"a series of ad hoc permutations, or ruby love-songs" by joshua ware
DESCRIPTION
A Scantily Clad Press E-chapTRANSCRIPT
Scantily Clad Press, 2009
#!/usr/bin/ruby –w
################################################
###############################
# The following program assisted (i.e. did NOT generate) in the creation of
these permutations.
# Furthermore, the permutations herein attempt to, as Deleuze and Guattari
write, “translate,
# transverse, reverse, and return to” the relationship between human creativity
and
# computational processes in order to complicate their “coexistence and
competition in a
# perpetual field of interaction”; they are non-dialectical creations that attempt
to establish an
# alternate plane of immanence, wherein the reductive-contemporary-
dialectical dialogue with
# regard to computational processes and human creativity can shift to and
flourish within the
# framework of the multiplicity and an operative violence: the chaosmos.
#
################################################
##############################
w = Array.new
x = Array.new
for y in 0..41
File.open("Ware#{y+1}.txt", "r") do |z|
w[y] = z.readlines()
x[y] = y
end
end
while true
puts()
for y in 0..13
z = x[rand(x.size)]
puts(w[z][y])
end
sleep(3)
end
Ad Hoc Permutation 1Ad Hoc Permutation 1Ad Hoc Permutation 1Ad Hoc Permutation 1
Methane skulks through a space
framing the picturesque:
a cagey absence.
She was told that legends resonate,
hum high-pitched tones.
Afterward, her weight
teetered before footfalls
and a white-tide baptized
release release
in a drowning pool.
As for the hub of humankind,
limbs heft cigarette ash
and forgotten referents heavenward:
a better way to seek closure.
Ad Hoc Permutation 2Ad Hoc Permutation 2Ad Hoc Permutation 2Ad Hoc Permutation 2
Molten teardrops varnish the coffee table, the phonograph must be replaced
with lasers.
Moored in rip tide, white tide now crimson purl.
Comfortable fantasies splash and foam: coastline breakers.
Shadows cripple her twilight and give time a slight reprieve; with handshakes
and cobwebbed yarns, they hum folklore and fables.
Her body is skeptical of my motivations.
Ad Hoc Permutation 3Ad Hoc Permutation 3Ad Hoc Permutation 3Ad Hoc Permutation 3
She paints the city with a widening aperture,
breathes and releases me.
Burning-skin chills
frozen breakers
sliced from the whelp’s empty cry.
Slide away through the foreground,
she says, the conditions are finally desirable.
We deliver life at a slumbered-pace,
calling, calling,
while conifers suffocate
somewhere between
synthesizer breath and what came before.
Direction, direction; again, again;
she magnets me to my portrait.
Ad Hoc Permutation 4Ad Hoc Permutation 4Ad Hoc Permutation 4Ad Hoc Permutation 4
08) “There is no such thing as a…there is no such thing as a…”
In an effort to replicate legends that singe neon signs, she cries away young
ones never remembered.
I am driftwood: an ephemeral music. Or I and I and I: an inside made of
cigarette ash.
She looks beyond sight, she resonates.
Ad Hoc Permutation 5Ad Hoc Permutation 5Ad Hoc Permutation 5Ad Hoc Permutation 5
Tell my family I am
spliced from the past
with empty fingertips.
Little toes, little toes
creep to corners
with a tin foil pipe.
During the drought
her rain forgets
breakdowns
and bounds through
a new American landscape.
Consider space
as a song colliding
through binary bodies.
Ad Hoc Permutation 6Ad Hoc Permutation 6Ad Hoc Permutation 6Ad Hoc Permutation 6
As if she could slice computer screens from treetops, a digital gossamer and a
paint-by-number country, the sound of her dreams awakes distended.
She regards herself as an echo washed with lipstick-stained cigarette butts and
hurricane antecedents cast across memory and found upon the strand.
The sound of things, sometimes, is all that matters.
The shape of things, sometimes, is all that matters.
Ad Hoc Permutation 7Ad Hoc Permutation 7Ad Hoc Permutation 7Ad Hoc Permutation 7
With a swelling mistaken for fullness,
she opens herself to the parlor.
Rivulets of water
swallow adagios.
Rather than music, dreams.
What is silence? Who knows silence?
A forgetfulness.
She knows what silence is: brittle fingers
winter wallow in drunken footfalls,
drinking them from the ocean.
An answer entwines in thought,
a song bleeds through her body.
A space once meant for canopied beds
will swallow our harmonies whole.
Ad Hoc Permutations 8Ad Hoc Permutations 8Ad Hoc Permutations 8Ad Hoc Permutations 8
She channels thoughts through slumber: arterial, distributive, contained. Pacing,
pacing a sleeping heart moored in rip tide,
the white-tide now a crimson purl,
puddles erupt in watery flames.
And so she sings:
I had bodies, lots of bodies, moving, moving, continually adrift. I ate the ghost
lost in contours.
Ad Hoc Permutation 9Ad Hoc Permutation 9Ad Hoc Permutation 9Ad Hoc Permutation 9
Methane skulks
between the space
of thought and slumber,
paces a rhythm
of her sleeping heart:
a constant stream
of Virginia
echoing white-curdle tide.
How long have I slept? Too late, too late.
Magnetism hollows
baby-boomers,
encloses them
in candy-coated
measurements.
Ad Hoc Permutation 10Ad Hoc Permutation 10Ad Hoc Permutation 10Ad Hoc Permutation 10
China carries water-baskets to my mother in a candy-coated tenement.
"an experiment, a repetition"
China carries water-baskets to my mother in a candy-coated tenement.
The land of Sheba melds with Virginia, chasing one another into a neo-Gothic
Revival.
Gables stare hollow-eyed into theory.
Chase the echo, the echo repeats:
Until I die there will be sounds.
Ad Hoc Permutation 11Ad Hoc Permutation 11Ad Hoc Permutation 11Ad Hoc Permutation 11
02) Her diaphragm, overlapped, catches light inside leaves
lifts eighty tons
of ornate lattice work
and draws intricate shadows
with a tin foil pipe.
Breakdown becomes, entrenches classic form.
Computer screens
become amplifiers
and collapse binary waterfalls,
even for the vanished
and words left behind:
letters gone adrift
where cathodes collided
and the city does not sing.
Ad Hoc Permutation 12Ad Hoc Permutation 12Ad Hoc Permutation 12Ad Hoc Permutation 12
Her stretch marks consider space: landscape within windows.
And from the parlor, adagios carry water-baskets to her echo, echo.
I and I and I: time signatures.
Ad Hoc Permutation 13Ad Hoc Permutation 13Ad Hoc Permutation 13Ad Hoc Permutation 13
If my whelp’s temperament had been
a breath and released me
into mother’s silken lining,
she would have awoken
to flesh from wood.
Instead, she awakes, reduces, then expands:
a smiling reminder trapped in time that everything becomes
compact.
Fathoms below a sea change,
a sea quake. Ivory purl
dances for the moon, shines pale, liquid and fluid.
The anechoic chamber remains without
while the echo goes chasing, goes chasing.
14) And the wind turns into an emblem.
Ad Hoc Permutation 14Ad Hoc Permutation 14Ad Hoc Permutation 14Ad Hoc Permutation 14
The shape of things lingers in the parlor. An echo, faint, reflects back in
railheads built from white-tide and roses. Crescent-shaped paint-drops circle
her penciled-hand, residue and mapped memories. Shadows grasp, gasp,
engineer themselves into obsolescence: blue collars and rusted beds. Common
freight breaks
open space with nothing to say.
Ad Hoc Permutation 15Ad Hoc Permutation 15Ad Hoc Permutation 15Ad Hoc Permutation 15
If every object
hums for capital
down brambled sidewalks
you are you:
Quasimodoed toiling, toiling.
An ephemeral music crosses her.
A sound accomplishes nothing, she says.
Somewhere between
the honky-tonk and her body
cigarette ash sings.
As if it is a continuation
of luster: a dream-hue:
that hum above,
that hum above.
Ad Hoc Permutation 16Ad Hoc Permutation 16Ad Hoc Permutation 16Ad Hoc Permutation 16
As if she could slice syrup with her tongue, down the depths a drowning pool.
Little teeth gnaw at bedposts, the mechanics of treetops.
Without them, life would not last out an instant, says the city.
Ad Hoc Permutation 17Ad Hoc Permutation 17Ad Hoc Permutation 17Ad Hoc Permutation 17
The ghost a memory,
your face your body
scented with fresh cut air
is all that matters.
Or to unfound a nation,
an obelisk packaged
with common freight,
helpless between parlor games
and hallucinations.
Breakdown becomes, entrenches classic form.
As if it is a continuation
of luster: a dream-hue:
that hum above,
that hum above.
Ad Hoc Permutation 18Ad Hoc Permutation 18Ad Hoc Permutation 18Ad Hoc Permutation 18
Some experiments alter thought, or it was the thought that thought her possible:
these little matters leveling importance into floorboards and daydreams.
Eyelids took slow kisses. Whistles. Wishes. A logic untouched and alone,
buoyed.
10) She dilates. She contracts. She whistles. She echoes.
12) She writes anagrams and listens for a message in white noise.
Around her neck, light stains her skin, echoes.
Ad Hoc Permutation 19Ad Hoc Permutation 19Ad Hoc Permutation 19Ad Hoc Permutation 19
Walden was a symbol:
foreign fissures,
a voice of lightening,
cigarette ash,
a cagey absence.
What was neutral splashed and foamed: coastline breakers.
Or her Cambridge breath
undoes red entwined with blue
and blue entwined with red.
As if it is a continuation
of luster: a dream-hue:
that hum above,
that hum above.
I am a crematorium.
Ad Hoc Permutation 20Ad Hoc Permutation 20Ad Hoc Permutation 20Ad Hoc Permutation 20
She unwinds strands of twine doubled around Parisian thoroughfares.
Methane syrups her tongue into an ornate lattice-work that sings intricate
shadows of jagged hips, phantom limbs, and dyslexic names.
An industry for the camera is not an industry of song, but a half-way point
where her lips burnish, wrinkle, and sweeten.
She knows the shape of things.
She knows what silence is:
Joshua Ware Joshua Ware Joshua Ware Joshua Ware lives in Lincoln, NE. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in
many journals, most recently in Caketrain, Dislocate, Laurel Review, Hayden's
Ferry Review, New American Writing, Packingtown Review, and Phoebe. He is
the co-author of I, NE: Iterations of the Junco (Small Fires Press, 2009) and the
author of the forthcoming chapbook Excavations (Further Adventures Press,
2009).
Cover by Jad Fair
Scantily Clad Press, 2009