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Flawed Transcript

This is the first time I thought that I might not make it out alive... just never been this depressed ...it's like I can't even describe it without sounding melodramatic I feel like I can't breathe it's not just like an absence of feeling like i feel like I'm being selfish and it's icy and the versus when people try and help me because then I feel like it's like I'm like trapped in ice glass or under this great black ice in the shining lights that are trying to get through they're really trying but they're so close but i'm so far away from them even though i'm only like 10 feet I really don't want to die I don't want to do it on so costa so fast

Dream Song #7

The scent of death is rarely mistakeable.  The first time I recall it was a black, humid waft from the lips of an artist I knew, a cancer-ridden man with a horrible waxen pallor.

I picture it as something mold-black, spores injected into a tube of yellow paint, always a contamination, always wet and slow.

Sometimes it is a red stench tinged with Black--angry and rancid-- meat crying out from a recently slaughtered pig, or the hot viscera pulled and discarded from a still-warm chicken

My dreams have been injected with this trace.  There is nothing to do to fight it. When I sleep more, it is there,

Dream Song #6

Every night I sleep too deeply,  entering a lower realm.   A great hollowness starts in the center of my head, spreads outward.  It is a heavy hollowness that consumes me. The inside of a cloak of bone--a feeling not relieved by aspirin, or any medication.  My body is my fate.  It contains museums full of genes that lay dormant for years.  Each gene the hero of its own arc. Helixes and proteins, folding elegantly, a drama in miniature.  I am a minor actor in a faerie play that is not my own.
Horrible workers are being born and dying by the hour in this factory-museum.  
Dreams are faint glimpses through the window.  They are cloaked, as if I can not bear to see them in full color.  All I can see is scurrying, infernal activity.  Blood pulses, hearts

The Sick and the Damned

“It occurred to me that there was no difference between men, in intelligence or race, so profound as the difference between the sick and the well.”--F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby"Name me someone that's not a parasite and I'll go out and say a prayer for him"-- Bob Dylan, "Visions of Johanna"


The Sick and the Damned

If capitalism must necessarily produce its own exterminating angel, it produces a germinal form of this downfall in its spectres--those potentialities and excluded possibilities that haunt it.  One of these spectres is illness.  Capitalism cannot help but produce illness as a form of physical and mental alienation.  Communicative capitalism/financial capitalism has only accelerated the deterioration of both the social body and of individual bodies spasming in the whirlwind. This piece of writing is both a call for action (of many kinds) and a tactic in-and-of-itself--the venerated worker’s tactic of a slowdown.  It is a call for actions that…

Dauer

I am a worm in winter.  Inside--sickly- sweet sap for blood. It’s embalming fluid, it shuts me down. My voice is brittle, my hair is brittle, I am prone to cracking.   Fragility is damned and beautiful.  I speak my brittle voice as if from behind a layer of glassine, or glass.   My heart pumps slow and heavily, driving the winter sap through my body. Something heavy lies resigned in my veins.   On the window- panes, chrystals waltz slowly, accumulating stasis.  I am the inside of a cell in a whale’s blubber.  I am someplace so deep in the ocean that light has to work to get there.

Dream Song #5

My veins are heavy, filled with lead and ice, burning with the sharp tongue of dense metals. The flame that cannot be quenched is a demonic flame-- that which is eternal is unnatural.  The smell of formaldehyde  accompanies.  Dust lays on all the surfaces in the house.  
You could say I’m scared, but it’s simply a sensation--cold water where my heart should be, slower pumps as I walk toward it.  The metal is dull, the wood worn.  The wood is like all the wood in the house.  My heart slows as I walk toward it.   There’s a whine in the air, cutting electric.  But so’s everything.  I don’t