BathHouse Journal

David Buuck

Clearing a Space in the Frequency Jungle

What a century
for digits — the tips
of these fingers
tattooed w/
decimal points
serving not
as endstops
but as pressure
points for inter-
faces to face
the screenfield
& press down
against the pulsing
stubs of some far-
away othersomes
whose hands
hardwired
my machine
tho I can’t feel
her skinprints
through the plastics
that will end
up afloat
in the ocean
that lies
between us

like a container
ship loaded
with cool ranch
microchips RFID’d
to the longshoremen’s
debit card

It’s this vision
of numbers
traipsing down
the screen
as we cram
into the seats
of the home
theater system
having paid
$89.99 a month
to watch time
unravel
to a beat
we call clock

Dancing along
to what I hate
most in my shelf
of cultured goods
sweatin’ out the
contradicitons
as the beer
cans tumble
somebody live
streams the scene

But I just don’t
have the band-
width to handle
that right now
even as I spin
the ipod wheel
till I find Off
the Wall, street-
moves commence
down on the sticky
screaming —
We love you
Michael Jackson.
              Don’t afraid.

              But I could bare 
                -ly hear we
                          over the shoulds 
         & should nots
                               of the blogosphere

              the entirety of
which was           literarily
              sitting in the orange armchair
                         discarded outside
              the Oakland Museum

Boots.   Trampled grass.     Breaks between raids.

              Tis but a ruckus or a ruction
              Til the riot act’s declared
              The fluid mass called crowd
              It pours and spreads
              Sluices and swells
              Gushes, trickles, & overflows
              It creeps & crawls, meanders & slips
              Waddles, loiters, lumbers & slides.

As affects are effects
Did not mean
to feel that
way back
on on on — hashtag tomorrow

When all’s I want
is a temporary autonomous bouncy house
with a tinfoil canopy
so as to clear
              a space
              in the frequency — jungle

and block the NSA
from organizing my archives
provisionally titled A History
                         of Dustbins.

While I’m inside   /   hitting the refresh button
             @ http://isoaklandburning.com

             where so much depends
                          on the chainlink fence
                                       enclosing the plaza

                               * * * * *
but not not not asynchronically jesterly —
not not not that guy, that t-shirt, that banner add-on —
not not not double-clicking on twinkle-finger icons —
not not not dude, cool ranch, really? I thought I said —
not not not soft snitch riot porn platforming —
not not not twitter wars as politics by other memes —
not not not your swabs, my spit, your DNA — machine —
not not not cross-linking my data capabilities to my forearm with a sharpie —
not not not the gluten-free wheat-paste contingency plank —
not not not oh,   here   come   the   puppets —
not not not ours or theirs — ?

              the glitter bloc
              at the docks
                          inside the picket
                          black flags
                          gone rainbow

              on a map
              it’s all vectors
                          from staging
                          ground to
                          skirmish line

              the riot
              as rejection
                          of existing
                          forms of
                          mediation

              the riot
              as crisis
                          of legitimation
                          come home
                          to roust

              Never underestimate
                          the power

              of the black
                          monochrome

              stretched tight
                          across a frame

              or hanging from
                          a wooden stick

                          Cuz the revolution
                          will not
                          be funded

                          But fueled
                          by a stolen car battery
                          powering the mobile
                          sound system

                          & & & — No,

              you accumulate me — or it does,
              tallies my debt   	burden
              in future     labor    time
              I literally owe you my life,
              or owe it, or whatever machine
              licks the time stamp 
              & stamps the ink, or oil
              since I filled my printer 
              w/ top-shelf petroleum
              to make a, y’know, a statement?
              like smashing the copy machine
              cuz we come from the movies
              to invest in plywood futures

cuz the shop window  
              shows me the goods 
              just as it reflects my image
                          back at my looking

30% off. 
3.9 APR. 
19 loading bays.
15 million dollars.
405 arrests.
Four one five
	      Two eight five
                          Ten eleven.

& so tomorrow 
              I will join 
              the poets

& the day after
              I will leave them

& the day after that
              begins the clean up

              & the rethink
              & the revamp

                                                         & the day after that 
                                                       & the night after that 
                                                         & the day after that 
                                                       & the night after that 
                                                         & the day after that 
                                                       & the night after that 



David Buuck is a writer who lives in Oakland, CA. He is the founder of BARGE, the Bay Area Research Group in Enviro-aesthetics, and co-founder and editor of Tripwire, a journal of poetics (tripwirejournal.com). Recent publications include SITE CITE CITY (Futurepoem, 2015) and An Army of Lovers, co-written with Juliana Spahr (City Lights, 2013). A Swarming, A Wolfing is forthcoming from Roof Books in 2016. More at davidbuuck.com