It was amazing to see Ray's note on Rodolphe Gasche's
"Inventions of Difference".
Two days ago I was inspecting the security system at
Foxwoods Casino, there on the Poquetanuck Reservation in
Connecticut, when the video console operator happened to
zoom in on a change-maker idling on the smoky floor.
She was leaning on the slots and reading to pass the time
it seemed when Buster the operator zoomed in closeup on her
swell chest and I saw the paperback, goddam, there it was,
the Gasche book, she was fucking reading rehacked Derrida
on the choking smoke-filled floor.
Buster, I beeped, hold it there, get in closer, no not her
tits asshole, the book, get the text in sight so I can see
what it says. Buster operated right on the text, the text
of regnashed Derrida via chomping Gasche, Rodolphe, author
of The Tain of the Mirror (Harvard).
9, the screen gleamed, chapter 9, On Responding
Responsibly, she-changer was eyeing the very topic of
topics for this list, how and why and whether to respond
and do it responsibly, for christs sake.
I grabbed my pad and best-suited security guide, indian
guide no joke for sure, and we high-tailed it to the
coughing smoke floor to gasp at her the money changer, who
are you doing this close text-reading for.
She, let's name her, ex-professor of literature at Bard
denied-tenure by firing but once securely-tenured, Louise,
not her real name on the tag. Louise said the reading is
for me and my literature-secure future after this short
spell of money-wheedling for wrinkled pigs and blowsy-
haired shoats on a tiny indian reservation assuredly
trumping the insecure atlantic city big don.
Delicately ironic, soft speaking, Louise deft hands a-
grayed from change-handling, short skirt exposing firm-
looking-chubby slit-thighs, puff-hair emplaced with sprayed
curl a la French demi-star, she sashay-rocked slowly as she
dreamed out loud orally literaturely against the hot and
cold slots paying her floor-tenure temporary positioning in
the down economy of academic high flying.
Louise demurly occidentally crooned to me and tonto-manly,
I see here the very left-bank of french-lit-heaven, smoke
curling around gambling the small fortunes of long-time
gamblers amdist bright literary lights of rolling flashing
bells and bars and red sevens and wild bunches of cherries
aligning on hope-winning combinations of narration and
yelps of pleasures at arranged small winnings to lead the
long-time losers deeper in debt to the bright-lit casino of
lit-famous and fortunate.
Louise said I shall write of this, I shall tell enspelling
telling detail and grand plots among the gray-headed
revolutionary american daughters and sons of enraging slot-
swallowing machines, busloads of small losers from small
towns squandering their social security pickings while the
once miserable native indians retake their real estate from
unsecured land-plunderers and defenseless armaments
contractors for national security.
Irony of ironies, she beamed at side-grinning suave savage
and me, I could never write at dowdy Bard for there were no
stories there, just fast-headed soft-fingered-tenured
never-secure insecurest literateurs afraid of their lit
shadows, genetically aware of soft-stalking shades of non-
whitey ancestors prowling New England awaiting their
nativistic chance to win over the devastated invaders of
losers from far continents of historical losers of
frightfully pointless wars of hegemony of thoughtlessness
and faithlessness.
I shall be hege-famous as the chronicler of victims
overcoming injustice, Louise soft-said, her soon scribbling
calloused fingers in her apron of dollars dribbling silver
change, imagining future security of everlastingly secure
literary flame-burning.
I marveled with cochise-hunk beside me at this fine female
mind unshackled by down spiraling dollar economies, seeking
certain cultural security in maleish Derrida and chauvinist
Gasche astealing the thoughts of others most europeanly.
A winner fleece all provincials empirely, empty-pocketly.
Then back John goes to the queen city of the empire state
of loss-leading dim-lit-losers to sell my safe certain
architectural knowledge of highest security systems easy
money can fleece from soft-minded euro-enthralled gamblers.
"Inventions of Difference".
Two days ago I was inspecting the security system at
Foxwoods Casino, there on the Poquetanuck Reservation in
Connecticut, when the video console operator happened to
zoom in on a change-maker idling on the smoky floor.
She was leaning on the slots and reading to pass the time
it seemed when Buster the operator zoomed in closeup on her
swell chest and I saw the paperback, goddam, there it was,
the Gasche book, she was fucking reading rehacked Derrida
on the choking smoke-filled floor.
Buster, I beeped, hold it there, get in closer, no not her
tits asshole, the book, get the text in sight so I can see
what it says. Buster operated right on the text, the text
of regnashed Derrida via chomping Gasche, Rodolphe, author
of The Tain of the Mirror (Harvard).
9, the screen gleamed, chapter 9, On Responding
Responsibly, she-changer was eyeing the very topic of
topics for this list, how and why and whether to respond
and do it responsibly, for christs sake.
I grabbed my pad and best-suited security guide, indian
guide no joke for sure, and we high-tailed it to the
coughing smoke floor to gasp at her the money changer, who
are you doing this close text-reading for.
She, let's name her, ex-professor of literature at Bard
denied-tenure by firing but once securely-tenured, Louise,
not her real name on the tag. Louise said the reading is
for me and my literature-secure future after this short
spell of money-wheedling for wrinkled pigs and blowsy-
haired shoats on a tiny indian reservation assuredly
trumping the insecure atlantic city big don.
Delicately ironic, soft speaking, Louise deft hands a-
grayed from change-handling, short skirt exposing firm-
looking-chubby slit-thighs, puff-hair emplaced with sprayed
curl a la French demi-star, she sashay-rocked slowly as she
dreamed out loud orally literaturely against the hot and
cold slots paying her floor-tenure temporary positioning in
the down economy of academic high flying.
Louise demurly occidentally crooned to me and tonto-manly,
I see here the very left-bank of french-lit-heaven, smoke
curling around gambling the small fortunes of long-time
gamblers amdist bright literary lights of rolling flashing
bells and bars and red sevens and wild bunches of cherries
aligning on hope-winning combinations of narration and
yelps of pleasures at arranged small winnings to lead the
long-time losers deeper in debt to the bright-lit casino of
lit-famous and fortunate.
Louise said I shall write of this, I shall tell enspelling
telling detail and grand plots among the gray-headed
revolutionary american daughters and sons of enraging slot-
swallowing machines, busloads of small losers from small
towns squandering their social security pickings while the
once miserable native indians retake their real estate from
unsecured land-plunderers and defenseless armaments
contractors for national security.
Irony of ironies, she beamed at side-grinning suave savage
and me, I could never write at dowdy Bard for there were no
stories there, just fast-headed soft-fingered-tenured
never-secure insecurest literateurs afraid of their lit
shadows, genetically aware of soft-stalking shades of non-
whitey ancestors prowling New England awaiting their
nativistic chance to win over the devastated invaders of
losers from far continents of historical losers of
frightfully pointless wars of hegemony of thoughtlessness
and faithlessness.
I shall be hege-famous as the chronicler of victims
overcoming injustice, Louise soft-said, her soon scribbling
calloused fingers in her apron of dollars dribbling silver
change, imagining future security of everlastingly secure
literary flame-burning.
I marveled with cochise-hunk beside me at this fine female
mind unshackled by down spiraling dollar economies, seeking
certain cultural security in maleish Derrida and chauvinist
Gasche astealing the thoughts of others most europeanly.
A winner fleece all provincials empirely, empty-pocketly.
Then back John goes to the queen city of the empire state
of loss-leading dim-lit-losers to sell my safe certain
architectural knowledge of highest security systems easy
money can fleece from soft-minded euro-enthralled gamblers.