ULA Director’s Manifesto #1 We come hungry, sharp teeth bared for literary feast. The wine and the new literature (ours). Academic jargoneers grow dusty on our plates. Where is the sweet universe in all her wretched beauty? We want deliverance from her. We want to become her. Fancy this, my friends, Modernism isn’t dead, it lives in the belly of Bill Blackolive. A handlebar mustache greased with language, sweet syllables. They drip, simmering holy words, into the Texas sand and wash away into the ocean. Breton: “That madness or the other.” We are the mad and we are in love but pick no madness in particular (the dagger comes too close to the scalp). Instead, we have eaten of Beats Punk (Zines) 60’s Surrealism Situationism Modern/Postmodernism Etc. They dissolve in the stomach and become a new energy. The energy: Zeen. KILL DEAD LITERARY FORMS. We ignite with typing, ask questions later. We have become the carnival and the carnival plays our songs We’re a psychic café. We’ve come to play and play the word.