SÉBASTIEN BERNARD / 3 POEMS
Prayers
An artist is first and foremost a butcher, who sews themselves to eat
And susceptible in matters of life choice
One melancholy bid for authenticity under capitalism is to pronounce those things at which we suck
An unhealthy attachment to the beautiful
Can’t cook to save my life, says A
Drink your milk and stare at the moon—B—same moon when you can’t sleep, same moon Maria Callas died under, 53, or Nicanor Parra, 103, or Ali Hariri, 70, that makes the carpet buzz with unnamable feelings
On which the child writes his telephone number
In the foyer of his mother’s house, where Parra kept those of his children, who was 31 when
WWII ended, survived Pinochet’s junta of 20 years—outliving the dictator by 10—and in his old age began transcribing what children said around him, one of them his grandson Cristobal, who would not answer to his name anymore in class because overnight it had become Hamlet
I solemnly swear never to be sad again, and to only cry tears of total devotion
Anarchy is total devotion, God you, when your heart comes with everything
Every living creature is a drag queen
And why do you, manatee, have such small hands? Many have written about you, but to write is not to care
The difference in the (perceived) laws that govern matter from a distance vs. up-close is also true of sadness: too close and it resembles the quantum jitter, irreconcilable and alone—at a distance adheres in gravity, fight/flight that every day light is returned becomes tenderness, DNA—less numerous in seq-uence than the genome project originally dreamt—updating inside the bone structure and neuroplasticity of oppression; the most humongous emotional bonds possible—love in the belly of the whale, doused and womb-like—weight of world, tug of sisterhood
I love the mad because they are mad
In our language the agency of rightful rage (n.) turned static (adj.): i.e. “stationary electric charge”
I wake in a fashion after my father
Have trouble giving up pain that’s not mine
For a while as a kid I thought writers had to know all the names of flowers—like the ones you’re taught in college or a free seminar funded by the Religious Association for Coffin Carnations (or RACC)—so I couldn’t be a writer
The rest, I suppose my child-self supposed, was easy enough
Know all the names and calibers of guns, like Manchette or Christie
No, Sankara or Sabaté Llopart
White man ambulance, no one told me I could title a poem, or The innocent don’t have what it takes where love’s in(de)finite consequences are concerned eat your stars ok? in the night the mind is a penitent sculptor welcome home we mi-
A friend once told me Melancholia was about sadness and the end of the world, but can it be both?, and if we’re not ecstatic by the terrifying finale of that sev-eral-hour comedy about the power games of the rich unraveling, business and marriage relations collapsing—each soul endowed with momentary gut or in-sight or indifference or ritualism in the face of death—then is our sadness even worth it?
A cathedral for the houseless with all-night (automated) room service provided by (night-chronotype) chefs
To get what they want one must take what they need, which requires changing everything
The rain, the truth like a bloated fish descended from the sky, marked with graphs and numbers of the stock exchange
and the world’s depreciating
currencies / debt goes
up so $ goes up
so prices go up so prices go
up so prices go up so prices go up so prices go
up so prices go up so prices go up [ and that’s
before the war: ]
Why’d bread go
up daddy? Coz wheat went
up son. Why’d wheat go up? Coz $ went up so costs for fertilizer & fuel went up. Why’d $ go up? Coz we owe lots of $$$ son. Why do we owe lots of $_$_ daddy? Becoz we borrowed $ to make things [then didn’t raise interest rates to invite investment in ₺] Why can’t we make $? Only Uncle Sam can make $. He can make $ and have his rich Nephews (banks) lend the $ who then get more $ back. [so they’ll only give us $ by buying our ₺ if we increase interest rates, but then debt in ₺ will become more expensive and we’ll have to pay them back with interest] I think real and rare things should be expensive, dad, and I can’t even think of a justification for that, unless it pays the people digging for them or producing them and they can’t make enough to live happily off of. $$$ are rare now son. But $$$ are imaginary and plentiful by the sound of it. [In a true economic utopia in which the value of money is a responsibility—always-already so, currently responsible for centrally inflating the financial sector with unlimited liquidity, feeding a shareholder oligopoly that thus exercises greater power than ever in its history; although the scientific definition of money, empirically supported by this unprecedented development that divorces it from any labor and productivity (except, in a travesty of common sense, to make its returns dependent upon it), proves it to not be a commodity at all, since to begin with, its only use value is its exchange value, i.e. in a rational society, a scientific exchange unit mediating commodities, divested from any commodity-like properties—in such a utopia, $ or ₺ would have no connection to how much of it circulates or enters markets; there must, therefore, one hopes or imagines, be code-ability to need (so that ability is more than enough, as it productively (more than (more than)) more than is, to satisfy it)] This nifty GLOBEX-AI, son, doesn’t steal your creativity or read your resumes it eats your wants, surveys every citizen and resident’s alimentary, housing, healthcare, energy, transportation, and infrastructure needs/pleasures, which it passes on to local government, businesses (stripped of shares that’re definitionally parasitic/unproductive and dangerous; now one worker one vote, to elect management if needed, allocate any ‘profits’ as bonuses or reinvestment, etc.) and the state, while directly reflecting them in an exchange rate with trade partners, tailor-set across countries A, B, C, X, etc., prioritizing purchasing power for non-growable/-minable/-manufacturable necessities (nutritional, medical, infrastructural, especially during droughts and ‘natural’ disasters; the rate can even fluctuate for specific goods to make vital exports more lucrative while still keeping them affordable for the importer, but never at the cost of local demand, providing an accessible rationale with tiered priorities in every case a nation’s currency is devalued or revalued), and incentivizing use of fallow resources, low-carbon trading, etc. . . . with directly converted central cryptocurrencies flowing between the distributed ledgers of each bank, ensuring full transparency—consequently it would not matter, at least in terms of the exchange rate, how much liquidity a nation injects into its own productive services and industries, with exchange rates thus divorced from money supply, interest, and foreign-denominated debt (no longer necessary), a level “playing field” for nations hitherto barred from effecting loose fiat policy—i.e. QE and liquid injection, i.e. move my ass to my face so I can fart on the poor with my rich face—due to being forced to take on anchor currency debt and hold large anchor currency reserves, and to do so to much more ethical ends. I think you’re right dad, let’s eat.
Socialism or Dictator “Coach!”1, Barbarism or mana!: “In the system of symbols constituted by all cosmologies, mana would simply be a valeur symbolique zero, that is to say, a sign marking the necessity of a symbolic content supplementary to that with which the signified is already loaded, but which can take on any value required”2
To think non-superstitiously is to think anti-imperialistically is to think money or mana as industry—creation creating: in the beginning made God (1:1); Who did? The beginning; ₺/$ as first mover, as mere exchange between matter /creation and its spirit/created, never requiring (absurd, in a world of dispen-sable surplus) debt to exist: what the individual needs, in circulation so that the individual may obtain it
How many protective layers are you wearing?
You in a white collar, who makes motions in a Masonic accord you must declare to the “authorities”: scriveners who will remember you to the future as starched -plaster cartoons of failure
First revolution would be love, I mean not losing it, the good mess—silver Sumerian coin from @BritishMuseum on your tongue, ancient telluric generosity spreading thru the palate home, home to Iraq, thinking of silver’s crisis value rising over its price as conductor—I mean not losing it, this courage to hear or see the tiniest sounds, and tune in / out, let (unmeasured) particle be: fluid, unconscious so adept at entangled opposites, when to fix the heart-mind it ceases to be both particle and wave discerning / tender / plentiful / complete: author of memory
synapsed to
I hate to be rude, but I love you / see you, baby, and that can smart with
grace the more
the eyes the shallower the bugs
being the notion that open source software is inherently less prone to glitches than closed: we’re thinking
blueprints on all light and heavy machinery and logistics: a Wikipedia of the collective access to the intellectual “property” of production / distribution
I’ll respect Silicon Valley the day it invents something as useful as the U-bend toilet—RT @JanissaryJones: Nothing waits
for you like a clean one—
spotless portal for the safe passage of waste you wear on your ass like a halo or mandala necessary to our survival, which is why shit is scary—our solutions to it creative and diverse; squat and rinse toilets being the healthiest and most hygienic, one of the westernest things being to wipe one’s ass with wasted wads—scary: a physiological reminder that like our fragrant pleasures we will smell and fungus will turn our corpse into nitrogen and a plant will soften up its cell walls to receive it. So the grave welcomes us only once
And beds knock us out or throw us into a fit of caresses that must surely be god
Are beds the opposite of toilets and graves or both?
Work is possible at the toilet
Proust wrote horizontally, because he was constantly sick with allergies
No one had them growing up, because among genetic and other factors they have to do with the lack of threatening pathogens and an over-concern with hygiene, as a result of which the body turns on itself, based on trifles and pleasures
Which is why allergies are more common in sovereign-currency nations better known for attacking others, or: in the case of post-colonialism, social patho-physiology takes on the form of autoimmunity or the nationalist (post-global) death drive—think Brexit / COVID Uncle Sam and their (im)migrant labor shortages and empty shelves: Mana or the auto-immune self-destruction—all fascism is ultimately suicidal—of “Herr Coach!”
Every foreign policy hawk was a school shooter in their previous life and every other school shooter dreams of using the atomic bomb, where it doesn’t matter
Uncle Sam forced neoliberalism down two dozen countries’ throats thru coups, invasions, Fort Bragg trained paramilitaries that made people dig their own graves and CIA-backed dictatorships that tortured stadiums-full of people; carried out 5 of the most atrocious wars of the 2nd half of the 20th Century—dropping 3x the number of explosives on Vietnam alone than it did on both WWII fronts combined—still it talks of authoritarianism as some “other”
Where I live
crows have begun
to gather in larger crowds, or rather these crowds, at the opening up of public space, have moved their parliaments and grace me every day with the kind stares of their pack nature
A murder of crows, an unkindness, our language:
mirrors left and right, smoke and explosives; one WASP gamer to another, assuming for a moment the sense-less finger gestures of a drone operator: “you’re killing it you’re blowing it
out
of
the
water”
USA remains the leading gas-lighter of the world, and when you gaslight for a living you tend lose touch with what’s real yourself
Outside! Outside!
The rain, the truth like a whale descended from the sky . . .
Careful as you are, Heart, that thing called life will (once) spill the blood over grandma’s dashboard macramé
Remembering that you are the one driving, and not life, you will attempt to show it the finger in the rearview mirror—that of a dying person, something masticated—when you’ll notice that the thing you called life (out of surrender) has you by the neck, and you are both happy this way: a couple on holiday, swooning with Stendhal Syndrome, and where?—All roads out, (for Stendhal) the Romans
who invented all things patently European but at least had the decency to design sewers—when Medieval Barbarians buried the Senate, they went back to using cesspits and buckets, needing to carry their shit out daily, dropping it here and there on other people’s property, earning them fines, causing the inter-European turf wars, the battle against bodily functions, the stigmatization and burning at the stake of “witches”—often midwives and homeopaths—and the technologies of modern slaughter
When the Romans had used the very same accusations against Christians, and speculating—as did Livy of the Dionysian cults—that the host or bread was dipped in dead infant’s blood
The tribe exists to fill a basic need, or
The tribe exists because there is no basic question
But only things that aren't relative: tears, death, morality, love, skills, more love
so there is love always pretty much if that is possible
And every lovemaking is a prayer
Every hardon a softie
Don't touch me. I've scrubbed the floors. Am in / over / beside love (ESL: English as Sorting Language)—I know the logic of scarcity, a falsity
Forget alignment, your teeth are meant to bite defiant
and jagged skylines into the judgment of God. And when the dentist says “spit,” hear: “live, hurry up and . . .”
find the one whose smell will remain, even if it’s you or your wildest friend
If he leaves you, A, I will be there, like a fucking mountain, where you can rest your head and carry on the wet business of being human, I was made for this position; things die in old mountains, so rich they are with bears and fairies, you know, and maybe we should let them
My mental illness is spar
and sea—
See and win—
My hallucinations just
of ATMs bursting open in front of Trader Joe’ses and Barnes & Nobleses
with a language no one knows
God breathes mettle into the meek
so we rise up, hunger a greater power than grief—
gentle!
FRAGMENTS OF MONTEZUMA’S SERMON AT TENOCHTITLAN MINUTES BEFORE HIS STONING
. . .
Cortés, you gold-hound with scurvy, my people dead
to your smallpox, I your mouth-piece for those months, spit
at your Spanish, stare at my hands: strapped to
this chair, summoning my sons, the sons of my sons,
centuries later: climate refugees standing up to your
militias—I will eat yr heart, pretty blond Yankee: a kind of poet
in his Memoirs of Fire, which he began in my time—
one of his nephews pulls a soldier’s rifle to the side, fist
ready for battle: repeating a scene for the hungry
media of your children. I sigh, yes, like a slighted father, which
you’d know nothing about, you sad playboy; not one
betrayed, let me make things clear, but ignored, which fathers
like me—who wear lime-green feather headdresses, own
their own private zoos, and have impeccable sword skills—
hate more. The problem is, my enemy, I cannot move
from this throne where I’ve been sat, not by you, because you
are embroiled in lawsuits like a true entrepreneur—
but by my real conquerors: the members of the board, against
whom I wish to shake my fists, but whom I can’t see—can smell
their incense, hear their chants, their chakras opening
like Venus flytraps. And I send my opinions over
the mouth-drenching static, but am disbelieved. Because all
I see, feel, know, is both hyper-real and hyper-terrible:
when you say “that’s too real,” what do you mean
that doesn’t suck? I recognize this throne well:
carved-wood predecessor of the first electric chair Edison had
built, using Tesla’s cheaper AC but botching it, to sell
his own DC: showcasing to a sizable audience young Will
Kemmler’s slow death—300 years later—who had murdered
his wife—in your case, interpreter-lover; so tell me, what
was the conspiracy ego or empire could not abide?
Kemmler dying, unlike you, over a whole hour: an elaborate
PR scheme, like too much of your “west.” Look at me,
I’m not dead and have studied this chair well that stands
eternally between science and wile: a mandorla of
—what did Marx say?—spiritual perversion with a fierce
convict for a Christ. He never said that, I did. Tell me,
why do you insist on misreading my calendars? Celebrating
the extra ‘0’s to your chaos and corruption: the only apocalypse
my scholars dreamt? I know the world never stops ending. Even
while my codices burn, my palaces. Your Uncanny Valleys, your high
speed colonies. Look how they rise in rebellion. Even while I,
the great hapless Montezuma, burn to dust, still
breathing down history’s neck: a reminder that the terrifying
once justified itself through, but never for, gold. The memory
of my sacrifices alone commemorated in ice cream-colored
textbooks for children, and never yours, Dr. Edison, braggard Cortés,
in their millions.
Then too it keeps ending, rolling through the eyeless
beyond: the universe that is both aleph and grave. Obsidian down
night. Dark down shimmering dark. Sadness down sight.
Who’s taking notes? Hearing those bangs? No one has sealed
the gates. A trap. My people, how angry you are, how righteous.
Just know I die
for no one, not you not myself. I die to prove
no death is large enough for these bastards.
AP HISTORY
Jean-Pierre Archambeau, infantryman of Napoleon's army, previously shoemaker and on the spectrum, died standing in the blizzard of 1812: his nose, breaking off with a crack, continued until it rejoiced in the burning liquor of Moscow
I am no scientist or alchemist of hunger but I concur: late-night snacking & over-whelming desire for sugar is a yearning for mother's milk, the obsession with a partner is a yearning, the love of beautiful things and warm things and a sense of place is a yearning / all
yearning for the milk of the angels
If they have wings, up there, do they also have teeth?—Genet
To what being, ontologically, does an angel belong?
It would be terrifying if birds had teeth and conversely, angels didn’t
Until they opened their mouths: Wbi nod afhwaid!
The beauty mark on Marilyn Monroe’s right cheek—when facing the painting by Andy Warhol—is a comet where love is least complicated
It lands into dirty waters somewhere: the sick come for healing, the merciful to drown their children, and CEOs with far more dangerous hopes
The birds wash themselves in the emerald waters of Marilyn’s comet-crater, saying: Napoleon’s army froze, then burned, and: Yet we feed our assassins Napoleons
What makes gravity possible? Things larger than other things
The solar anus holds the universe together, thought Bataille, ambivalently, thought Gombrowicz, ecstatically
The Polish novelist who wrote that the human disposition—hands, feet, spine, cranium—emerges from the ass; sweet-shame, nerve-filled discerning, electric center of pleasure, like a tree from a packed and jittery seed
What is inside the anus of the sun? The heart of the sun, of course
And black matter is pillow talk with the rest of matter, which burns like a thick joint rolled hastily, bursting with little bud-bits for the cat to eat
“My Homeric memory and I visit aunt Elif, who reads our astrological charts”
“My Homeric memory and I walk the cockroaches”
“My Homeric memory and I host a talk show with birds”
Will Shakespeare wrote a thirty-eighth play in which four knights try to rescue the mad king’s daughter from a tree but end up killing each other: When the king discovers this, he cracks a joke: something about distraction as the savior of the soul—then runs after a four-leafed clover, a fly, or a £10 note with the Queen’s face on it . . .
There’s a tusked and feathered creature on a desert island of the Mediterranean that consumes its own offspring: One study says this is revenge on the male—a destruction of his hopes that she nevertheless experiences limitlessly; one focuses on the lack of other high-protein sources on the island; and the last disregards reality altogether, in favor of myth
The kingdom of heaven is inside the mother
When you die you go someplace that’s entirely pink and blue, and your teeth are made of gold, so they don’t rot
There is a tree on which money grows
—it’s in our superstitious and materially outdated notion that money needs a pseudo-moral—tethered to Benthamian abjection and injunction of hunger as economic regulator—as op-posed to scientifically-oriented source in the ideal supply of goods and services it connects—that stops us from using it correctly: a value instrument targeted to fulfill human caprice love demand will of which we can havei
a tree: The seeds
of immediate Third World debt jubilee and currency suffrage to non-anchor cur. nations: Reparations that (at least in part) take the dignified and dialectic form of inexhaustible substance:ii An internationalism of sacred liquidity for total building-/buying-power in the non-scarcity stage of late capitalism—and the destruction of the destruction or restriction of surplus for profit—but plenty, without fascism’s “invisible [fox-gloved] hand”; asymmetric commodity-cum-wage inflation led by the hegemony of absolute international monopolies destroying labor rights and (speculatively) driving prices up:iii a reining-in of the Sovereign not as autonomous state but multinational Leviathan that has so fattened itself that its wealth is un-spendable—let them eat locked safes!, and us the fruits of our own liquid injections, driven into our own (nationalized) banks / industries / personal accounts—mana, mana, the language of the (desired, possible) future is an intractable stutter
—it’s in our superstitious and materially outdated notion that money needs a pseudo-moral—tethered to Benthamian abjection and injunction of hunger as economic regulator—as op-posed to scientifically-oriented source in the ideal supply of goods and services it connects—that stops us from using it correctly: a value instrument targeted to fulfill human caprice love demand will of which we can have [i]
a tree: The seeds
of immediate Third World debt jubilee and currency suffrage to non-fiat nations: Reparations that (at least in part) take the dignified and dia-lectic form of inexhaustible substance: [ii] An internationalism of sacred liquidity for total building-/buying-power in the non-scarcity stage of late capitalism—and the destruction of the destruction or restriction of surplus for profit—but plenty, without fascism’s “invisible [fox-gloved] hand”; asymmetric commodity-cum-wage inflation led by the hegemony of absolute international monopolies destroying labor rights and (speculatively) driving prices up: [iii] a reining-in of the Sovereign not as autonomous state but multinational Leviathan that has so fattened itself that its wealth is un-spendable—let them eat locked safes!, and us the fruits of our own liquid injections, driven into our own (nationalized) banks / industries / personal accounts—mana, mana, the language of the (desired, possible) future is an intractable stutter
I worship money, its magic all-something, something-all, convertible surplus, no-surplus-nec.-convertible, all-convertible-no-surplus, auto-complete-incon-trovertible-all-something-all, non-(w)hole-everything, M-C-M-M-M-CCCCC
Style is stuttering (Deleuze), the birds: ki-sikil-lil-la-ke1, mana, mo-tha, more-than, Mo-
The dictatorship of the proletariat was a Hegelian paradox, the Paris Commune its example; full manifestation of our industries, each hand connected to its fruits—and not, like Locke believed, needing a contract before it bit, to prevent—as ostensibly happened post-Garden—someone else from knocking it out of his hand; ensuring the mythical origins / sanctity of property in a gymnastics of legalese belying the construction of western discourse on the internal brutality, irrationality, and individualism (exported) of Europe’s turf wars—but Con-stitutionally given the right to bite at will, man(n)a as pure exchange as dollar to peso-lira-cedi-Bolívar-nakfa-dinar-birr-pula-rupee . . . as determined by the transparent equation of need + ability, connecting the will of labor to the mouth and its needful cosmic anatomy
No flaming swords (TM) protecting the apples of the Garden
No unemployed needing to glean the irregular potatoes (shaped like hearts) thrown away by big agro
What’s outside the door? More outside than we can dream of
Pantries filled to bursting with heart-shaped eggplants, zucchini, chard, carrots, hearts—
A young man on the iron ore trains of Mauritania (cur.: ouguiya), escapes slave labor to travel through hundreds of kilometers of the Saharan Desert towards the sea, arrives in Nouadhibou, where he sees the ocean for the first time.—What does he do once he gets there?—Do you remember the last scene from 400 Blows, in which adolescent Antoine runs from juvenile detention towards the shore, which he has always wanted to see?—The young man, like young Antoine, steps into the water, then steps back out, but unlike the errant New Waver, his curiosity (pure, unwatched) is henceforth eternally drawn there, which is to say: he marks the limit for good
There is tenderness where I am from I do not know what to do with when I am away
Way more color than is useful
Edges, sap, grief-joy, spirit, jeez
I am finished
Endnotes
i. Money as mana, its severance of a direct link between production and income exemplified in unemployment, fiscal subsidies, and most importantly—as an untapped tool necessitated by post-industrial and financialized capitalism—central bank injections. Introducible at any point in the market process without requiring oppressive debt feasting on surplus value as exploited labor, with gambling losses insured for banks/corporations in the form of QE/bailouts, exacerbating Piketty’s famous r > g. Wage labor is as historically unique and perishable as (yet far more unprecedented than) slavery and serfdom, created consequent to enclosure laws and the “need” for a dispensable industrial proletariat. As the necessity for it decreases, production capacity and efficiency concurrently increase thanks to automation and AI, making labor gradually more precarious, and just as the human potential it commodifies stands to be liberated, capitalism continues to demand labor sell itself on the market in order to survive. (Our current supply chain issues, in huge part synthetic, mask and further hold back this trend, alongside a lack of investment in automation whose returns would, for example, manifest 50-100+ years in the future.) Capitalism as we know it needs to be radically transformed in order to survive this final contradiction, even by its own logic, since without huge subsidies and UBIs, long-term contraction will continue, just as supply capacity stands to reach its highest potential—already enough to feed the whole planet 1.5x—making all technological advancements towards either liberation or even profit itself useless.↩
ii. Every nation’s mutual exchange rate is assessed and calculated by a transparent AI that factors trading countries’ export/import needs, scarcity levels, and deficits/surpluses (only in the case nations aren’t taking advantage of necessary resources), as well as generates the recipient currency upon payment while deleting the outgoing one. Exchange rates can also be designed to fluctuate for specific goods, e.g. effectively lowering the price of agricultural imports if drought conditions necessitate increased consumption, etc. All activities are visible in a public ledger in order to increase accountability and fight corruption. Consequently, it does not matter, at least in terms of the exchange rate, how much money a nation spends on its own people in a UBI or for subsidy-type payments, since the AI merely accounts for production levels and not money supply. This would level the playing field for nations that have been hitherto barred from effecting fiat-type spending due to being forced to take on anchor currency debt, pay high interest rates on domestic currency, and/or hold large anchor currency reserves.↩
iii. E.g. the equity firm cabal that owns up to 90% of US corporations’ tradeable shares, and to which these firms answer in revenues and dividends. Also, the rising price of shipping that worsened with the mass buying of transport-related futures during the pandemic, in economist Yanis Varoufakis’s words, “turbo-charging” today’s global supply chain problem, alongside rising oil prices, making the economic “rationale” (to fight inflation, future scarcity, and war) for switching to renewables suddenly as loud as the apocalyptic one, and one apocalyptic in itself.↩
Sébastien Bernard is a (part-French) Turkish poet and (non)fiction writer from—and currently based in—Istanbul. He was a finalist for the 2021 Nightboat Books award, 2020 Omnidawn Poetry Chapbook Contest, 2019 Black Warrior Review Poetry Contest, and a 2018 Poets House Emerging Poets fellow. His work appears in Michigan Quarterly Review, Salamander, Prelude, Black Warrior Review, DIAGRAM, KGB Bar Lit, SUSAN/The Journal, Queen Mob's Teahouse, Stone Pacific Zine, BARAKUNAN’s Electronic Literature Festival (ELD) archive, Madness Muse Press, and Nat.Brut. He is also a translator, most recently of Noam Chomsky’s conversations with Michael Albert into Turkish.