The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive

September 25, 2006

Gzipped Internet Text file

The file was assembled, as below; URLs were eliminated - most of them are out 
of date. This should create little difficulty (perhaps some slight formatting 
problems). The gzipped file is 5.9 megabytes and opens to 16 megabytes. This is 
the entire text to date in a more or less searchable form.

   861  ls *.txt
   862  grep -h -v http net* > texts
   863  grep -h -v http Blood.txt >> texts
   864  grep -h -v http Weather.txt >> texts
   865  grep -h -v http Uncanny.txt >> texts
   866  grep -h -v http Fantasm.txt >> texts
   867  grep -h -v http ?.txt >> texts
   870  grep -h -v http ??.txt >> texts
   882  gzip texts.txt


as older

as older i grow, the crystalline world crystallizes,
my brain harpoons through silicon and salts, membranes torn,
shrunk, fissured, cleft; i burn those wounds with theory,
language stitched, sutured, mouth speaking tongues,
barely a rhythm left, semen slips on its own time, space
imagines healing until unhealing, lips parted, cliffed
memories and recitals, i learn to veer away. until memory
returns, harsh, making no difference to others,
alive. by then i am gone as the world's cleft teeters,
sore, sworn without me, by then, there is then then, hard,
and obdurate. i cannot mouth, dirt, names are that river
of worlds, known, unraveled, soaked, drowned in mind only,
born in mind only, death's whisper of a certain afternoon,
moaned, muted, towards no one or other, i make, am, fluid,
borne stones, cairn, already futured past, memorial. they
have not grown, old, nor young, they have not grown


The U.S. beast all over the world now behead it. The U.S. imperialists
rape and slaughter, and now the young men and women of this beloved
country, at our head, will march as before, onwards and wounded, their
skin on fire, their tongues cut out with prayer. And yes, when I rise into
the air my head swells and fills all heavens like a monsoon, like a
monstrosity, like a monotreme, so that when I'm running it's crazy, my
head presses into my toes! Now it's death of birth and the denouement of
soft-spoken life. When I'm running it's crazy, my head presses so high
into the sky, monster! monster! imperialist! I will cut my head off, and
when I rise into the air my head swells and fills all heavens like a
monomaniac, like a monad. All over again it's the Atomic Energy Agency.
The President nods his head; someone will cut it off, feel the blade
against the neck snapping, sinking the brainless mass back into the spine,
he's got a filthy head. Oh, you already know that when I'm running it's
crazy, my head presses into my toes, my head presses so hard, they will
flay my skin, take my eyes, someone else had better look at this
landscape, there's a hole in my head.

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