Februaury 2021
Monroe Marigold

Mortified in the mix, mold 
Drifting components, contemplate hold
How the workings, ain’t quite
Ever gonna be complete, how they’re not
Gonna be contained, sorts shake 

World become a million breaks
Fragmented, dreamlike, rush
Gush over brink, post Monsoon drip
Find me in-the-us-of-the-in-between, beat
Singularity-being as plural-become, fuck 

Waking to nightmare of One
All capitalized in its interanlized idiocy
The Self-made mandate bleeds languid language
Misery over mercy, reproduction over pause
Operativity over that of its opposite fact

The sewage sapped in the leaking truth
Dripping forth like a slow hell
Years & years & years & years of chemical discharge
Statuesque forms congeal, incongruous 
Holds lanky lie of something like Lincoln

How lovely that the wind opens it
All the same, the breaking rage of truth
Moonshine make Appalachian night
Drifting, falling leaves
Tend to bounce and weaves, flaccidity be-cum

Home here is the crack-up, the break
Piled fragments, shifting trees
Rotten oak stacking, mycellium rhizomes interlaced
The discarded shells of energy spent
Circling back, never what signified the individual’s heed

Fuck a feed back loop
Again I say, complete not contained in form
Nor in a contemplated concretion of mind’s eye
Leaf’s drop, initiates an end as rotation
An opening of whatever-becoming, difference home
Wind forever cracks the lie of totality

This cycle linked to a current of something
Beyond control, capture and calculated causation
Despite sad petri dishes, empty texts books
Mad Musk’s, Bezo’s and Fauci’s of this cruel world
Institutions aim to steal: internally & externally

Ego made me do it, information and validation
Driven hellscape of narcissistic landscape, world is not
Something in which science holds or egos or
Simulated likes curtail into becoming mesh webs
Cybernetics calls, code human to neoliberal machine

Simulacra of spectating as participation, blinks me in screen
Blinds eye, fills pause as counter-insurgency 
Movement, yes, fuck. fell into the hell of technocratic Capitalism
with codes, kinks, and cybernetic links
Raptured moths to incessant glowing screen

Let me tell you now about the eye
Need to bring this all back to me, & eggs & egos
Me & me & me & me & me & me & me & me & me & 
Me individualized seen as radical yet built coded and packaged
In conduits capitalistic westernism, by the fuck all 

Neoliberal citizenry, fuck yeah
I get to open my pores and gates
Gushing all ways, so what of excess of I and not
The breaking collision of so many me’s
Gone hope lose yourself in another, love and revolt

When you can only see and feel the world
Through focus on self, lacking a relation to world
Means you are not truly in yourself, or the world,
Self lie destroyed in space and multiplicity, distance
Erodes misconception selfhood, find plurality of being

In this world, with this world
Stake not taken exclusively
Lines of flight, Franciscans come back to something left
Owing all had to duty that was not their own
Monastic missions burn in the night

It is the obedience to duty
Inklings edge towards communes in flight, pre-cummunism 
(never singularized as such to the individuation)
Fuck you cage, city, little death, cop body and head
Ancient copulations brinking towards a capture of the communal drip
Drop, I lick the pavement after the rain

Like breaking a window when one feels pain
Destituting separation in its forms, rush
Gush reminds me of a linkage lost in the Sonoran
Water and desert and sense of self and commune
Speak of presence, a relation to multiplicity

Seek something like a mixture of torrent and sand
The-I-awaits-the-we, in the washes of commune – time
Wind-swept dunes, deserted monastic deserts
Home not a place, a shared ethical position, relational
Understanding perspective is the pluralism of life

Aim beckons beyond arenas of constituent power
Constitued by the institutions which aim to hold it
Create it, circulate it as all one has, yet
A match and friction, yet a heart murmered organ still beats, yet
A life loves more than itself tells another tale, we is complete 


  In this floating world with its cargo of brutality, there are many things that want to be said. Living & Fighting will say a few of them. It is a necessarily rude gesture in cyberspace, hopefully exceeding it. This excess is our desire and its refusal to settle into an automatic life.

  L&F circulates a multiplicity of fragments from the so-called Southwest.

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