|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
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
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
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.