A 5th Museful Miscellany

Postmodernism is like a giant sculpture of a nose in tribute to the human olfactory sense, but made entirely out of freshly emitted human excrement. Only those with no sense of smell whatsoever can appreciate the artist's achievement, and ponder the inventive choice of building material, without ever getting wise to the irony. While anyone with a functioning nose is going to have a hard time believing how truly unintended the irony is.

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Who is this A. Z. Foreman guy that wrote this stupid garbage in a review 3 years ago? I would never have written shite like this! Clearly he has much to learn.

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Shit is like poop. The only way to avoid being full of it, at some point, is to not exist.

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Maybe it's a perverse flipside of so much translation of poetry, but my own poetry is almost relentlessly untranslatable. Everything that makes translators pull their hair out: the extreme wordplay, ambiguity of register and syntax, explicit allusion to cultural phenomena....this I do. Obsessively. 2B or not 2B. Which is my apartment?

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I think when I tell people they're full of shit, what I really mean a lot of the time is "You're so full of Heidegger"

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I loathe any and all versions of "Blood and Soil" ideology. When it infects a dominant group, it mixes with smelly supremacist orthodoxies to form the kernel of Fascism or something kindred to it. (Indeed "Blood and Soil" was originally Blut und Boden.) When a version of it is clung to by a marginalized, subject or, by whatever definition, "indigenous" people, it often becomes one among many intellectual and political drags on the mind which do little good beyond offering comfort in the manner of a mirage


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