We only ever think an acre of the anima-mundi

in the dead of night. Like morning mist,

  thought evaporates into ourselves as the sun rises

       and the world reads out the register,

demanding that we say: yes, when our names are called.

   We only ever tell the truth to silence

and when we do, even the silence is dismayed.

Dead zones of the imagination: On violence, bureaucracy, and interpretive labor.

http://eprints.lse.ac.uk/53222/1/Graeber_Dead_zones_imagination_2012.pdf

Amanda Lynn

There's a bird in my hair
there's a bird in my hair

there's a bird in my hair 
and I just don't CARE.

Nobody knows about the tub

of peanut butter concealed

up my nose. Until I sneeze and it's

ejected at such a velocity

that it brings them to their knees.

Bird in my hair
I just don't dare
peanut butter in my nose
soup in all my clothes
I have a pair of gloves
and beef
lots of beef.

The beef has a belief

and a thousand and one eyes

and plenty of teeth.

What does the beef believe

and why does it stare?

Nobody knows because it's

just not there, its hiding

with the peanut butter

and the bird, up my nose and

in my hair.

April 27. Incapable of living with people, of speaking. Complete immersion in myself, thinking of myself. Apathetic, witless, fearful. I have nothing to say to anyone - never.  

       - Franz Kafka, Diaries of Franz Kafka 

barbara kruger