline, yo. I know the Lockheed Martin logo bastardizes stars. But soft, But Lo: a light from a bushel. It is the east and Juliet is the sun. Are there desires running through an impulse, deeper than its source? In 79 AD, Pompeii was buried. Though the fleeing bodies deteriorated, hollow casts of ash formed around them. Most endearing are the mangled dogs. Rock on London. Rock on Chicago.

In the House of the Hangman, which takes its title from Theodor Adorno’s Guilt and Defense: On the Legacies of National Socialism in Postwar Germany (“In the house of the hangman one should not speak of the noose, otherwise one might seem to harbor resentment”), is the third part of my Zeitgeist Spam. Zeitgeist Spam, while sharing some features with, say, the work of Tony Lopez and with Ron Silliman’s new sentences, has as its guiding motif’s John Cage’s “no sounds of my own making”, and is mashup/collage, virtually every word of which coming from someone other than me (thus bringing to mind, and hopefully more than mind, one of the fantasies of Walter Benjamin). Each section of Zeitgeist Spam has its own constraints; Hangman’s primarily that it be written / composed /constructed in real time, daily, out of the materials presented by that day (whether via RSS feed, Facebook, books received in the mail, emails, tv, conversation, or anything else the day brings) over a period of 2012 days (yes, the “Mayan apocalypse” inspired that). It is intended to be “adequate to the world in which we live”, and has two epigraphs:

their empire
our time Laura Moriarty, A Tonalist (my original epigraph, from the very beginning)

The witch’s proposition doesn’t ask for the conversion of those to whom it is addressed. When witches address others, they do nothing other, all told, than relay, echo the question that transformed them themselves – existential catalysis. They tell us their recipes and ask us: “And you, where do you draw your capacity to hold up and to act from? How do you succeed in creating the protection that the poisoned milieu in which we all live necessitates? What protects you from the vulnerability that our common enemy hasn’t stopped profiting from? What do you do? What have you learned?”

Isabelle Stengers and Philippe Pignarre, Capitalist Sorcery: Breaking the Spell (my second epigraph, added three years in)

[Bloomberg-Rissman is currently working with me on Barbaric Vast & Wild, a large assemblage of outside & subterranean poetry in the mode of Poems for the Millennium and Technicians of the Saced. (J.R.)]

Friday, November 16, 2012

John Bloomberg-Rissman: Two Poems from “In the House of the Hangman”

John Bloomberg-Rissman: tattoo with quote from Walter Benjamin

In the House of the Hangman 1107

Trying to relieve the feeling of dead meat in the breast with a swim in the sea, see lots of movie type cartoon Disney Saga, work all the time, do some work to, read about body fluids, writing letters back and forth with proposals on jobs and ideas, type no answer. How do you do? Freak accident is the thing maybe? Give me a penny for your lungs man. Imagine being someone’s butler. Hey. This is Buffy and Leila, Divine and PJ in the back without them knowing about it or agree with, icons should not have to bother. This is going to go so fucking good. Otherwise, we can hold the car. Are you with me? We can hold the car to the north and playing Sheeba, Go betweens and Meat loaf on the askassa stereo. No one can reach us, we ba: generally no. No can dou. No Sir, we can accommodate. That’s a negative sir, we have escaped. We’ve set to work removing the veil of anxious subjectivity and clotted multi-syllables from their writing, to go for a walk and to take nothing (no phone, no iPod, no iPad, nothing) except for a pad and pen. When they saw an image that they would otherwise take a picture of, they were to stop, sit down, and write the image as they saw it. No commentary. The ticket should emerge from the sidewalk not as evidence of “a lonely night,” but as a ratty piece of paper with the numbers 1446-2023. However, putting this into the context of several recent articles about the accelerating pace of “cyber-attacks” on U.S. infrastructure — that is, “the pace at which America’s electricity grids, water supplies, computer and cellphone networks and other infrastructure are coming under attack,” in the words of the New York Times — as well as news that NYC’s elevators and boilers are now seen as potential targets for cyberwarfare (hackers “could increase the speed of how elevators go up or down,” perhaps crashing them to the bottom of the shaft), the idea of garage doors being hacked by radio signals emanating from the ocean by belligerent foreign powers takes on the air of, say, Red Dawn, as remade by Bob Vila. Oh, and that “vanilla” you ate may actually be crushed beaver anal glands – The idea that humans walk in circles is no urban myth. I have no control over my emotions. I don’t know anyone who does. The Dalai Lama, maybe, but I don’t trust him, not since seeing him shake hands with George W. Bush. The challenge in observing them is to overcome the blurring of Earth’s atmosphere. A ‘90s technique called Speckle imaging uses very short exposures to effectively freeze out the atmosphere. With Speckle, the “winning” star was S0-2, which orbits around a central dark mass in 16 years. This proved the existence of a black hole at the galactic center. But S0-2 was the only short-period (<20 years) star revealed. To carry out a fundamental test of general relativity, you need at least two stars with short orbits. Fortunately, since then a revolutionary technology called adaptive optics has arrived. This technique corrects for the effects of the atmosphere in real-time, distorting a mirror in exactly the opposite way that the atmosphere distorts the starlight. This enabled our discovery of S0-102, which takes a mere 11.5 years to orbit.

[Note: Sources: Trying to relieve … we have escaped: Stina Kajaso, “Strypvaffla” (tr. Google), at http://sonofdaddy.blogspot.com/2012/10/strypvaffla.html SONOFDAD, 6 Oct 012; We’ve set to work … from their writing and to go for a walk … 1446-2023: Susan M Schultz, “Documentary Poetry & Being in the World”, at http://tinfisheditor.blogspot.com/2012/10/documentary-poetry-being-in-world.html Tinfish Editor’s Blog, 6 Oct 012; However, putting this into the context … Vila: Geoff Manaugh, “Garage Warfare”, at http://bldgblog.blogspot.com/2012/10/garage-warfare.html BLDG/BLOG, 6 Oct 012; Oh, and: JBR; that “vanilla” … anal glands --: Melanie Jones/watchdog.net, email rec’d 6 Oct approx. 7:04 PM PDT (concerning some flavoring substance called castoreum); The idea that humans … urban myth: Imp Kerr, “Triple-Decker Weekly, 29”, at http://thenewinquiry.com/blogs/shines-like-gold/triple-decker-weekly-29/ The New Inquiry, 6 Oct 012; I have no control … George W. Bush: John Olson, “Not So Sweet Emotions”, at http://tillalala.blogspot.com/2012/10/not-so-sweet-emotions.html Tillalala Chronicles, 6 Oct 012; The challenge … to orbit: “The Discovery of the shortest period star in the Galactic Center: S0-102: To be published by Science in the October 5, 2012 edition”, at http://www.astro.ucla.edu/~ghezgroup/gc/research/S02_S0102_orbits.html UCLA Galactic Center Group, as seen 6 Oct 012]

6 – 9 October 2012

In the House of the Hangman 1110

Such were the two objects, the shotgun and the tape recorder, that interested the Araweté the most: an instrument that increased the productivity of the hunt, and an ideological apparatus reproduced the singularity of the voice. Production and reproducibility, nature and supernature, eating and singing, animals and gods. Fuck I hate fireworks. The only thing that’s worse than fireworks are real bombs, which is aggravatingly Platonic I know. And then I stared at a tuna slab. That would have been me, skimming the moss. They are Laura Palmer wrapped in plastic and washed up on the beach trying to speak through old film footage, through her diary. The voices begin to speak toward something coherent and abruptly stop: you can’t be a slave, Pa Ubu. You’re far too fat.

My back

pack is
chock

full of dead
bees for you

look at
them!

I remember flying over the southern tip of Greenland, coming back from Iceland. We were on the right side of the plane for the photos and everyone began oohing and aahing at the brightness and the desolation. And I remember thinking if the plane had to crash, it should be right here. Because why? Because the architecture of data storage is inhuman. Servers don’t need daylight, so the spaces are lit by blinking power lights or eery coral-reef-like fluorescence. I mean, most of the time when I watch a Lars von Trier movie I find myself wishing I were watching it on mute. The image has thousands of possible ramifications, and yet the one that was chosen, for the most part, feels like you know how dogs aren’t really smiling, they’re just panting? and they don’t really kiss you, they just lick your face because they like salt? “Zero Sadness”: little kids that walk around looking down / not because they have low self-esteem but / because they’re looking at their cool shoes / light up and or sparkle. Before us is our flesh with the tattooed portents. A spider had somehow attached a web strand to my face and was climbing towards my nose from a pile of workbooks on the desk next to mine. I passed my hand in front of my right cheek and swung her to the floor. Teddy bear with black button eyes and black rubber ears is asleep next to the hand pump disinfectant dispenser. The dictionary is half-black and half-pink. A blue sticker is affixed to the back of the fat, little book. Inside are some drawings on napkins. I wasted in the coffee shop drinking bitter, while she searched for an electronic knuckle in the pickle shop. Flame-flaked paint. Those carpeted bathrooms. That smelly couch. Milk and tea and cookies named after a bodily process. “JULIA JULIA JULIA in my dream we were flying with a murder of crows and then you bit one of those motherf*ckers on the beak for trying to out-fly you.”

[Note: Such were the two … animals and gods: Eduardo Vivieros de Castro, From the Enemy’s Point of View: Humanity and Divinity in an Amazonian Society (tr. Catherine V Howard); The only thing … Platonic I know and And then and I stared … tuna slab and That would have been … the moss: Brandon Brown, “Fusees 22”, in Flowering Mall; They are Laura … abruptly stop: Drew Kalbach, “‘The sheer number of corpses which pile up’: Drew Kalbach on Laura Mullen’s Murmur”, at http://www.montevidayo.com/?p=3225 Montevidayo, 9 Oct 012; you can’t be a slave … too fat: Alfred Jarry, Slave Ubu (tr. Kenneth McLeish) in Jarry Ubu; My back
pack … look at them!: Russ Woods, “Bees”, at http://husmw4.tumblr.com/russ_woods have u seen my whale 4; I remember flying … right here: William Keckler, “Greenland”, at http://joebrainardspajamas.blogspot.com/2012/10/greenland.html Joe Brainard’s Pyjamas (The Sequel), 9 Sept 012; Because why? Because: JBR; the architecture … fluorescence: Kyle Chayka, “The Aesthetics of Data Storage”, at http://hyperallergic.com/58330/the-aesthetics-of-data-storage/ Hyperallergic, 9 Sept 012; I mean: JBR; most of the time … feels: Blake Butler, “I Don’t Want To Read Any More Books About Straight White People Having Sex”, at http://www.vice.com/read/dont-want-to-read-any-more-books-about-straight-white-people-having-sex Vice, 9 Oct 012; like: JBR; you know how dogs … they like salt?: Heiko Julién, I Am Ready To Die A Violent Death, at http://www.scribd.com/doc/102952623/I-Am-Ready-To-Die-A-Violent-Death scribd; “Zero Sadness … light up and or sparkle: Ana Carrete, “Zero Sadness”, at http://mynameismud.co.uk/4-poems.htm my name is mud; Before us … pickle shop and Flame-flaked paint … bodily process: Adam Avikainen, “Ginger Glacier”, at http://www.taipeibiennial2012.org/journal/15 Taipei Biennial 2012; “JULIA JULIA JULIA … out-fly you”: anonymous, as quoted in Julia Cohen, “Harmonics like a Deconstructed River Press”, at http://onthemessiersideofneat.blogspot.com/2012/10/harmonics-like-deconstructed-river-press.html $650 Apartment for $650, 9 Oct 012]

9 October 2012

NOTE. The preceding are two further installments from Bloomberg-Rissman’s epic assemblage, “an ongoing project called Zeitgeist Spam,” consisting of multiple “panels” with titles like “Altarpiece to our Beauty and Insanity” & “No Sounds of My Own Making.” While each panel has its own set of compositional constraints, he tells us, “they all involve appropriating/ sampling/ collaging/ assembling/ mangling other texts.” An earlier entry on Poems and Poetics appeared here in 2011. A prolific writer and researcher, Bloomberg-Rissman is currently working with me on Barbaric, Vast & Wild, a global/historical gathering of outsider & subterranean poetry, now in progress. (J.R.]

Monday, December 22, 2014

John Bloomberg-Rissman: In the House of the Hangman #1880

[note. The allure in Bloomberg-Rissman’s work, which has drawn me to it from the start, is his use of appropriative & conceptual techniques toward the exploration of real if unanticipated meaning – the saying, in other words, of that which is crying to be said. His title comes from Adorno (“In the house of the hangman one should not speak of the noose, otherwise one might seem to harbor resentment”), & his sources appear beneath the poem & include, in this instance, appropriations from Pierre Joris’s Rothenberg Variations, anther example of a work using appropriative techniques in its composition. Part of a still larger work-in-progress, Zeitgest Spam, “Hangman,” in Bloomberg-Rissman’s description, is “written / composed /constructed in real time, daily, out of the materials presented by that day (whether via RSS feed, Facebook, books received in the mail, emails, tv, conversation, or anything else the day brings) over a period of 2012 days (yes, the ‘Mayan apocalypse’ inspired that). It is intended to be ‘adequate to the world in which we live’.” What is presented here of course is the 1880th day of composition, an ongoing anthology or assemblage of the world in which we live. (J.R.)]

And while some might say that my comparison of violence in Chile and Chicago is hyperbolic or inaccurate, to understand the discussion more broadly, one need only look at the numbers of people tortured and abused by the Chicago police, the numbers of people killed on the streets each year, the literally hundreds of thousands of poor children left to struggle in impoverished public schools that lack the most basic of resources. I know there are differences, believe me. But I’m sick of comparisons, of playing the which apocalypse is worse game. All the brutal neoliberal policy labs are murder zones. And someone tortured or killed by the Chicago Police is someone just as dead or tortured as someone tortured or killed by the Pinochet regime. Chile and Chicago: we drink each other’s shit. We are each other’s shit. We shit each other’s blood. We kill and die by our dollars. Who will write our obituary? I could go on about Noel’s great book and at some point I will, but what I want to think about for the moment is his use of the phrase “Documentary Death Poetics” in reference to the poem “Puerto Rican Obituary” by Pedro Pietri. The Reverend Pedro Pietri, dressed in black cloaks, embodying what Noel calls a punk aesthetic and a punk spirit articulated through his poems and performances, a Nuyorican anti-poet, anti-genius for whom art and life were inseparable. Noel talks about one of Pietri’s interventions, Platonic Fucking for the 90s, which “features Pietri carrying a cross and handing out condoms through the streets,” an act that Pietri characterizes as “another way for a poem to save a life.” Which leads to the question: what are other ways that poems can save lives? In other words, how do poems fill the infected holes in our body? How do poems make the blood swell and swirl. I digress. I want to think about his “Puerto Rican Obituary,” and to talk about it as a poem that is unflinchingly vomiting out the death culture subsuming working class Nuyoricans and Latinos in the 60s and 70s. A poem shitting out, in ways that are totally unkitsch, in ways that are totally straight-forward, in ways that ask us to reconcile with language as a force that is not abstracting, that is not masking, that is articulating in clear, angry language a stance towards labor, towards labor that leads to death, towards poverty that leads to death, towards immigration that leads to death, towards death that leads to humanity, towards death that leads back to death, towards money that makes us die, towards capital that obliterates the bodies it employs in order to maintain the illusion of its rationality. But who the fuck I am talking to now. Here are the words of Pietri:

They worked
They worked
They worked
and they died
They died broke
They died owing
They died never knowing
what the front entrance
of the first national city bank looks like

Juan
Miguel
Milagros
Olga
Manuel
All died yesterday today
and will die again tomorrow
passing their bill collectors
on to the next of kin
All died
waiting for the garden of eden
to open up again
under a new management
All died
dreaming about america
waking them up in the middle of the night
screaming: Mira Mira
your name is on the winning lottery ticket
for one hundred thousand dollars
All died
hating the grocery stores
that sold them make-believe steak
and bullet-proof rice and beans
All died waiting dreaming and hating

Dead Puerto Ricans
Who never knew they were Puerto Ricans
Who never took a coffee break
from the ten commandments
to KILL KILL KILL
the landlords of their cracked skulls
and communicate with their latino souls

And I want to tell you about Valerie Martinez’s 2010 book length poem Each and Her. In it, Martinez documents with facts, names, and narratives the deaths of hundreds of young Mexican girls and women along the U.S-Mexico border. Many of these women worked in the maquiladoras; they were murdered, tortured, raped and mutilated. Here is one section:

the number of girls and women
working in the post-NAFTA
maquiladora industry

472,423

while they can’t be hired legally
at the age of 16, it is common for these girl-women
to get false documents
start work at 12, 13, 14

And here is another, naming some of them and listing the dates they died, died, which is a euphemism for were murdered, of course:

Jessica Lizalde Leon (3.14.93)
Lorenza Isela Gonzalez (4.25.94)
Erica Garcia Morena (7.16.95)
Sonia Ivette Ramirez (8.10.96)
Juana Iñiguez Mares (10.23.97)
Perla Patricia Sáenz Diaz (2.19.98)
Bertha Luz Briones Palacios (8.2.99)
Amparo Guzman (4.2.00)
Gloría Rivas Martinez (10.28.01)
Lourdes Ivette Lucero Campos (1.19.02)
Miriam Soledad Sáenz Acosta (3.28.03)

To name the names of the dead and to write them as poetry is not to aestheticize them; but rather it’s to force the reader to witness the dead; to carry their names in their mouths, to feel their names on their tongues, to understand their names as carrying meaning and life and rhythm and energy. It is to prevent the dead from disappearing permanently. It is to make us confront them as text, which is as close as most of us can get, and to ask us to consider what it means for our bodies to live knowing that these other bodies have been slaughtered, knowing that our own bodies are complicit in their slaughter, knowing that our own lives are, if we care enough to think about it, intricately connected with their deaths. This poetry function goes back beyond Achilles … Below are the names of the 6 people killed and the 43 you already know about.

6 Murdered in Iguala
Julio César Mondragón Fontes
Daniel Solís Gallardo
Julio César Ramírez Nava
David Josue García Evangelista
Víctor Manuel Lugo Ortiz

43 Disappeared
Blanca Montiel Sánchez
Abel García Hernández
Abelardo Vázquez Periten
Adán Abrajan de la Cruz
Alexander Mora Venancio
Antonio Santana Maestro
Benjamín Ascencio Bautista
Bernardo Flores Alcaraz
Carlos Iván Ramírez Villarreal
Carlos Lorenzo Hernández Muñoz
César Manuel González Hernández
Christian Alfonso Rodríguez Telumbre
Christian Tomas Colón Garnica
Cutberto Ortíz Ramos
Dorian González Parral
Emiliano Alen Gaspar de la Cruz
Everardo Rodríguez Bello
Felipe Arnulfo Rosas
Giovanni Galindes Guerrero
Israel Caballero Sánchez
Israel Jacinto Lugardo
Jesús Jovany Rodríguez Tlatempa
Jonas Trujillo González
Jorge Álvarez Nava
Jorge Aníbal Cruz Mendoza
Jorge Antonio Tizapa Legideño
Jorge Luis González Parral
José Ángel Campos Cantor
José Ángel Navarrete González
José Eduardo Bartolo Tlatempa
José Luís Luna Torres
Joshvani Guerrero de la Cruz
Julio César López Patolzin
Leonel Castro Abarca
Luis Ángel Abarca Carrillo
Luis Ángel Francisco Arzola
Magdaleno Rubén Lauro Villegas
Marcial Pablo Baranda
Marco Antonio Gómez Molina
Martín Getsemany Sánchez García
Mauricio Ortega Valerio
Miguel Ángel Hernández Martínez
Miguel Ángel Mendoza Zacarías
Saúl Bruno García

I owe tons of the above to Daniel Borzutsky, and his “In the Murmurs of the Rotten Carcass Inferno”: magnifique. And it’s just such perfect Hangman material. For which I can only offer 10,000 bows, 10,000 bows. And now, a brief

MUSICAL INTERLUDE:

When A in the A-gauge glass

becomes level with white line,
make more A as follows:
1. Place WET B in glass bamer.
2. Empty one pack of A into
the wet B.
3. Draw off two full measures
of hot boiling C and pour
them over the dry A in the B
(using circular motion).
4. Draw off one FULL measure
of A and repour it into B.
5. Close B between pours.
6. Never make more of A if the A
in A-gauge glass is above
white line.

If the balloons popped the sound wouldn’t be able to carry since everything would be too far above the correct floor.

Think of, imagine, devise, a pulse, any you choose, of any design.

Wrap a live microphone with a very large
sheet of paper. Make a large bundle.
Keep the microphone live for another five minutes.

The piano bench is tilted on its base and brought to rest against a part of the piano.

            earth
            air
            fire
            water.

            The world becomes the world goes on

the wind crickets
knew you
a spider grew out of
air moon          blood
granite movement flowers
eyelash
candlestick
like daytime stone with grass words
motors
to sing lights and numbers
a hard summons
ice hooks
meat hooks
a living place
skin window
just feathers across
what a high hairy frailty chaos
“why” is
a large thumb
&

all sang/wept underscored by the words of the Goblin Page, “lost, lost, lost” and “found, found, found.” Need I add “the ghosts / whip up with furiousness? Above their holes / they dance and taunt – I planted those beans myself and the tomatoes I ordered the seeds / off the internet and planted them and – ‘We are making some fine universe’, my five-year-old said. ‘Out of what we have. With will.’” “At night, we watch TV together.” “O sorry-ass fish. O melancholy amoeba. / O despondent mold.” Yesterday I consulted a dictionary wanting to know the height of the atmosphere. The column of air that we support weighs no less than seventeen tons. Not far from the word atmosphere, I stopped on Atlixco, a town in Mexico, in the state of Pueblo, at the foot of Popocatepetl. I suddenly imagined myself in the middle of a little town that I thought similar to those of southern Andalusia. In some oblivion, forgotten by the rest of the world, does it persist in itself? Now it persists, the little girls, the poor women, and perhaps in a cluttered room, a sobbing boy, sweating … O world today everywhere twisted with sobs, naively vomiting blood (like someone with TB): on the plains of Poland? I dreamt of summer tanagers last night, and little hippos one foot high in a lake perched in a crater bowl in the mountains where an octopus watched over them. 3 biopsies later, I’m thinking, on the sidelines, about the specific idiomatic practice of given practitioners, as (say) vibraphonist Walt Dickerson of Philadelphia, whose peculiar touch and tone, the velocity and ‘bounce’ he’d get hammering on the bars, he credited in part to his soaking the heads of his mallets in a special solution before approaching the instrument. The animist, though, feels herself to be part of a whispering, bending, whistling, barking universe – meanwhile, back in Manchester, Dr. Drew-Baker was studying laver, nori’s Welsh equivalent. In 1949, she published a paper in Nature outlining her discovery that a tiny algae known as Conchocelis was actually a baby nori or laver, rather than an entirely separate species, as had previously been thought. After reading her research, Japanese scientists quickly developed methods to artificially seed these tiny spores onto strings, and they rebuilt the entire nori industry along the lines under which it still operates today. Although she’s almost unknown in the U.K., Dr. Drew-Baker is known as the “Mother of the Sea” in Japan, and a special “Drew” festival is still held in her honor in Osaka every April 14. This action marked the culmination of a monumental effort that officially began with the Committee’s decision to initiate the Study in March 2009, but which had its roots in an investigation into the CIA’s destruction of videotapes of CIA detainee interrogations that began in December 2007. The full Committee Study, which totals more than 6,700 pages, remains classified but is now an official Senate report. The full report has been provided to the White House, the CIA, the Department of Justice, the Department of Defense, the Department of State, and the Office of the Director of National Intelligence in the hopes that it will prevent future coercive interrogation practices and inform the management of other covert action programs. In other words, no more pureed hummus, pasta with sauce, nuts, and raisin enemas! All these things happened before 2 pm and after 8 pm. I lay on the wooden benches outside the hot springs, next to the two Korean women who had a similar style of 5 minutes of intense bathing in the hottest pool at the back of the cave then 30 minutes of deep rest. Outside, the crispy ice above the creek melted and froze in the same moment. Walt Whitman took the waters in these caves. Melissa Buzzeo wrote a part of WHAT BEGAN US in these caves. Christine Wertheim ate french fries with extra salt before bathing here. I wish there was a bitter chocolate drink made from beer foam, like a tonic. That I might enjoy. I could eat it from a spoon, from a saucer. The animals were [are] different; some grey and bright bighorn sheep tumbled down a path next to my car. I could see into their twelve eyes. In ways that have concentrated over time, like an environmental toxin. Pink and silver. Will I die in Paris on a Thursday evening when it is raining? No. Or not again.

[Note: Sources: And while some … Saúl Bruno García: Daniel Borzutsky, Pedro Pietri, “Puerto Rican Obituary,” Valerie Martinez, Each and Her, quoted in Borzutzky’s “In the Murmurs of the Rotten Carcass Inferno”, at http://www.poetryfoundation.org/harriet/2014/12/in-the-murmurs-of-the-rotten-carcass-inferno/ Harriet, 8 Dec 014; When A … white line: Cornelius Cardew, “Making A”, in Word Events: Perspectives on Verbal Notation (eds. John Lely and James Saunders); If the balloons … correct floor: JD Bransford and MK Johnson, “Considerations of Some Problems of Comprehension”, in Lely and Saunders; Think of, imagine … any design: Christian Wolff, “Looking North”, in Lely and Saunders; wrap a live … five minutes: Takehisa Kosugi, Micro 1”, in Lely and Saunders; The piano bench … part of the piano: George Brecht, “Incidental Music”, in Lely and Saunders; earth … world goes on: John Wieners, “from A BOOK OF PROPHECIES”, quoted in Mark So, “The world becomes the world goes on”, in Lely and Saunders; the wind crickets … , found, found”: JBR, variation on Pierre Joris, “The Rothenberg Variations”, in Joris’ Barzakh (Joris: “The poems are composed following a detournée +7 method: each poem is fbased on word material (each 7^th word) of the first 15 poems in JR’s first and latest books.” Joris created 15 variations; I simply took bits from each one, in order, adding only an “a”, a set of quotation marks, and a bit by David Hill Radcliffe at the end re: Walter Scott’s The Lay of the Last Minstrel (from http://spenserians.cath.vt.edu/TextRecord.php?action=GET&textsid=7660 Spenser and the Tradition: English Poetry 1579-1830) which echoed in my head because of Joris’ single word “found”. A little homage to PJ and JR); Need I add: JBR; “the ghosts … despondent mold”: Sandra Simonds, “In Reverse Chronological Order, the World Is Formed”, “Come Back!”, “Lincoln Logs”, “Ode to Marriage”, “Young Woman, Prehistoric Mammals Are Not Dinosaurs”, in The Sonnets; Yesterday I consulted … plains of Poland?: Georges Bataille, Guilty (tr. Stuart Kendall); I dreamt of summer … watched over them: Tom Marshall, email rec’d 9 Dec 014 approx 8:48 AM PST; 3 biopsies later: JBR; I’m thinking, on the sidelines … approaching the instrument: Steve Dickison, “Written 1976–2013 by P. Inman”, at http://galatearesurrection23.blogspot.com/2014/12/written-1976-2013-by-p-inman-1.html Galatea Resurrects 23; The animist … barking universe –: Angela Roothaan, “Anim(al)ism”, https://angelaroothaan.wordpress.com/2014/12/06/animalism/ —angelaroothaan, 6 Dec 014; meanwhile, back in Manchester … Osaka every April 14: Nicola Twilley, “Gastropod: Kale of the Sea”, at http://www.ediblegeography.com/gastropod-kale-of-the-sea/ Edible Geography, 9 Dec 014; This action … covert action programs: Senate Select Committee on Intelligence Committee Study of the Central Intelligence Agency’s Detention and Interrogation Program: Executive Summary, at http://www.intelligence.senate.gov/study2014/sscistudy1.pdf Intelligence.Senate.gov; In other words … enemas!: JBR (I can not make this shit up); All these things … Or not again: Bhanu Kapil, “What can I say?”, at http://jackkerouacispunjabi.blogspot.com/2014/12/what-can-i-say.html Was Jack Kerouac a Punjabi?, 7 Dec 014]

9 December 2014

Friday, August 8, 2014

John Bloomberg-Rissman: In the House of the Hangman 1731

[note. The text that follows is a further installment from Bloomberg-Rissman’s epic assemblage, Zeitgeist Spam, a work constructed (almost) entirely, he tells us, from words or sounds appropriated from other writers. In the present instance the over-all source is Barbaric Vast & Wild: An Assemblage of Outside & Subterranean Poetry from Origins to Present, which he & I have recently completed as Poems for the Millennium, volume 5, for publication later this year by Black Widow Press. The subsection of Zeitgeist Spam, “In the House of the Hangman,” itself in multiple installments, derives its title from an essay by Theodor Adorno: “In the house of the hangman one should not mention the noose; one might be suspected of harboring resentment.”]

But it is the mystery that taunts us most: what brought them into that darkness, that becomes long, deep; it widens, extends, narrows. It is a constricted place, a narrowed place, one of the hollowed-out places. It forms hollowed-out places. There are roughened places; there are asperous places. The sky is overcast, the stars are darkened, the celestial expanses quiver, the bones of the earth-gods tremble, his ḥmwst are under his feet, his uraei are on the crown of his head, / Efficient for burning (?); / Who eats their entrails (?), / Even of those who come with their bodies full of magic. Then Saul told his servants find me a woman who can speak with ghosts that I can go to can make her sound her shaman bag can speak through her his servants said well yes there is a woman mistress of the shaman bag at Endor [scream] what [scream] how [scream] what in the world is this [scream] strange new [scream]. And I looked, and, behold, a whirlwind came out of the north, a great cloud, and a fire infolding itself, and a brightness was about it, and out of the midst thereof as the color of amber, out of the midst of the fire. And the likeness of the firmament upon the heads of the living creature was as the color of the terrible crystal, stretched forth over their heads above. And under the firmament were their meshugga wings, take constant notice of the clarity of things, ZEUS (a white flickering) / life-breathing HERA / And I will tell you this: There is no self-nature in anything mortal nor any finality in death’s deconstruction / There is only the merging, change and exchange / Press these things into the pit of your stomach. I came down from my mountain hut into the streets one day to beg food. I stopped where a leper was feeding himself. With his rotted leper’s hand into my bowl he threw a scrap into my bowl as he threw it one of his fingers broke and also fell I simply leaned against a wall and ate I tell you the world is blazing, blazing / the whole world’s in flames / I tell you it’s flared up / the world is shaken / your worlds are shaken / the whole world’s ablaze & the odds have never been easy. An nou there kythed an unco ferlie in heiven – a wuman cleadit i the sun, an the muin wis aneth her feet, an on her heid wis a croun o twal stairns. She wis boukit, an skirlt out wi the sair pyne o her birth-thraws. Than anither ferlie kythed in heiven – a muckle reid draigon, at hed seiven heids an ten horns, an on ilka heid a croun. His tail soopit a third o the stairns frae the lift an cuist them doun on the yird. The Draigon stood fornenst the Wuman at wis about ae bring furth a bairn, ettlin tae wirrie the bairn, whaniver she buir it. She brocht furth a man-bairn, at is weirdit tae hird the nations wi an airn wand; Judas said to Jesus, “Does the human spirit die?” Jesus said, “This is why God ordered Michael to give the spirits of people to them as a loan, so that they might offer service, but the Great One ordered Gabriel to grant spirits to the great generation with no ruler over it — that is, the spirit and the soul. Therefore, the [rest] of the souls [— one line missing —].” “[…] light [— nearly two lines missing —] around […] let […] Then they will fornicate in my name and slay their children and they will […] and [— about six and a half lines missing —] my name, and he will […] your star over the [thir]teenth aeon.” After that Jesus [laughed]. “Truly […] your last […] become [— about two and a half lines missing —], grieve [— about two lines missing —] the ruler, since he will be destroyed. For you are knowledge and ignorance. You are shameless; you are ashamed. You are senseless and you are wise. Which is what happened: Tarafah shed his life as a punctured goatskin sheds its wine. Hoooh! Dierra, Agada, Ganna, Silla! Hoooh! Fasa! They cast themselves in multitudes, like a ram’s fleece upon the ridges of the Boyne.” This is the sense but not the order of the words as he sang them in his sleep. The day I was to depart, I had a bad headache. I called a doctor, but he couldn’t cure me. Then I met a Buddhist Master named Feng-kan. He smiled and said, O my secret’s secret, you have dwindled so much you’re hidden from the thought of the living, and yet a hidden-manifest of you has appeared in all things for all things. After this I saw a very large, round and shady object. It was like an egg, with the top part narrower, the middle part fuller, and the lower part compressed. On the outer edge of this circular object, there was a bright flame which had a darker layer under it. Inside of the fire and the darker layer was a globe of reddish fire which was so great that it lit up the entire inside of the circular object. Above the globe which was inside the circular object, there were three torches which in turn were inside of the fire that was on the outer edge of the circular object. The fourth Wheel is the Chrystaline Pure Corporiety. But there was more: they made me one of them, I sixth among that wisdom company. So we went on as far as the semi-circle light in conversation proper to the place and which now to leave unreported is beautiful. Humans are indeed frightful beings. A large penis is the mark of an idiot. And then the Lama continued: Seek the bird’s, the fish’s path. Lord! A fire is raging without fuel. When the pot falls apart, what do you call it? Numskull! You’ve missed the point. “Language is Delphi.” Mine ears are filled brimful with cries of poor prisoners, Newgate, Ludgate cries (of late) are seldom out of mine ears. Those doleful cries, Bread, bread, bread for the Lord’s sake, pierce mine ears and heart, I can no longer forbear. Wherefore hie you apace to all prisons in the kingdom. Bow before those poor, nasty, lousy, ragged wretches, say to them, your humble servants, sirs (without a compliment), we let you go free and serve you, &c. Do this or (as I live, saith the Lord) thine eyes (at least) shall be bored out, and thou carried captive into a strange land. Loose the bonds of wickedness, undo the heavy burdens, let the oppressed go free, and break every yoke. Deal thy bread to the hungry, and bring the poor that are cast out (both of houses and synagogues) to thy house. Cover the naked: hide not thyself from thine own flesh, from a cripple, a rogue, a beggar, he’s thine own flesh. From a whoremonger, a thief, &c., he’s flesh of thy flesh, and his flesh and whoredom is flesh of thy flesh also, thine own flesh. Thou mayest have ten times more of each within thee than he that acts outwardly in either. Remember, turn not away thine eyes from thine OWN FLESH. I had a golden ring on my hand, and I dropped that ring onto a mirror, which broke into small pieces, Having turned that mirror onto the other side, I found shining glass there also, and likewise a bracelet fell from my hands and broke the other side. In a dream I saw a very old woman, 1500 years old. Her hair was white as snow; she brought me 2 silver belts and a Walachian sausage. We have been dead several thousand years and we have worked a lot, and still we have no peace. We ask you, Send us. We will go on your mission wholeheartedly. I answered them, I have already said that I will make revelation to no man, nor bring any near, nor will I send any on a mission. They asked me, But the signal has already gone out that a great deal of blood will flow in the world, and we want to go and rescue many; only you bless us for the way. I am a prostak, I replied, and cannot make a blessing. They asked me, But you bless your people? I replied, I can say no more than this word: Abraham, Isaac, Jacob and this verse: The angel who delivered me & & ... They said to me, We have a book here in which stand blessings. Bless us with that book; we only ask you that you bless us out loud. They gave me the book which was written in large Hebrew letters without dots. They bent their heads and I, after raising my hands above their heads, blessed them. There were beautiful words there, but I do not remember more than two words that were at the end: “One Lord, one and only Four Lord, Sky Lord would have been in chaos, Sky Lord would have been dark when you were born. Who are you, owner of chaos? Who are you, owner of night? You are in chaos, Great Lord of Days, the eye of the sun was plucked out when you were born.” But in the summer I was with the herd and fell asleep in front of the herd. Two came on reindeer, the bedding of their sledges worn from traveling so long. The hooves of the deer were ground down from galloping. I looked at them and my mind got confused, my body weakened and became like water. I was turned from a strong one into a weak one, fond of sleep, hardly walking in daylight. Poor Tom; that eats the swimming frog, the toad, the tadpole, / the wall-newt and the water; that in the fury of his heart, when / the foul fiend rages, eats cow-dung for sallets; swallows the old / rat and the ditch-dog; drinks the green mantle of the standing / pool; who is whipped from tithing to tithing, and stock- punished, / and imprisoned; who hath had three suits to his back, six shirts / to his body, horse to ride, and weapon to wear; / But mice and rats, and such small deer, / Have been Tom’s food for seven long year. For the doubling of flowers is the improvement of the gardner’s talent. For there is no Height in which there are not flowers. For flowers have great virtues for all the senses. For the warp and woof of flowers are worked by perpetual moving spirits. For flowers are good both for the living and the dead. For there is a language of flowers. For there is a sound reasoning upon all flowers. For elegant phrases are nothing but flowers. For flowers are musical in ocular harmony. And I felt strength enough in me, as though I could crush the world to atoms. I walked up and down the room, and shook the whole house; for I was not myself. I could not stop my fury; words flew too fast to utter against the power of darkness: and I felt in myself power, that I thought, if he was present, that I could tear him to pieces; and should not have feared, had there been ten thousand men and devils before me. So I remain’d with him, sitting in the twisted root of an oak; he was suspended in a fungus, which hung with the head downward into the deep. By degrees we beheld the infinite Abyss, fiery as the smoke of a burning city; beneath us at an immense distance, was the sun, black but shining; round it were fiery tracks on which revolv’d vast spiders, crawling after their prey; which flew, or rather swum, in the infinite deep, in the most terrific shapes of animals sprung from corruption; & the air was full of them, & seem’d composed of them: these are Devils, and are called Powers of the air. I now asked my companion which was my eternal lot? he said, ‘between the black & white spiders.’ (THE SNAKE.) See on the ground, / and motes of dust / With the blooming / And deep shadows (of) the woods, and it rises / By the figtree / ( ) (From) To the rooftops the smoke, (at) near the ancient crown / Achilles died to me / Signifying wherever it lie, (glea) / (gleams) / Not all the Snows could make it white – / Not all the Summers – Green – / You’ve seen the Color – maybe – / It is a mere prejudice that I am a human being. Yet I have often enough dwelled among human beings and I know the things human beings experience, from the lowest to the highest. Among the Hindus I was Buddha, in Greece Dionysus – Alexander and Caesar were incarnations of me, as well as the poet of Shakespeare, Lord Bacon. Most recently I was Voltaire and Napoleon, perhaps also Richard Wagner. … However, I now come as Dionysus victorious, who will prepare a great festival on Earth. … Not as though I had much time. … Ah! The rotting rags; the bread soaked with rain, the drunkenness – Sometimes I see limitless beaches in the sky covered by white nations full of joy. A great golden vessel, above me, waves its multicolored flags in the morning breeze. I’ve created all the feasts, all the triumphs, all the dramas. I’ve tried to invent new flowers; new stars, new flesh, new languages. I believed I’d gained supernatural powers. Ah well! I must bury my imagination and my memories! Sweet glory as an artist and story-teller swept away! Well, I shall ask forgiveness for nourishing myself with lies. Let’s go. G’ganggali ging g’gang, g’gung g’gung! Giigara-Lina Wiiy Rosina. G’ganggali ging g’gang, g’gung g’gung! Then the God Orpheus, the greatest and most powerful of the Spirits, said, Let there be a Star on which we might all find a shelter and an asylum and, as he ordained it, so it was. A planeet named Eearth: a Desert, formless and void: and so far as they could see it was dark: And all the Spirits moved over the water. And then, they arrived on firm ground. Then, God Orpheus said, Let there be light: and there was light. Far above them, a splendid sun sent out its glowing rays vertically down to the earth to them: And before several hours had passed, this last, on a second divine and All-Powerful Word, descended on the horizon and, a gigantic number of brightly shining Staars, brilliant and scintillating, along with the Moon, comets and shadows, stood, or circled around on the blue firmament. And, again on a majestic and All-Powerful Word of the Last, The southern half of all the gigantic and majjestic Creation is my … property. Not only the millions and billions of stars. No!! 500 myriads and one star. … I have traveled through all of them in the year 1868. And now, appalling Ca-tas-tro-phe before God the Holy-Spirit, I am swinging on the hideous rope of the gallows, in cell number 3 of the 5th wing of men. The living Lantern of Ouchy Opera / Cleopatra weds in a palanquin / Fountainebleau / The Quirinal mermaid / The pink pearl of India / Sketch of bank-note / The flowery earth and its work by / The great Victoria saves the rich exiles in Switzerland / Printers of bank-notes / Kaiser Wilhelm II’s love story / The extreme point of mysticism, / I hold it now in the real and in my body, / like a toilet broom. / For me, living man, I am a city besieged by the army of the dead, / Take that, take that, / you didn’t get me out of there yet, / I’m always there no matter what you try to do, / you haven’t defeated me and I have that: / caca, the cream of your … / it is me who gobbles up the cake you made crumb by crumb, / hmm hmm hmm / hmm hmm hmm / hmm hmm hmm / hmm hmm hmm / hmm hmm hmm / so so so si / hmm hmm hmm / hmm hmm hmm / Cayetano García / [He answers “Yes …” She says, “Isn’t that how?” He responds: “Yes, that's it.” She says: “Isn’t that it? Like this. Listen.”] / so so so / so so so / so so so / [“That’s it. Work, work,” exclaims the man.] / hmm hmm hmm / hmm hmm hmm / so so so / hmm hmm hmm / so so so / so so so / si si si / si si si / si si si / so sa sa / si si si / so sa sa sa / hmm hmm hmm / hmm hmm hmm / hmm hmm hmm.