Message-ID: <Pine.NEB.4.44.0204190113400.6829-100000@panix3.panix.com>
From: Alan Sondheim <sondheim@panix.com>
To: Cyb <cybermind@listserv.aol.com>,
"WRYTING-L : Writing and Theory across Disciplines" <WRYTING-L@LISTSERV.UTORONTO.CA>
Subject:
Date: Fri, 19 Apr 2002 01:13:52 -0400 (EDT)
i love my machines :sawgrass slides one way, cuts another. sawgrass inscribes itself on retinal matrices. it says 'sondheim, there is nothing to look at.' it says, 'sondheim, you will have nothing to see.' i hide behind tender matrices of digital format and rastered resolutions inscribed with rectilinear coordinates. sawgrass says, 'sondheim, this is your imaginary.' sawgrass says, 'inscribe yourself.':liguus fasciatus verge everywhere. i live hammock-snails. immobile, untouchable, fragile, over fifty forms. worlds-creating against polluted waters cleansed by cattail-marsh. my machines allow me to see beneath every surface. inside my surface i am dirty dirty dirty. i run in shame from liguus fasciatus, hammock-snails. i do not touch them / touch myself. i pick my face to ruin. i cannot bear my face.:i am so poor i love my machines. years ago i built my machines. i wear machines hide my insecurity / my stupidity / my unoriginality. i wear machines hide my weakness / my shame / my embarrassment. my machines say 'sondheim is not a pariah.' i am run by my machines in this direction. it is winter-season and my machines run me. my machines take me places. they move my body. they pleasure my mind. my machines do not say shame shame shame. my machines do not say regret every day. my machines empty me into them. shame shame we do feel nothing.:5.5megapixel: 2.1megapixel 3.3megapixel 1megapixel 5.5megapixel i am so poor i love my machines. years ago i built my machines. i wear machines hide my insecurity / my stupidity / my unoriginality. i wear machines hide my weakness / my shame / my embarrassment. my machines say 'sondheim is not a pariah.' i am run by my machines in this direction. it is winter-season and my machines run me. my machines take me places. they move my body. they pleasure my mind. my machines do not say shame shame shame. my machines do not say regret every day. my machines empty me into them. shame shame we do feel nothing. replace your sawgrass slides one way, cuts another. sawgrass inscribes itself on retinal matrices. it says 'sondheim, there is nothing to look at.' it says, 'sondheim, you will have nothing to see.' i hide behind tender matrices of digital format and rastered resolutions inscribed with rectilinear coordinates. saw grass says, 'sondheim, this is your imaginary.' sawgrass says, 'inscribe yourself.' red-winged-blackbird _