ANONYMOU[S] is a brief series of texts submitted, read, and published anonymously, with the agreement of the author not to reveal themself.
Monologue for the Pont de Passy, delivered from the Pont de Bir-Hakeim
The magic columns of these palaces
Show to the amateur on all sides,
In the objects their porticos display,
That industry is the rival of the arts.
– NOUVEAUX TABLEAUX DE PARIS (PARIS, 1828), VOL. 1, P. 27
This for the chalk track, this—for the mutterers and putterers. The punters of L’Atalante aloof of the reel. And the puttering. The eels in the water, beneath the rails and the chalk track, fled in advance the estranged desert legions. Beneath the rails, the chalk track. Beneath, the late master-builder, glass-painter. Your Merovingian legions muttering all the way to that ridiculous meander to Saint-Denis. As ridiculous as “besides, she’ll come back one day.” She comes back one day. It flows out. And comes back in just above the head. Some day atop the rail called column. The Greek refrain. But we are so modern. With our lovely Japonisme. Iron-worker, late you came to the architect in the robe of your lesser hotel. At your ankles I could see a good, strong thing. Something like; the end of the Christocracy in the gaps between your girders. Like Mary in my coffee, like, Jesus! frothing at the shore. I could bury my face in your blouse as the metro passed into Passy: how the blocks converge on Passy like estranged legions!
Ontario Émigrés
Formally speaking I have no ambitions. In this way I am like my colleagues (I am at the cotty with my colleagues). I invent some names for my colleagues: I call them Senka Zlip, Gerhundt Blapt, M. Guzmán, Appelhet. Out on the water I call the water language. At the cotty I run my hand over the surface of the language. Waves with crenulated peaks. From great height I hear it feels like concrete. The weather is whatever the weather is and something redundant also too. M. Guzmán is soliciting bets on the weather again. I am speaking metaphorically here: at the cotty out on the water with my colleagues I read a math textbook. I read it like a poem. Appelhet is driving the boat. We get wet, what with the holes and all and do not adhere to maritime law.
Qualia
I ate the pickled buds of flowers. I observed my drunkenness drunkenly. The distance between ‘the’ and ‘a.’ The scent would break over me like a wave.
A sigh.
New technologies of breath would let us braid ‘the’ with ‘a.’ A lexicon, a gutter, the figure, the ether even reached its hand out toward me also. The distance between ‘the’ and ‘a.’ A sense begot by staring at a wall. I had entered a covenant with the wall.
The voiced dental fricative. A sigh.
The corporate body distended with drink. Our types touched and wriggled at the friction. My tongue slid over your tongue. My tongue was a technology for talking about our tongue.
A sigh.
The liquids I drank were liquid. My face was a technology for transmitting my face. I was drinking someone else’s drink. The money was never mine.
The voiced dental fricative. A sigh.
Arms around me wriggling in lime along with the whitefish and clams. No dazzle could obscure the fact the dazzle of a fact: we were mutually so thankful that the other had reached out.
minor literature[s] 