Gray Candy
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If you pay your rent with words: hit the road. You are irrelevant to us in this electrochemically altered shambles of an earth that should never have been but is. Responding to the changes in the landscape: economic epidemiological political. Who owns death internet? In the face of the great digital: this is being written. The sad thing is that no one who really matters will ever read this. Wandering scholars scrabbling through the junk heap of this parody of America. No funds no fellowships no universities no literacy no readership no publishers no society no civilization whatsoever. That is ...
If you pay your rent with words: hit the road. You are irrelevant to us in this electrochemically altered shambles of an earth that should never have been but is. Responding to the changes in the landscape: economic epidemiological political. Who owns death internet? In the face of the great digital: this is being written. The sad thing is that no one who really matters will ever read this. Wandering scholars scrabbling through the junk heap of this parody of America. No funds no fellowships no universities no literacy no readership no publishers no society no civilization whatsoever. That is gone: choked ground under eclipsed starved out suicided scribbled out erased. There is no literature any more. And yet we go on. Because there is nothing else. GRAY CANDY. The vast topdown structure is maladapted. The quality control does not function: it has been corrupted even as it has survived the upstart distribution systems: radio film television. This is the basic divide: corporate quantity pseudolit designed solely to sell and human quality lit which by definition cannot be sold. Anything designed to sell is not literature: it is the excreta of the audiovisual industry and is created and marketed as such. Disposable letters. Poetry has failed so hard so far into this new century because economics of scale cannot be applied to intangible concepts based upon quality. There are some things that cannot be quantified. Jason Price Everett. Living in the myth of the twentyfirst century. Literature was dissolved away by the big takeover commenced long past and done deal now: topdown designer emulations for fluid consumption and easy disposal. Celebrity vanity pop garbage and aging sellout ghosts with their best work behind them. All of the old titans are gone. Best recognize cause we all you got left. This is not a poem. This is a word pattern designed to enter in through the eye and rewrite the mind. The people who read this are the only people who really matter.
