Bilious George, the cantankerous little outline man, has a great idea. Put up some more junk, an immovable feast for the flies. Excess content. Filler. Leftovers. Consumed and then it comes back up. It’s filler but it’s made to be consumed anyway. Soy, carrageenan, cellulose. Largely indigestible. Saying it’s fake trivializes the extent that progress is dependent on cheaper replacements. Cheapening is an alterative to higher pay. Inflation paranoia has infiltrated all politics, left and right.I suffer from terrible reflux. Like Ezra Pound’s Cantos, time is scrambled up and regurgitated. A cheap replacement for now, where now could be a revolutionary moment in history, a time to make history as a deliberate act, not an old thing hanging around in crusty documents, shopworn mythos gobbling up a plate of tradition. Leftovers are a suspicious symbol bearing the weight of overabundance but it is mostly among the middle and adjacent classes that leftovers are a sign of accumulation, a kitchen ripe for the conditions of overproduced potatoes and green beans so the entire family can bear witness to the fruits of wage labor. Worked so hard so we can each have a pie! The rich, on the other hand, not only throw out food on purpose, as an excess that is not to be reserved itself as a symbol, but as symbolic excess, the overabundance as a matter of disposal, a choice, an invisible remonstration as inarticulate as it is ignored. I’m going to be sending you an email on the matter soon. Email is a kind of disposal. Gather up reactions, corrupted thoughts on the thing at hand, choose a chute, and send it off. Good. I’ve less to think about. Scroll past it. TL; DR. Good. It was in a foreign language, an object sullied and discolored on the oversaturated screen: poetry, a means for nonsense to pretend it can overcome the obvious, the dead ideas reproducing themselves as the basis of reality, a reality only those in pathological denial would say, ‘I’ve lost interest.’ Canned in guts, 100% preservation, kept isolated, a large dose, con carne, so juicy, the taste is locked in, tanker trucks pumping maximum sodium intake, forming a pillar in the gut, don’t look into the gut of the can, which I can be. As a matter of disposal. Leftovers are saved. Saved in the belief that they have a future. A future at the table one or two days later. Or the rest will be scooped out into the garbage bin.
