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The Singlemostor,
The Crying Light
manuel arturo abreu
2008
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"Light though thou be,
thou leapest out of darkness;
but I am darkness leaping out of light,
leaping out of thee!"
Herman Melville
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1.Bottles like little plastic or glass women wrapped in garish tube-tops with grime
in their curves with clear or greenclear skin lie about gutter gratings or peek out of
trashcan brims, the perverted debouching-hole capped or un-; wrinkled concrete is
covered in age-blackened gum like one giant gray shoe-sole or a wounded animal on
its belly, bare branches sullen urchins reaching for the surface, for an escape from the
murk. People people people push. Languages like crumpled paper and broken glass
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litter the air like stars the milky-dark sky, like milk in coffee or pearls in muck,
fragments of phrases now trapped like rags in the sharp nooks of stripped-naked
trees, now haunting, kissing the roving periphery of my ears like a dove of cloud
marooned in blue. A sock hangs in another naked tree. A balloon pops at the highest
branch's pinprick. Shoes tossed and hung from telephone wires signify that person's
death and subsequent mourning and forgetting. A basketball hoop fashioned from a
bottomless green crate, ashy elbows and crooked teeth and ain't, shoes scuffling and
avoiding dog shit. People people push push.
A light gauze of rain and soapscum clouds. The smell of the fish market
prompts a man seated on a black crate under its green awning to make a joke about
his wife. They call him Lindo because at forty his face is a tanned prune, his eyes set
far back into his head like pissholes in dark snow, reeking worse than the worst taxi-
cab-armpit smell ever encountered by any person on earth, let alone in New York City.
He wears a pleather jacket that looks like his face. Behind him and the shop, and
across the street and under the el (the Mosholu Parkway station farther down Jerome
until recently forever under construction, traffic always constricted and throat-
clutching), behind those people and shops: the soft, anonymous light of curtained
windows, square pastel masks: never taller than six stories, the peeling buildings
heave and cough fat black smog, darkly burping worms of smoke that twist and braid
into the paleblue shield of barren winter sky—there are still incinerators—while the
windows rub their bellies, loosen their belts; stout workers on squat roofs and wet
scaffolds drink energy drinks tasting of battery acid and utter clipped phrases.
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A table is laid out, a chair, one next to that, two chairs, a paper-thin Cuban man
perched next to the gated threshold leading to a gritty alley which snakes around
back of my building, into which is tossed all of the garbage not incinerated, and half
the tenants do each, the incinerator hatch almost right out the door for most, and
some of the alley-tossers too lazy to leave their houses and instead using a window
which faces the basement alley, if the apartment, like mine, is on that side. Heaps of
mossy wood, carcasses of dressers and desks, stained metal left askance on shiny
black bags which bulge as if alive; a torn photograph in the dusty creases of a
discarded plaid couch; a flurry of shredded documents rainwithering away; the guts
of ancient computers and a dead fly; a rat itching its occasional way around. From my
window is visible the alley down below, as well as the dull roof of the squat store
cluster left side of which forms the alley's wall parallel to my building's right side. A
clod of dirt is marooned on that gray plaza: its roots which elsewhere would have
thrived in rain like today's are arranged like a wild dark head of hair or a split-second
thumbnail of an explosion. Spring's book of color's crisp page margins winter closes;
in a week or two or three grass will jut out of the sullen clod like a constellation of
Adamic green ribs, and in the summer it will be brownfurry and proud with growth
like some boy with peach fuzz, but for now the sky is a moor or a giant slick fish-belly.
Two floors above the halo of the alley threshold, accessible by way of the dim plaza, is
a ladder which reaches a weekly-changed advertisement. One reaches the store
cluster's roof by a ladder in the street-level alley of the building behind it. Pigeons
skulk warily, sidling along the stinky vertex of a wet, tan building parallel mine, across
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the street.
Back on the sidewalk, dominoes and Spanish squealing, a stack of old
newspapers fluttering, a bottle of water and a cup placed paradoxically next to each
other. Creaking folding chairs. Lady next to an ice fridge with the word ICE loud on its
flank says 'pastelitos calienticos,' her violent mauve curls graying further every year,
racing the growing rolls on her stomach and losing. Farther an Arab man with
complex, interconnected facial hair like snakes doing swan dives in pools of
themselves leans and peers from the fifth floor of the tan building's street-side fire
escape, pondering the desert of broken roofs before him, leering at the ad across the
street and diagonal to him. His legs dangle on rust. The ghetto balcony. The two-
dimensional Cuban man now with a cigar bigger than a small dog clamped between
his yellow lips. Crawls to the curb a yellow car, its windows rattling with bass. Then. All
sound is devoured by a blue and red wail, far then close then far, the pitch rising and
falling in tandem. Fat lady fingers twiddle a matchbook and eyes follow the siren.You
always stare at the finest when they drive by, as they loop through red lights and slow
drivers toward whatever destination beckons them. There is a story of one who spit at
a passing patrol car and was beaten and arrested on the spot, screaming about his
silk pajamas and newly-permed hair, his green Gucci glasses akimbo in two pieces,
laying dejectedly on the pavement for days.
I walk the gray plummet into the mouth of the naked Oval down large, cracked
steps, from which flowers grow in the spring, built against a hill of dead grass gray;
mulch blows in the austere wind like ash, maundering through the dusk between the
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gaps of gates, the snow hard and black and cigarette butts perched in it black ends
up like watchful birds. One face, then another, without name, only the heaviness of
being brown. Two faces, city of the world, a man with only stumps for legs, creaking
and laughing along in his rusted wheelchair, bumping down each step in rhythm with
the muffled click of his dentures. A building is gutted, flashing at me its toothless
widow's smile behind the park's gate. A coven of pigeons casts spells and suddenly
bread is broken before them. A Hassid like an inspired beetle flees into the shady
corners of Montefiore's tiny cottages and the secret bowels of their hulking Brutalist-
inspired institutes, relics of the stagflated seventies; people amble under scaffolding
and dodge rain and yell into cell phones nowhere near their ears; hipsters walk their
dogs and run in tiny shorts and pay raised rent, pruning out the brown like a wash
cycle with bleach.
Graffiti writers who'd find hatches buried in the Bronx would scurry through
MTA alleys like pearls in nauseous oysters and the train used to roll by on Jerome
covered in color like a snake wearing scarves, in the nascent years before they
scraped the skin off the screaming chains of cars and showered them in boiling acid
with its acerbic horrible laugh and the writers—'taggers,' the offended would say, the
mothers with the ancient index's shame gesture—scuttled to the walls, to still
surfaces. Charred facades and faces used to melt when superintendents burned their
tenements and women in stairwells gave birth to ash puppets after dining gourmet
on freebase. There is no cross-Bronx train. Wind is spurned and gobbled by barbed
wire cursive that wrote the story none could speak. Ligeti’s metronomes couldn't
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compete with rain. The winter delays the unlocking. The roaches tried to write up
their Bill of Rights; they figured they had strength in numbers. The light flicks on and
they all scurry into their hovel-nooks. Their world begins at the edge of the darkness.
The pattern's rote. Poisoned rats lie on their bellies. An arrow of tears hurtles into
oblique terrain. Gangs of hooded figures in bubble jackets and Timberland boots, the
smell of gas and liquor lingering on them, roam about, yelling “Hootie-hoo!” and
“Soo-woo!” and flashing their teeth—and guns—at anybody. Mene mene tekel
upharsin.
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2.Logic is distance, that is, motion. In this universe it is manifested in the ways
bodies physical or conceptual move from system to system—self-distance is implied,
and distance, that is, logic, is intrinsic to matter, of which all is derived. Logic is
nonteleogical, though we may be inclined to see it as moving toward death. Logic is
not a consequence of life; life is only a subset of logic. Logic is meaning and therefore
logic is use. Distance implies dichotomy. It does not exist before it is invoked, though
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it exists everywhere at all times, underlying or superimposed upon everything. Logic
is desire cf. Freud. Wittgenstein's ladder with respect to the understanding or use of
logic is invalid because logic's movement is on one plane only cf. Derrida. It cannot
redeem nor escape itself. Logic may be called language, that is, communication.
Miscommunication is not an attenuation of logic but a shining example of it.
Ultimately, if logic is noumenal, it is not knowable, and only observable in its effects.
Logic is context. It is like an unknown function of which we can see only inputs and
outputs. Logic created the Reality and change/adaptation therein; the Reality is told
and inherited therefore suggestible, as is logic. Logic or language or motion is the
only a priori imposition. The Reality is the use of tools that logic has given humans,
and, as a fragment of logic, does not describe logic but instead only itself. Logic has
no pieces. It is an occluded whole with particular or arbitrary/infinite effects.
Examining an unknowable logic with a manifestation of itself, that is, the Reality, is
infinite vanity. As to what fuels logic, the question is nonsensical ; logic is self-
perpetuation, and the real question is “what does logic fuel?,” the answer being
everything, the question being therefore useless. The Reality is a function of logic.
Purported knowledge in and of the Reality is a commodity of distance from those
without it, which we may call luxury. All systems of empirical bases are true only with
respect to their own rules and logic-manifestations, and are only useful as tools for
altering, not recording the Reality. Objectivity is a cruel in-joke.
Logic is dialectical in that it contains its own opposite (that is the essence of
distance/motion), and its manifestations perennially attempt to supersede and
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elevate themselves in vain, because logic is circular. Manifestations of logic are simply
misunderstandings. Being thus, logic must also be public. What we deem the Random
in the Reality, indeed, the Reality's driving force, is one of logic's most perfect
manifestations. Logic is brutal and unforgiving. If a moralist must hate something, it
should be logic. The human and the Reality are irrelevant and unnecessary to logic. It
is indifferent to its myriad manifestations.
Logic, motion, creates time. We understand time, space, and the world because
we observe movement or its logical sibling, stasis. Examples are infinite; time as
measured by clocks is simply the motion of the clock's hands, the sound of its ticking.
The dialectic contains the necessary property of self-distance cf. Heraklitus and is thus
a necessary aspect or explanation of the logical motion, which implies itself in objects
by their very existence. Thus logical stasis is a misnomer, for it explains and implies
logical motion. The natural state of systems is tautological, which we call logical
inertia. Examples of such systems are infinite: breathing, blood circulation... all
functions of all bodies living and not living as well as the very existence of the logical
construction are examples of logic's pervasiveness. Logic must be; the Reality is
allowed. The Reality is the human utterance, and is distinct from life itself, though not
from the human viewpoint cf. Baudrilliard's hyperreal. Manifestations of logic
necessarily appear, while of it, distanced from and in contrast to it. Logic itself implies
the question: what is illogical, if the logical motion permeates infinitely all
manifestations thereof? cf. Liebniz. Systems hide their being results of logical motion.
People say the opposite of what they mean and mean the opposite of what they say.
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We must assume nothing is illogical, for we can never know anything outside of the
Reality and subsequent micrologics about its relationship to the original, whole,
noumenal logic. Necessarily, if meaning is use, there is no private language and there
are no private logical manifestations of any kind. Logical constructions must always
have terminal operations. However, causality can never be known cf. Hume.
Manifestations of logic are obvious; logic is hidden.
The basic manifestation of the logical motion is the system. Humans may only
encounter Real systems, necessarily. A single system is arbitrarily and infinitely
complex because it can only be understood in opposition to other systems. This is
called the abstraction of the fact. It is an action and a condition. The fact is the
proposition in and of a Real system. The fact is exclusively human, and the basic
building block of the Reality. As aforementioned, the fact and the Reality are
tautologies. Consciousness of systems is determined by value systems of one in or
not in search of lucidity. Lucidity is the consciousness of the system of systems, that is,
the Reality. Irony is often a primary component of a consciousness striving toward
lucidity, which is opposed with use; however, use precludes lucidity. All are victims and
tyrants.
The notion of the simulacrum and the endless re-iteration of a limited discourse
set in the Reality has been contested by the general trend to view the Reality finite
circles are infinitely involved with a number that goes on forever. That is to say, the
human mind cannot comprehend that which approaches infinity, namely possibility,
and as such we must assume the infinite in that known to be finite, ie the Reality. The
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problems of philosophy delineate the limits of understanding. Understanding is the
utterance of acknowledgment of the Reality, which follows use and precludes lucidity.
The logical motion is like the conversation between an unbroken black shock of hard
shadow in a flat field and a pale, purple jumble of shade twisted through by objects.
Objects are the referents of the fact. Strictly speaking they may not exist.
In contrast to objects, facts are subjects the substance of which are objects. The
logical motion is the most difficult decision one ever has to make. Though hidden,
logic is the process of forming or uttering lucidity. For example, Exodus 3:14 “I am
that I am.” The Reality is the placeholder for, as Einstein said, a closed box which we
cannot open. We perambulate perennially this dark-closed fist, learning nothing but
that our distance, our infinite circular orbit, has left its mark on the ground beneath
us. Strictly speaking these distances are perpetuated by the fact and its utterance. The
fact is uttered because humans fear death. Logically this means we fear distance or
motion, for logic moves deathward toward life. Therefore the Reality is logical stasis.
Logic is the sky beneath the haze of winter days like today's.
Logical stasis is an understanding, not a condition, of objects. The logically inert
is the mode in which we are able to understand relationships. Consider objects: we
understand them to be inert because of their appearance in the phenomena of the
Reality, but, in truth, because they exist in time, and we can only observe time
through motion (that is, time is of motion), then, as far as we can know, these objects
are in motion. The present tense is a facetious notion with respect to the logical
motion; it is the very stasis of the logical inertia. As well, science tells us that the basic
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particle of the object, the atom, is always in motion. Atoms in science are comparable
to facts in the Reality. A constellation of facts is a system. Inter- and intra-system
relationships exist only by way of each other—systems are, like their constituent facts,
abstracted. In our time we see the rise of facts about systems as opposed to about
facts or objects. We may denote these meta-facts, which are the constituents of the
Real political discourse. The fact and meta-fact are the method whereby the logical
stasis gropes towards immortality ie logical motion, pure and unbroken, not a
manifestation whereof. The construed world is a pronoun the antecedent of which can
never be known.
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3.When I was born I made no noise: for a day I didn't suckle or utter or scream or
sleep; I only kept my eyes open and observed, painting sight vectors criss-crossing
each other unto infinity, for twenty four hours. It was a silent infinite set with a finite
sum, death hilarious; for the next four days I was weak and sleepy, my eyes dumb slits
with little motion, my face a blank wrinkled prune. The doctors' explanation was low
blood sugar, and I was incubated for those four days in a dinky room with pastel-
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puke-green “sea” wallpaper, a tiny square window, and a shoddy chair, really more
of a stool because the back was about half the height of a normal chair's, and there
was a canyon down the middle of the seat. My mother sat in it for five days, my father
coming and going based on his work schedule, and they shaved off most of my wispy
hair for procedural ease. I looked like a pasty rag pretending to breathe, dumb but
without fury, passive. There was little room for family members who would diffuse
about the cramped space, the mellifluous bochinche, the celebrating on eggshells:
one of my mother's brothers before he married and ballooned—he, formerly Gumby-
like, and my aunt, formerly sweet-pear-like, together expanded their frames
exponentially, their little boy and girl two carbon-copy snowmen; another two uncles,
twins, who as toddlers switched hair colors, the blond one's kinks darkening an
insistent shadow and the other's downy raven hair shocking itself pale; my
grandmother in those feisty 'golden' years which precede that lull-period which
precedes prevailing malaise which precedes final slumber, the senses and systems
failing and dropping off the body like pieces from a Potatohead; others haunting, the
speech galloping.
I was a floating fish for those five days until my cheeks finally grew red, and my
fingers wiggled, and my eyes again leaped. This to my parents was a miracle and a
sign of their worthiness in God's eyes, a turnaround brought about by prayer in
gradients of volume, with or without speech, that speech with or without melody, the
hands folded or at one's side or flailing, etc. I suspect that I, without any God at all,
not even metaphorically, not even in rhetoric, unless direly necessary in some hitch,
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have been a disappointment to them in comparison to that first miracle after the first
miracle. I say this mostly in half-jest.
I attached myself to my mother's breast, my tiny insistent hands and mouth
screaming for it in public until, when I was a year and a month old, she rubbed coffee
grounds on her nipples, and I recoiled in disgust. I've been pretty independent since. I
was born in the first city in the New World, Santo Domingo, one green jewel of the
island, its bloody cobblestones abandoned when Columbus' glutton eyes discovered
the mainland, the scattered brown bodies among rocks with moss eyes and chaste
white beaches, the blindingwhite slug of sun a soft ravaged pillar in the diamond
water, the tossed palms, the slaughters and perversities. I was a body in an endless
cane field, uprooted.
My parents, though born close to the end of his regime, inherited that peculiar
folksy Trujillo-era superstition about and fear toward absolutely everything, growing
up as they did hearing stories of people disappearing forever, whisked away and
relegated to the last sentence of a story told when the power went out, which always
happened on the island and still does, hearing of how during his reign Santo
Domingo became Ciudad Trujillo and Pico Duarte became Pico Trujillo—that (U.S.-
backed) putrid, pig-like man with his pathetic mustache holds a certain Voldemort-
like position in casual Dominican mythology, though only another crony of the devil,
and of course God is the only recourse... the island is a fairy in a field of forget-me-
nots, dislodged from me like a fly out of a bottle as the cork lands on the ground, and
I had been the form of the void entering the bottle as the fly escaped, the emptiness
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sounding wsssssh wssssssh as it flooded into the glass, and the bottle sprouted wings
up out of the ocean's arms and struck upon the Bronx.
A part of Bronx park opens some distance south of Metro North tracks, the
light tinted green rubbing leaf-bellies, my feet tilting in the swampier land as I go:
there are pebbles, then I walk on shoots, then the wet is in my feet and I turn around.
The end of the green maw runs almost parallel to the tracks, always deeper. Farther
south lies another entrance, past a powder-blue bridge which leads to gray, black
gravel roads and peopled benches lining the edge of the greener land, the paths
between each made by the desires of the feet. There are ribbons of dirt in the green.
Severely angled, a block west of the bridge gropes the early light which is like a child
beneath a sheet playing at ghosts, or an eye beneath jealous lids playing at dreams,
spasming weakly; puny stores sprout upon the stretched concrete triangle, contorted,
reticent, like thorns on a roseless stem. A white car parked under a tree under the sun
across house hedges looks like a zebra with moving stripes. The leaves of the tree
standing over it jangle and have leaves of shadow.
The park is quiet but oozes from the city's grime and waste, ingrown, a subtle
revolt against urban grotesqueness, the mob of Lynchian faces bovine on the
concrete, conceited indistinguishable polyps. Its green riot is sustained by exactly that
against which it revolts. And the land must be pregnant, black and angled. I see
blinking images of birds between foliage, hearing also the machine of their chirps.
There are different greens. There are mud footprints that are like little mud feet. The
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light is like behind a curtain. The sun is a suspended tear fecund behind trees, a
cavorting lucent dirigible, leaves bubbling as if shaving off little sun-pieces each time
they bob. The morning wind subsides and what is still is yet stiller. Little that is not
human has any use for play, yet the light is playing in my hand. The sun fell in slats.
Almost the light makes dragging, experience itself heavier by light's necessity. Being
human is imagining squares without corners. Purity is that whereby one may undo
knots which cannot undo themselves. Weight is made known in the absence of
possibility. It is the song that the gears sing grinding.
The sun come grew a crown, skirts, disfigured chariot treading shadow over
spots of bush, nuclear, drowning in wine becoming wax, on a body, crawling mice of
light like draped sheets, ineluctable modality—the scuffling sound, the glassy breeze
breaking new over dew like scattered coins. Intermittent trees from concrete pulled
up like fingernails blush explodingreen leaves. I leave the park.
Socks on my hands, I would run, no me pege, scribbling every wall. I learned
English watching Barney materialize suddenly, a purple miracle, the children excited in
exactly the same way for every episode, always shocked, as if their very love was the
source of his appearance. Behind the camera the man would don the absurd costume
after smoking a cig. I would wear pots on my feet after banging on them, sing to their
crashing. A mi no me de. I was five and on my subway maiden voyage staring wildly
at a man who pronounced tired like tarred. The sleeves of his thick shirt were rolled
up and his arms from his hands to his elbows looked kiln-dipped, and angling his lips
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and sandy mustache he stared at his blister-glazed palms. Ah'm raght well tarred. I
was six and I was playing with a pin, sticking it through the flesh on my palms and
watching it dangle. I was nine and it was Waynehead and two other kids whose
names I don't remember, and they tripped Willy as a joke, but the impact with the
floor split his head wide open, like cracking a nut, and a lagoon of blood came out
under him in arcs and we tippy-toed around the mess. I feared the emptying of his
head, and mine, the periodic clearing of the memory, dumped out to make room for
new, and the class tiptoed around the mess, the kids all staring mouths and retching
eyes, and decided to skip lunch for that day. I was seven and I told my mother I was
afraid people didn't have memories, that they'd just make them up as they go along,
or late at night, skittish and selective. She shooed me, and I was five and I complained
to my teacher Mr. Capaso about another girl stealing my cookie, except I called him
Mr. Picasso, and he laughed heartily, walking away. I never got another cookie.
I know that the next time I stumble at the huge root of a tree I will not lay on it
and look to the reeking stars, to pretending moonlight in a sigh—the ground will
swallow me up, piercing the skin, body beneath body, now piercing the light, my
hands like the faraway form of a hunted bird into frenetic flight, the pale pony of the
moon roving on my little fingers until, finally, I am in the throat of the dirt, unable to
breathe, sobbing fists...
Upon part of a barbwire fence lies a dirty white sheet, worms of pollen peeking
out of the creases. There is one barb layer at the top and two stacked layers chasing
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parallel the ground. My eyes, as if windows, are fogged. People spit into a long
grating in the middle of the block as they pass. You can hear the subway down
beyond it, reflecting its blue flashes of motion in the limbo between grating and
platform. Up sprout fire hydrants and manhole covers from a grassy corner. The sun is
feral. The daily mask of the forced social situation—the invisible grimace a stone
would give, the squeal of the shifting pinned homuncular eyes, the color molting. The
face reflects yours back like a scaly crystal and steel building does, saying nothing, in
blank parody, growing immeasurably in that silence, a stiff ribbon attached to your
echo. Which among the masks is that echo which is the I? It is always the same
conversation, and the same person, with different words.
Someone is sitting on this here green scaffolding. A dark green shredded-pulp
house between tenements across the street gimps surly windchimes. The last
scaffolding bar to the right of me walking south is festooned with caution tape
snapping in the rainy breath. It's May and some trees have gold bowties on their
bark. Under the first-floor windows of this brown-brick building are pink diamond
outlines. Under the cornice the line of triangles snapping together like teeth repeats
itself in shadow. A Puerto Rican family next to a used car lot refused to give up their
little patch of land. They had two bright blue shacks, chickens and goats roaming their
nappy grass. In time they were forced out. The green arrow of a traffic light points up.
A white curve of arrow at the end of the block is blurred like a wing with a sharp tip.
On grass my feet are a rustle, a disturbance of dirt; now I can hear my steps again, the
impact smack against, the hard. I could touch my plump shadow.
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A tall beautiful Polish girl, all curves and her eyes blue suns, towering over me
by at least a foot, swanked up a road in casual business clothes. Her hair was so blond
it looked like the arteries of a cloud, her bra so pink it glowed through her button-up
blouse, trapped in its faint stripes. Her cheekbones jutted and gave her a devilish
look, and she had a tightrope saunter, her body bursting through like light through
liquid, and she really was mindblowingly gorgeous, and I don't even like blondes. She
walked past me and I closed my eyes and her scent came. I know that if I look at her I
shall never look away; I know that if I look away I can never look back; I know that if I
remember I would never remember. From every one of her footsteps blossomed a
dream of mine: a nightmare I had when I was five of the graves turning into gray
tongues extending indefinitely in pursuit, my running steps and screams soundless in
the night's loam, the tongues furry and sprouting little hands from the tastebuds that
lapped at my feet hungrily; a dream about a castle built from clouds, a building built
of bone, flesh, blood, rising from a steel river between them a wall made of every
human in history, the bodies looking breathing junkyard scrap, the skin hues
conflating into a gray; various dreams catalyzed by the bug-eyed cat bus in Totoro,
zooming through waterfalls, over resonant greenviolent canopies at the borders of
cityscapes; a dream in which my consciousness inhabited various inanimate objects—
chairs, paint, a violin, etc, and this being the longest dream I've ever had, spanning
passive horrid decades and inciting in me extreme compassion and empathy for all
inanimate consciousnesses everywhere; a dream I had before I stopped wearing them
in which I wore eyeglasses, of barbed wire; she took about twenty steps, then turned
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to look at me, her legs apart in the click of heels. The sun lit her hair, itself a smeared
smirk coquettish behind a leitmotif of clouds. I began toward her. The dreams drifted
up, dissipated, and again my eyes fogged, and the Polish girl was gone. I wake up.
Landscape Without Glasses from “The Principles of Nonsense”
Its handle stuck, the toilet keeps
flushing & my grandmother casi muere
de susto. We followed someone up an
incline and the concrete ceased; through
a maw in the fencewire is a wide dirt road,
angled with vegetation & pebbles & a slug,
tenement on the right side and two puny crumbling
houses like out of Mango Street on the left.
A vague stop sign hovered at the end.
Behind one house was another tenement. Hammered
into the crook created by the angle of their building,
the house's front porch facing a second-floor window,
was a set of rusty spoons pantomiming as windchimes.
That was Marion. Oliver Place was one block long, &
cobblestone, & we walked down and back, peering over
the edge. A mailbox sprayed pink by bubbly S. "Can
one one letter really be a tag?" "Can one word?"
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A vent that looks like an upturned J in a false
Spring, a sunny wind bites & mud of sky still babbling.
The houses are garbled interruptions swallowed by
now, owners raking concrete front yards & clinging to
trampled arbors. Ivy on stout buildings with barred
windows & barbed wire for hair is only incidental. Little
kids with crooked teeth say it "bobbed waiyuh." The
shadow of a pole bent, a gleam where gleam should not be—
03/29/09
A field of decimated strawberries gory on concrete, a pale fake gold medallion
swinging from a tree which grows from a corner between two walls becoming each
other. The fighting roots in the concrete-brick crease look like rips along the spine of
a folded sheet of paper. The alley in which the tree grows snakes around my building
like a scarf. In the basement itself all doors are locked except the one which leads to
the beginning of the alley, which is locked from the outside in, and after the first right
turn—which corner's concrete is sunken and prone to hosting a slimy pool of still
water for a few days after heavy rain, allowing the mosquitoes a temporary party, it
getting so crowded and unquiet that vector RSVP's and VIP's sprout up, numberstaken for the queue when the rare person actually comes into the alley, the nose
plugged with wary fingers, breathing through the mouth—there are two recessions in
the building's structure; at the farther one there is an unopenable door at the top of
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festering metal stairs which would lead to the lobby. At the foot of the stairs and
glued to the ground is shit. Pigeons bumble on leaky air conditioners just now
awaking from hibernation. At the closer recession is usually a pile of poles, tubes,
steel anomalies, sometimes scrapwood, and four flights up (thus the third floor) can
be seen the burned halo tattoo of a crack-related burning incident in winter 20081.
1 This was the second poem I wrote in 2008, which is sort of about or during the incident of the crack fire. This fire
completely roasted the user's apartment, but it also badly damaged the apartment under it, 2H, in which formerly resided my
godfamily, all of whom were there, with us, coming over to this Place from the island, though not on the same flight or
anything—to say the least, we see them less often. They live in a co-op somewhere south of us. I remember the smells of
that little heatbox apartment, sitting with my godsiblings in their living room playing Donkey Kong Country in 97 when my
brother was born, telling my parents I'd rather play than see him (what a dick). Anyway:
Workspace from “The Principles of Nonsense”
The dogs are over-excited, hop
p p ping around like tweakers—
What could you expect at five
A.M., with every tenant in the
lobby shriveling out of their apartment, or tooth, watching them
feed the hose into the gaping mouth
of the building, some sandwiched
against windows. Some tripped over the
tonguelike thing and one man yelled at
the firemen, speed it up. They stared
at all blankly. Faces untitled.
The smoke was also untitled. The
dogs scuffled and dropped five A.
M. turds while the tenants buzzed
about the flames and the hearing
of the window breaking (I heard it
and it was untitled). Word is, the
tenant of the emblazoned apartment
was smoking a rock and dropped the (
volatile) pipe. Why the shatteredwindow no one knows. Ah neva aks,
says one tenant, wasa gwaan—is
sutten Ah radda naa know. Only
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There is a final turn along the western side of the building; just as on the
eastern side, the unused back-entrances for the stores indent into my building,
gratings pulled down like eyelashes. Close to the steps into a passage and gate
exactly like the eastern one are two final doors, from the building itself. There is a sign
on the upper pane of a window behind a grating: “If I see you near these window I
will break most of your bone.”
Small sprigs of excited light play underneath the fire escapes between the two
recessions, exclaiming, interceding. My window, which lacks the customary iron bars,
is just before the first turn, and my parents' window with the fire escape is the second
after the turn, following the window in my siblings' room. In the soft Spring the new
light makes the tenants lazy and garbage piles up in the alley until a smell is
noticeable. To say the least. I entrust this issue and others olfactory to my small three-
speed fan, which has both intake and exhaust functions. Let's just say it's saved my
ass many times. The superintendent's partner, as it were, lives in the one basement
apartment, past the laundry room. He'll get himself two men and they'll shuttle out
the garbage at his delegation and the process will begin again. They'll usually smoke
a blunt, the hired workers. At its cleanest the trash doesn't extend past the first
corner; at its worst it trails long past the first hexagonal recession, with a sub-file
against the eastern wall until the first corner. The bags look smug, reaching patiently a
critical mass, lolling and lollygagging, looking like a squad of overgrown bugs. The
Gahd know. I jump to say that Godis untitled but I hold my tongue.
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concrete underfoot is green yellow with pollen and moss rumors. Along the alley-
convergence nooks shambling before barbed wire, in the shadow of the five beautiful
trees which grow from this corner, near my window, are congregations of plants,
some prostrate in the stretch of dirt to the sun's whim, perfect in devout efficiency.
The five trees are like a hand unearthing itself, the roots like the knuckles.
Summer always begins seeing me a disciple of nothing, though the piety
bleeds into the periods before and after it, the end and beginning of each school
year. I loaf about like a roving, grazing cloud, sleeping eight hours a night at least and
taking generous naps throughout the days, ever in transition, ever the more desiring
never to have to leave the makeshift embryo of the bed. This wears on until I feel
atrophy's onset, the mind beginning to wink into itself, the eyes teething. Sleep
becomes an oblivion, and I start to lose touch with my dreams. I awaken dazed, the
world at a further distance than before, I could swear... with more sleep only comes
more sleepiness, more desire for sleep. The tentacles of that null worldspace draw
you in, void you of a determined agency, the rings under the eyes
dendrochronological records of vacuities, a blackness into which cannot be reached
without the arm shooting back out in parabola, the hand possessed and slapping its
owner's face. My sleep cycles are anticircadian, interrupted—I initially wake up each
morning around seven, sometimes by the sun rising from behind the Cemetery and
over the building across the street parallel to mine, or by raucous birds or creaking
humming whining machines, or activity in the apartment, and I'd feel even sleepier
than before, my eyes aching strangely and lines pressed into my face, with the
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process repeating itself every two hours or so until I finally am out of bed.
A far dark cloud like a nose yells the rain, the blue of sky a blue that shocks. I
hold my hands out abstractedly to that lone thunderhead; my eyes closed and I
envisioned thousands of souls being stripped away by layers inside the cloud, which
looked like galloping mud and ice, and the souls were like plants in reverse, their
chakras paling and withering, flakes shimmering as they floated, the color furious.
Possible realities of every instant were steamrolled. Pain was a relief from pleasure.
My mind's eye reels; I saw the outside of the cloud, shedding layers, yelling. My eyes
peel open. My eyelashes catch a raindrop.
Dead branches are covered in magnetic tape rustling manelike. The wind might
be brittle. This wall looks like it weeps. A dirty plastic spoon lays facedown in a
puddle. Each block is pocked with different tiny puddles almost like fingerprints. If
institutions are collections of fingerprints what are the fingerprints of institutions and
who collects them? Tobacco reeks behind a tarblack bucket stuck to its place and
haunted-looking. It rains and baggies glisten on the ground. I put my right hand on
top of my head and turn around to leave the basement alley.
Rain and its weak light can take away refractory layers from the day: pallor
infects everything, all being looking blood-drained, warped like wet wood. The rainy
people looked like masks inhaling and exhaling fog under a sour-milk sky, the
buildings of Montefiore's Moses Division along Gun Hill attaining evil halos, the
windows trying to hide their hyena-grins. The droplets felt like the tickle of a hair or
an insect brushing up against you, bombarding your apertures. The little white
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walking man disappears and lets the red hand flash. I mistake a napkin for a dove, the
rain makes the sodden trash around me flout around, possessed, while I sat there
pondering the ramifications of my bubble—a rustling bag mistaken for a blackbird, a
small green drooping leaf bursting purple at its edges, Minish grime-and-dust cities
on structural underbellies.
A napkin in front of me has its top-left corner folded inward to create a right
triangle. The right side is folded toward the triangle to create a smaller rectangle,
tilted at a slightly different angle than the original rectangle. Before me is an uneven
row of diverse shoes. The napkin has a shoeprint. The balcony of a scarlet building
looks like a Judd piece come to life. The sun's an unnoticed wart. The soft mimic of
flowers, their playing in the viewpainting of forms, the swift motion—a sweet gut of
rose nostalgion, the contagion—
Where is land? I've seen only green contained in gray, tiny intermittent
explosions of flat flowers, elsewhere only seas of chopped-up squares colored teal,
ruddy orange, citrus, hills and hills of corduroy, silos and barns on the collar of each
profit square, the trees contained in a certain pinpoint while above hushed clouds
assert pincer formation, officers scheming in the barracks. Here one cloud for one
moment is the pale hat of the scarlet building.
It all burned into me, that it was here. That it was now, and I was here. Why
something? Two feet poked out, disgruntled forms below me like Bacon miniatures
clambering through a flatland, flaying themselves onward with the motion of color
diffracted. My left hand wrapped my right thumb in uncertainty.
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You turn south after Dekalb and Jerome is all stout stores, tight-packed, some
atop another, though few more than a story high: a dentist's office hides past a
staircase which leads you above Burger King, the molar mascot's eyes looking
convivial. Sometimes people squat on one of the roofs, watching the tops of the
crowd's heads, the train as it roars by, the streetlights hanging from its underbelly
swinging demurely. Matrices of light-rectangles tattoo the street and cars hurrying
along as if goaded. A girl in a green dress, clearly too old for the stroller in which
she's lounging, lets one arm flop haughtily around. It looks like a glazed-pumpkin
palm tree losing leaves as her pudgy fingers retract into a fist, which she presently
uses to support her drooping head. Ten plies of wood are used to make the outline of
a cube at the base of each tree; behind the trees is the outline of a fence, practically
negative space. The bones of a little bird are arranged in a spattered mannikin, here
the white tips touching, eventually engulfed. Concrete becomes everywhere. Are
falling fat hairy raindrops.
It is an hour after dawn. The purplish light is wet. The child is on his back, his
head and neck resting between two poles of a gate. His left foot is a foot from the
bleeding naked ankle. A red widening L trickles onto the street. A train passes,
eclipsing his light wails and groans. He screams once. You can see the bone and raw
muscle beneath the surface, the phantom pains of the leg engulfed by the pain of the
amputation. His eyes shiver wildly in his molasses-brown face creased in pain—an arc
from each nostril to each end of his top lip, on his forehead, on the nose itself—he
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grimaces, spits to the side, looks about. Bloodvarnished the street reddened, his skin
blanched. A bird could be heard probing the damp purplegray, a single punctuation
mark in white space. The wails grow savage rasp. Naught on which he can place the
blame for this castration, or to whom he could look for comfort, and my calling an
ambulance and walking past him, looking back for as long as possible, does not
count. The boy screams again.
I remember nothing. Esse est percipi. I walk, passing a house like a prune, and
one like a baby-blue towel, and one that was all corners. One house has let ivy thread
through its entire property, giving the appearance of an overpriced armpit. The
houses try to be swanky without trying. Driveways shave around rocks, lawns either
immaculate or fashionably savage, never in between. Some are on hills, and others'
properties extend below street level, the overlooking house on stilts. The sidewalk is
battered stone, each step the conquest of a tiny mountain, and it has clearly been
done on purpose, for aesthetics, or to discourage pedestrians. I hop to the street and
walk next to the curb. All little and big hills, the neighborhood is infected with stiff
artificial green. I walk farther, farther. Down out of this green fantasy. The Hudson
Pkwy arcs through these hilly West Bronx neighborhoods, from the gap between the
twenty-first and twenty-second exits between which lies the parts of the Bronx which
would least like to be of the Bronx, down to Spuytin Duyvil, which itself is a
subsection of Riverdale (South), into the city, over the Harlem River, Marble Hill
stranded in the Bronx and pretending to be Manhattan. A troupe of Dominican
drivers, their twenty shiny black cabs parked along the gradual slope which curves in
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on itself twice up toward Kappock from Johnson, 555 presiding like a fat tone cluster
over its cliff, from the roof of which, on a clearest day, can be seen all five boroughs,
takingbreathly. Three drivers hover about an uncertain patch of green-freckled dirt,
one inspecting it with a machete. On the other side of the street is a waist-high wall,
trees behind it giving way to a school and its grounds as I descend. One driver, in the
middle of a choppy sentence, puts coins into a two-headed parking meter. Cylindrical
traffic cones say LAW on the uppermost white stripe. Why? If no-one's at a stop sign,
drivers do not stop, and if pedestrians are present, some will still glide on through,
glancing out of eyecorners checking if they've been seen. Some flowers look as if they
naturally belong pinned to a dress, like certain animals and the dinner plate. Smile
with food in your teeth. What's at the end of a fork. Or cushed in a spoon.
Lir father of gods had half tongue and the world was made half, his orders only
half-understood and all having thus shadow cleaved within itself, the price of this, of
something rather than nothing, being the weight of that concealed shade, the gravity
of layered twining vespers—all itself itself split, folded over and into, of, like night the
pit of day's fruit, or stars seeded through, the sun a tangerine bursting through a
cloud corset... may half the day stay, may half the day be gay, night the tongue of
day's mouth, stars over cities like unspoken words behind the teeth...half-spoken,
unexpressed, inexpressible... the puzzle done puzzled itself out, rain hagnagging...
esse est percipi, and there is only one—there are no philosophical questions, none,
only different words. And what is the emptiness inside the words I cannot hold? The
world is the world. Perception is a subplot. Yet I run toward the world which is outside
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me and also containing me, existing and occurring without my consent, and I always
only get halfway there. Square two is square one shoved over. My little Janus steps
are each a rising blade of flowers, the motion ravishing but without direction,
confused in itself and wretched. I stand on air, devoted to nothing, bloated, hideous. I
am the point without dimension at which infinity's two bulges meet—what has been
and will be, and what could have been and could be, leering at each other, the sharp
noses touching—two empty balloons trying to float away from each other, fastened
to their place by me, you, us, this. Translate ay into English.
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4.Sharper-eyed boy there sitting on steps at a building's entrance, pants so baggy
they appear to be melting off the steps and dripping onto the concrete and gooey on
his Jordans like denim albumen, his dark shirt inhaling the heat; lean man there with
frizzy cornrows, shirt and shoes the exact shade of red, black jeans taut against his
form, accosted by a traffic cop aka bacon bits; driver there bearing left stopped by an
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undercover for not using his directional—“Sir dya 'ave any drugs alcohol nerrrcotics
firearms shotguns dead bodies in the trunk,” and the passengers eternally grateful
for being pulled over before copping—; that boxy puce car there buckling over a gap
in the street deep and disconcerting as an awkward pause in cocktail conversation;
globe-woman there with the neck exploding outward like a frog's, tottering under a
ratty bodega awning, waiting to ask someone to bend down and untie her dogs from
the scaffolding's base;...
On Tryon in the alley between the backside of a parking complex and the
building south of it the sun is noonfervent shimmering among garbage bags. Slashes
of light pecked with leaf shadows are trickling onto the sidewalk before the alley. A
mural of burners by each member of a crew and a world with a circle of handholding
people of different tinctures fencing it in was scraped off at the beginning of this
century and the wall was left to peel. A block west, across from the front entrance of
another, smaller parking complex, is 3454 Wayne Ave, of which the original parking
complex is aggregate, the tallest building this side of Tracey Towers' garbled gray
forms, and it looks like a faded red barrel-chested Lego with the WFUV radio tower
on its head blinking at apex, the balconies, three sets of three for each of the twenty-
eight above-ground stories, looking like slots for registering giant checks, bills,
notices, the giant hand impatiently feeding it slips... a good number of its residents,
unlike Tracey's, are wealthy and affiliated with Montefiore, and there the sun exclaims.
And funny, isn't it, that the other building, 3400 Wayne Ave, back of which creates the
sundazzling alley, this 1928 building known as LenRu for its original owners Lenny
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and Ruth back when half the Bronx was Jewish looking like a broken pentagon from
bird's-eye view, its entrance two blocks west of Williamsbridge Oval's Putnam Pl
entrance2, LenRu right at the heel of Wayne Ave which bears east and terminates after
forming a right angle with E 210 St, complete with gate and greenswanky courtyard
complex, isn't it funny that this building, which many other wealthy, educated folks
call home, lies so close south of the only other building with rich people in the area,
directly in its protecting shade?
E 210 St is a major artery for Montefiore. The Greene Medical Arts Pavilion
(outpatient services) begins a bit past the Y that E 210 St makes with Wayne's
impending termination, the entrance to the Moses Division (in-person services)
farther west, back of the Children's Hospital at Montefiore (CHAM) looking as if it's
floating behind the courtyard, its own entrance on Bainbridge. Farther west, with its
entrance on Kossuth Ave, is North Central, where the people without healthcare go,
and it in fact looks more like the seventies than any Montefiore building. South are
what were once private homes, now cottages for doctors' clinics.
Steuben Ave is a runt street about four blocks long, branching off from
Mosholu Pkwy N, intersecting with E 208 St, which comes into being as, after Wayne
2 Though one continuous plane, it is two blocks because Manuel Arturo Abreu's block is two-in-one—Putnam Pl at the
block's eastern base only exists from nigh the Park's entrance to its off-kilter intersection with E 211 St along a corner of the Cemetery, and Kings College Pl, after Columbia's original name, only exists from nigh his building's entrance, the
tenement in the indented style that was popular so long ago when the it was built—the names for the buzzers in the
forelobby of the building haven't changed; Manuel Arturo Abreu's apartment's is labeled N. Davidoff—to its own
intersection with E 211 St once it turns parallel to Gun Hill, whereabouts lies the public school he attended from K-5,
and was valedictorian of, as if that sort of concept is still viable. In fact (and anyway), all of the streets radiating from theOval from Reservoir Pl, at the eastern end of the Keeper's House, where Norwood News is published and where it will
soon take its yearly summer hiatus (a newly-rising condo can be seen as one walks down this little street, whichconcludes in the third quadrant of Perry Ave's intersection with Gun Hill), west to Wayne Ave, more about which you'll
read in the mainland text, these streets being the nucleus of Manuel Arturo Abreu's immediate surroundings, all end
along the cemetery, tiny little rays named after Revolutionary officers.
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Ave's termination, Reservoir Oval W becomes Knox W and finally becoming the
numbered street, running parallel E 210 St and then, after intersection with Steuben,
sharply turning northwest parallel M. Pwkwy N to intersect with E 210 and Dekalb,
and Steuben itself ends right when it hits E 210, right at North Central's butt-end,
another parking complex between Steuben and Rochambeau behind a north-facing
white male in a business suit. He is on a headset, bouncing on his toes, speaking:
“He being being the sort of guy who, well, to develop an addiction to Listerine
like he'd done, and who brung a small like suitcase there full of the damn things, the
little bottles and some big bottles for good measure in the inner pockets of the
wheelie bag, right, and he being a devout follower of the short-sleeve button-up
behind the blazer, and who wears Hawaiian shirts on casual Friday though of course I
cannot speak on whether they be authentic island items, right, but nonetheless
they're these ironic-kitsch loose-rag type post-casual atrocities, the aloha shirts I'm
saying, yeah, yuh, and standing front of his mirror3 rinsing with the stuff burning in his
hamsterlike cheeks, and spitten out after thirty seconds his eyes owl-wide as his
mouth is snake-wide for a second, staring at the green foam escaping his mouth, and
looking at himself in the mirror3 his right eyebrow darting up thin and dirt-blond, it,
and sly smiling at he going and doing what he did that day, yes, yes, I know what you
want to hear what he actually did, but you have to have—listen, you need the context,
the de-tails first, you want the full...”
What once were windows in the brick wall outside Manuel Arturo Abreu's
3 Pronounced here “meer” or “mier,” by this person.
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window, which is the left side of the commercial building next to his own, are filled in
completely with concrete and mortar. His elbow is on his window's sill. Besides this
wall, the rest of the walls in his building's alley cede, behind stout wire fences, to
other, elevated alleys swarming around other buildings. The glass of other windows is
stained, but not like what one would find in a church—a substrate for scratch marks,
histories of globs of spit racing down the pane, errant paint splatters, shit-stains of
shameless pigeons, simple unnamed dirt. He watches as the two drooping trees that
grow from that network of alleys sweep, swept by breeze, along the gray plaza. Bright
orange fungus grows along the far edge. That breeze is like a sweet and dim candle.
Another tenant some floors up throws bits of bread onto the plaza for the startled
gabbling pigeons, as he himself sometimes does. He watches and, without realizing,
repeats his name to himself.
Today there's a farmer's market set up in it, but a few months ago there was a
gay pride celebration in the Montefiore parking lot near Dekalb and the end of the
two-block expanse along E Gun Hill Rd which is the Moses Division's backside, which
expanse is much larger than Manuel Arturo Abreu's two blocks. As for the parade,
there were different opinions, but none could disagree that it was a sign of change in
the neighborhood. On that day patrol cars straddled as many corners as they could,
drivers and partners craned their necks. —Issa bunch of hyomos in'at shit, dem
smoochin' n shit, and dey's acting like dat shit is nohmal. —Iono, I gotta say I 'on't
really be worryin' bout the other man's, namsaen. —I hear waddya both the youse
asayin', onna one hand it's by Gahd disgustin but onna udda dis is home of thee free,
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is it nahht? —Ooman know ow fi dweet joos fine mon. Dat Babylon deh haffi gweh,
Jah guide. —Quedate mirando, que han llegao loh' patos, y mah' pa'cá arrancan.
Nene cubrete los ojitos. Pero fijate en esa cotión. —Oye pero este yo sera serio sere
por un momentico wichu tu oye? Oíhte? Dejaos que joden con cualquiera. Shu gatta
fyne loffe guateber papi. Si bailan así iss tu eech hiss ohn brohder. Entiende?
It's mostly something to do, it was a sunny day which shouldn't have been rare
toward the end of March but to say the least the world has changed. An entire
species is fingerpointing and filibustering, buying time for the already broken, both
itself and the ecosystem, not its own as it would think but instead containing it, this
palebluedotbeautiful accident and its unhurried cycles absorbing our violence, for
love beareth all and all things covers quietly, the machines plowing dead soils
endlessly overturned and we have tried to plot the exponential graph, grope time and
speed it, cities rotting from inside and beneath themselves, the brokenness
apparently too subtle to go noticed in society, aside from a few jokes and obloquies.
Oh, yes, Manuel Arturo Abreu gets morbid and nihilistic by his window, in the winter
mostly, though perhaps not so strange in the rocky Spring it had been, and June's
slick wet abstraction, gazing behind your shoulder instead of into your eyes—yes, yes,
in true summer the blocks start to buzz in the Bronx, the shuffle of people not simply
commuters leaving and coming but also children rollicking about shrieking happily,
vendors with their portable bazaars, coquito nomads, dealers advertising kush to a
potential customer, thugs sitting on cars not theirs lowing their mating rituals amid
foraying badges, old hands their legs crossed in folding chairs watching, and you
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wonder is it a coincidence the police academy graduates in July...
Sixty-four of New York City's ninety-four step streets are in the Bronx, that is,
forlorn crumbling stairs connecting parallel avenues and streets sometimes stretching
on for so long that they become infamous, dread to all but the steeliest. At the base
of Irwin Ave after it distentangles from Riverdale Ave, long enough once one reaches
Johnson but continuing up to Edgehill, and finally terminating on Netherland and
narrow all the way up, is 230th St, which often frustrates climbers who think it more
convenient than trudging up that ridiculous winding hill, so horribly roundabout with
the curving in on itself and the avenues becoming each other, “arnum stairs jussa
teensy bit quicker,” but what once seemed a clever notion turns out to be the bigger
bugbear, and the more tiring. In these absurd victories will the land beneath the feet
always conquer. Invariably, it says, I am the earth. And as one gets closer to Riverdale
with its serene canopy of boughs it becomes clear, eleven square miles of the
borough is green space, not only parks and the Cemetery but green interruptions like
flowering phrases between dashes, places like Van Cortlandt's tail, serving a similar
function to Greenstreets. It also serves to divvy up the borough, just as highways
provide havens between neighborhoods, boundary-points.
The highest elevation in the Bronx, in Riverdale, was amputated to create a
neighborhood within a neighborhood, Villanova Heights. Like the most secluded
parts of North Riverdale, it creates a green rustling dream, a quiet lie nestled in
America's poorest county, where two-thirds of all men have been in prison once,
where one-third of families is headed by a single mother, where the lines for food
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pantries beckon Soviet Russia jokes, where in a year shootings increase and gun
arrests decrease. Villanova Heights has a closing gate, though; the closest Riverdale
has, in light of recent spates of petty crime and vandalism, is two parallel pillars on
each sidewalk where W 244 St intersects with Waldo Ave and Manhattan College
Pkwy, north of Brust Park, which both read “Private Community,” the stern threat,
the apparition of a gate presumed to be enough to deter any more of those pesky
notions.
There are sundry buffer zones enveloping Riverdale: Norwood's roughly an X
with a V's top tips attached to its legs and postnate spaces. The X is formed by the
intersection of E Gun Hill Rd running, obviously, east-to-west, and Jerome Ave
running northeast. The former becomes W Gun Hill Rd after crossing with the latter;
the V is formed by Mosholu Pkwy S's intersection with Webster Ave, and the parkway
bifurcates, coalesces and becomes Gun Hill Pkwy shortly before advancing farther
northwest and intersecting with Jerome Ave and either the beginning or end of the
Grand Concourse, which if considered turns the V into an N, in the first crook of which
is Bedford, and which leads farther south to Jerome's intersection with Fordham Rd,
around E 190 St. Green spaces cushion Norwood's V and the last numbered street
before that angle is E 204 St; Jerome Ave continues north and in the top triangle of
the X, bounded on the west by the parkway, which after intersecting with W Gun Hill
Rd becomes Gun Hill Pkwy and then after crossing the Deegan reverts, is Mosholu
Golf Course, and, bounded on the west by Jerome, bounded farther east by a dead
long stretch of Webster Ave almost parallel to the Bronx River Pkwy, and on the north
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by E 233 St, is Woodlawn Cemetery. Woodlawn Heights is north of that, Yonkers-
yearning. In the eastern negative-space nook of the X is an isosceles with Jerome and
Bainbridge, which collides with the former past E 213 St where Dekalb terminates and
also past the last stop of the 4 train, Woodlawn, and in the westward nook of the X is
the first of Riverdale's bulwarks, a short sequence of curvy blocks, Knox Pl and Gate Pl,
then green, then W Gun Hill Rd crosses the parkway and becomes Van Cortland Park
S, which enormous park which lies north (duh) of that South namesake, is bounded
on the west by Broadway, and along Van Cortland Park S, with Sedgwick Ave to the
south before Fort Independence Park and, past Van Cortland Ave W, Bailey Ave, the
former burgeoning from V.C. Park S's intersection with the latter. The little set of
streets between V.C.P. S and Sedgwick—Dickinson Ave, Saxon Ave, Hillman Ave,
Gouverneur Ave, Orloff Ave, and last— is the second bulwark, a tiny thriving
neighborhood that's almost a cult of whiteness. These are the final vestiges of a
storied past, and Amalgamated Security patrol that wedge, which concludes when
Gale Pl wraps around itself and leads back to Orloff.
Past Gale is a set of stairs, and V.C.P. S continues, crossing over the Deegan, and
these are in combination the third bulwark. V.C.P. S becomes W 240 St west of
Broadway, but also curves north into Broadway, becomes it. The fourth bulwark is so
comprehensive as to be divided into two discrete categories: the northern sector is
Manhattan College and its guido denizens, and the southern sector is Kingsbridge, a
consistent supplier of substances for students in its periphery, and its petty criminality
makes it a brilliant bulwark. More and more green spritzes as one furthers southeast
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to Spuyten Duyvil or north to Riverdale proper. A somewhat steep hill past Manhattan
College Pkwy, Post Rd, which at the foot of Horace Mann becomes W 246 St, is the
final bulwark between pleb Bronx and the FPOA4 haven. Certain that this colorless
green dream sleep furiously. North of Fieldston's cluster, which contains the Hill
Schools, Riverdale becomes more like a typical suburb, and one is officially in Yonkers
when Riverdale Ave becomes Warburton Ave and Broadway, N Broadway.
Skirting neighborhoods' edges, Manuel Arturo Abreu often makes the swift
walk along E Gun Hill, whose transmutations have been noted—it were almost
straight, if a tossed ribbon should be called straight—and past the deviant bulwarks is
his H.S. alma mater, Riverdale Country School, the farthest-north of the Hill Schools,
and the self-proclaimed middle ground between Horace Mann's hardline academic
rigor and Fieldston's, shall we say, chillness, and apparently it was some sort of in-joke
that RCS was built along Fieldston Rd and Ethical Culture Fieldston School was built
around Riverdale Ave. They are all billed as convenient escapes from The City's private
school hotbeds, so to speak.
The Soundview and Hunts Point neighborhoods, deep in the South Bronx—
which toponym throughout the Bronx's decline shifted continually northward, from a
signifier of place to one of attitude, almost Platonically sublimated, troponymic, an
anonym creating its own folly and as well the redundant praise of its comorbidities—
are two fat lolling lips in a sneer smooching the East River, and from the gullet the
Bronx River empties south into it, and the Bronx is beheaded directly under the ear at
4 Fieldston Property Owners Association, which Manuel Arturo Abreu pronounces trochaically, as written, fpoah.
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Spuyten Duyvil along its jawline by the Harlem River, and Manhattan's a floating
elongated neck. The river of the same name separates the Bronx into East and West,
tenement flatlands and gradients of hills—it's still vile from sewage dumped into it by
neighboring Westchester towns, but a slick beaver, Jose, the first seen in New York
City in some two hundred years, was seen swimming in it. The Pugsley and
Westchester Creeks form the face's nose east of the lips. The jaw continues along Port
Morris' arbitering factories and, north, Mott Haven, Ward's Island like an Egyptian
goatee. South of Hunts Point, conveniently, is Rikers Island, less a prison than an
inmate colony with a population in double-digit thousands, on average, filled till fit to
bust, an incarcerated city with playing fields, groceries, laundries, power plants,
distressed prisoners with frothing Marlin T. Höek-wide eyes...
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5.“You fear yourself. Like Thoreau's glass eyeball, you strive to efface your ego
and achieve transparency, believing naively and narcissistically, paradoxically, that it
can be done simply by saying it, willing it so, feigning divinity and therein hoping
hopefully to find...” The rims of his eyeglasses are perfect black circles, and two
wrinkle-lines like strings rest parallel to each other, little sine waves above his
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eyebrows.
“That may be true, or not, but how does that mean I fear myself? Isn't
attempting divinity, your claim not mine, pretty, ah, egotistical?” My right thumb
leaves my chin, my index and middle fingers which had been hovering round my nose
fling themselves palm-up toward him.
“The ego behind which lies our death-urge betrays fear.” His chin's on his left
index.
“Thanks, Freud.” As I say this, Freud's study appears flashing in my mind. It is
a long, horrible couch, the elevated end up against Freud's green chair like a mutant
infant resting its head in the apprehensive mother's lap. A thick, hideous blanket
stretches over this patients' couch like a sheet over a cadaver, designed with what
look like gaudy ziggurats built of jewels, pillows the colors of vomit strewn along the
wall behind it. Behind Freud's egg-head and his cartoonish nose and ears is a shelf
ledge and various sculptures, the shelf, full of books, hidden behind his green seat.
The room vanishes.
“In believing that a better Reality exists for you outside of your ego, if it exists
at all, in passing judgment, classifying what cannot you know, you reveal an unease
about the ego's machinations. You feel you can't trust yourself. Shadows follow you
about rooms, snickering, sticking out their limbs and making you trip. The mask does
not cover the whole face. It does not cover what could never be silence.” My nose
wrinkles into a half-smirk as he finishes, and fleetingly he brings a fist up to the white
space between his clavicles, the mainland fingers writhing placidly for an instant as
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they come curling together, the island thumb poking out to nowhere.
“Indeed, one fears the ego, the babbling pastiche with which one defends
oneself, for one too fears that, that which the ego is built to mask. What we call
ourselves and what we are are oil and water, I is just a big gaping hole, yadda yadda
yadda. I think every single human being feels that way, whether or not he or she can
fully quantify, understand, or abstract it—what, do you propose a solution? Is there
some way to reconcile outside with inside, real with, Real?” We face each other,
seated each on a loveseat at parallel ends of a square glass table.
“The Reality is simplified by assuming that unquantifiable entities play
unquantifiable roles.”
“That may be the way perception of the Reality occurs, it being a human
construct, but everything humans have done in and to this world is an example of the
quantifiable nature of the ego. It's clearly visible, but only in effects, in conversations
with people, in, let's be bald, land rape. Solipsism is logically sound in its own vacuum
but it's untenable in practice. There is a real, whether we like it or not, and it is
separate and distinct from the Reality. That's the genius, of course—narcissism in the
social vacuum, personalities and histories serving as human skin for machines—”
“The logical motion is that underlying, unobservable catalysis for the forms
the Reality takes. Because we cannot measure it, because the answer lies behind a
locked door, which swallowed its own key, and because all our actions and intents are
only in reference to the Reality, and removed from the logical motion, we must dance
around it. The chasm between the two worlds is us, this, and we must dance.” Both
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of us shift loudly in our seats.
“Dance. That sounds like something I would—”
“There is no such person, only the smaller ends of funnels—,” making a V-
shape with his right index and mid.
“First, you interrupted me. The dance bit sounds like something I would say—
on a bad day. Anyway, the logical motion is what allows the funnels to be filled?” My
right index finger rotates, the circle motion meant to signify filling, somehow.
“The logical motion allows us to perceive this funnel as filling, when in fact it is
emptying.” He lines his knuckles up, the thumbs touching at their tips, and his
fingers sprawl into the air, the hands rotating from palm-up to -down.
“Thus it would allow us to perceive that the funnel exists at all, meaning that it
in fact doesn't. I don't even know if I buy this whole logical motion bit. I still agree
with Hume that causality can't be proven. How does the motion thread itself through
everything? We simply assume it's there because the phenomenal is there, so to
speak? Every phenomenal event could as well simply be a random occurrence,
without explanation or sense until after the fact, an unfeasible photon of possibility
that—”
“The Reality is not there, but here, as we speak, being constructed. We try to
devise shapes and forms, bottles into which the observable, which I agree with you is,
just a mess, may flow like clear water, but each vessel fills and we, seeing still through
the glass, think it empty. We cannot understand what fills it, or how it filled, and we
call it randomness, or anything we like.”
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“God, scientific law, space, time, et cetera. I know, I've read Kant. You must be
some sort of noumenologist, then. Seeking—the unseekable. Theoretically, don't you
think there would have to be some phenomenal event which would allow for
understanding of the Reality?” Our hands now are in their owners' laps.
“Yes and no. Any kind of skeleton key event like that would be
metaphenomenal, and certainly would not allow for any understanding in the sense
we speak of.”
“Metaphenomenal, eh? Wouldn't it by necessity be experiential, though?”
“Yes, but it is not like an epiphany. It is the epiphany of epiphanies.”
“It would be like walking up stairs with one's eyes closed, waiting for the
feeling of expecting a next step at the last step, chucklestumbling, but the stairs go
on forever.”
“If the Reality is a set of stairs, the Singlemost is the sprouting of wings.”
“The Singlemost,” we say simultaneously. There is a pause. Eyebrows raise.
O. deGaffe leans far back into his seat, satisfied. It's a white turtleneck he's got
on, cream-white khakis, and the walls surround him with it, the color titan. “Must
needs be the Singlemost epiphanic? If not, how could one know that the moment has
the weight it does? In being experiential, the Singlemost must be known. But I
suppose that a singlemost need not be known in immediacy, that is, experience.”
“It is distinct?”
“The Singlemost is capitalized, metaphysically. It happens and it blinds.
Indeed, a singlemost is like an amusing plot development in a dream; the Singlemost
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is like waking up from the dream.”
“Or realizing one is trapped in a recursive loop of dreams.”
“A set of singlemosts is a singlemany; the Singlemost cannot reiterate and
cannot therefore belong to sets. If a singlemost may be categorized and collected it
necessarily may be analyzed and thus searched for. Patterns may be discerned or
fancied. The Singlemost does not allow for analysis.” He traces his lower lip with his
left index finger, angling the rest of his hand away from him. It is an awkward gesture,
and off-putting.
“Therefore, it's epiphanic, which answers your original question. In one
blinding moment the knotting-into that is the Reality will reach its conclusion and full
understanding will be attained.”
“It is more visceral than understanding. One cannot search it out. It searches
one out. It is like having deja vu for something that hasn't happened yet and
eventually never does.”
“The Singlemost is not an organizing construct for the Reality. It is not of the
Reality. It is the closest to God that I cannot find.” His eyes which are normally
ineffectual steel show a kindle, as if a cherry of roses burned beneath the curtain.
“Indeed, the Singlemost cannot function within the Reality, which is based on
the system and its function. The Singlemost cannot be a part of a whole because it is
a whole in and of itself.”
“Though it could be said that all parts are wholes, and wholes parts.”
“Now, we are in knots, and they are good knots, juicy, with weight, but
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remember, these are my concepts, and it is I, I that have not found what is closest, to
God.” He attempts a wink which looks like one dot of an ellipsis blinking off and
back on.
“That's not an accomplishment.”
“Yes, but I know you writer types. If it, if my concepts, go in a book, I must,
must get credit.” His hands are like ironing boards before him.
“Fat chance.”
“To which? Using my concepts or giving me credit?”
“Either. Both.”
The Reality is metadata the border of a convenience that knowing could never
contemplate.
The Singlemost. It is the Reality itself made real, understood outside the
context of human meaning. It is the Reality validated and vindicated but also
trivialized, erased. Experiencing the Singlemost is like going through a black hole, the
light crying as it is squeezed., the body in pinhole, a still image at the forever mouth
like a stray shred of meat, the predators are messy eaters. The yelps of light are not
ours, the bright needles stretching like pencil lines, the density infinite and without
volume. Infinite tossed-aside moments and their possibilities make weight known.
Pure the Singlemost is the infinitestrong gravity, the knot which cannot be tied.
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6.What is simplified as fear is actually depressingly complex: the blank page
which we think mocks us (and does) reminds us we know nothing, reminds us why
one is told “Do not write, do not write, do not write.” The lines in the sand fill
themselves in to disappear, unbecoming by becoming whole. The blank page evokes
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for humans the whitebeautiful place we do not know, the place without writing,
without art, without language. Is it before or after that it comes, if ever it will? It is
Beauty and its despair we are trapped in, and any philosophy is wrong if it begins by
postulating that there is knowable truth. Know, I don't state that there is no truth—
could there be a person so ignorant, so involuted? The world is the world. There is no
another. Truth is a single entity, a single statement: humans sift about shards,
delicately, avoiding injury, softening the edges with speech, but those glowering
fragments are not puzzle pieces, only staring glowing mirrors, and there are arbitrarily
many, without any evident finished picture. Stories never end because they might as
well never begin.
Blank it is like the sun blanketing me in a daiquiri sky, the pure empty page
extending forever, the scroll never unraveled or unreveried, behind my eyelids red
against the light. Two pillar eyes of parallel unblinking storms wide-open but
dreaming, the open page, and coy is the blood of the dream as it copes, the tiny
glitching worlds of the world: fair and vibrant follow this incredible system, read the
infant creator, unlearning adult, the dream a squeezing sponge we speak. The drops
make expanding rings in the blank page, which bursts when we try to fill it, spilling all
over some new article of emperors' clothing, entire armies of paper towels deployed:
we (I) write to retaliate against this blank stain, this everopen orifice. Oh, my blankest
page, I ache carving the faces of these letters into your flesh white like a turned cheek
turned red, the black scratches hemorrhaging out of you. And you spill out in little
rivers between the words and letters, inside their very forms. I try to fill you but the
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emptiness goes on, multiplying, emptying by the very filling.
You are the memory of what could not be. You are the blank memory of what
should not have been. The blankness is the pain, the negative space which defines the
boundaries of I, and if perception and thought shall never coalesce then the gap
between them is infinite, and the arbitrary tumbles into it, falling endlessly, fading to
me, to myself becoming. Always we are becoming, and when alone and fey attempt
ourselves becoming, wading through oblique echoes, rivers wading through rivers of
shadow, processes groping in their darknesses. The water is calm—Father, he beat it
into submission. And He had the blank on his face. The room in my head dissolves to
silence. The walls flee from me, receding into blankness. I am trapped between the
two halves, twirling, again hearing rancid echoes—my hands reach for solidity, but
between perception and thought neither is possible—the border between before and
after becoming irrelevant—we thought it infinite, there is no space between binaries
—I am rancid and coy trapped between the blank page's verso and recto, between my
mind's—my hands—and—and I stare into the growing hole rippling its way out from
my center, the light blinding crying screaming out of me, and my eyes burst into
contused rainbows, object becoming subject becoming object, and narrative whispers
the noose to abject me, and I pray and pray for a muse. And the blank page will ever
never be the muse.
I fear that anything could happen. In the World this fear's source comes from
having no control over what shall happen, but on the page it is or seems in one's own
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control, and I cower to kiss the name of this beauty, to wield a power in the very
reading and writing and language of both that is hitherto and onward
incomprehensible—strange, isn't it, that we've come so to depend on language and
absentee host meaning: yes, other animals communicate with sound and gesture, but
meaning and function are two vastly different things. Opposite. Maybe. Everything
animals do is In the World; there is no interface-cortex-abstraction-pseudo-
dichotomy-etc between an animal and its environment; there is no society-couched
Creation in legitimacy of a Reality, no filter to allow perceptual and conceptual
protection from the indirect dangerous brutish World. How warped we must be. Shit,
we make it pretty hard on ourselves, as a species, to each other. Cold motherfuckers
that are able to kill humans, to shed would-be souls of efficacy, of dignity, and are
able to sleep at night—they're in charge of the world. Their spheres of influence allow
societies, ideologies, art as playthings to exist in the shadow of their limns, yes here
we are in the Reality's jig. Seeking luxury, small talk over hot chemical sugar
codename coffee, hands over some slim body, the butterfly-bristle of arm hairs and
eyelashes, an excuse to look good, and to succeed for it, a comfortably messy auto
and an endless array of objects which bear your mark, which leave a trace of you,
somewhere, please... How could the page terrify me when like any there is Your face?
I say this bearing the wonders of art and culture and technology and
philosophy afforded since, but I also bear in mind the awesome violence and
degradation and destruction since, and because of, in both cases—the Industrial
Revolution, I mean, and afterward—but it must be said: the seemingly rapid
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development of its tools and technology throughout human history have had mostly
negative effects. And the good effects are only good because and in light of those
negative ones; art is only beautiful because it attempts to explain this gravid sticky
hole behind a curtain in our deeper spaces, and even if it fails, it still fills the hole, we
say, and smile pinched smiles; Western culture is only good because—ha, ha, ha. Or
maybe I'm moving too fast for myself.
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7.“And what about Buddhism? They're onto something with nirvana, in which, to
speak in our current terms, the whole of experience is the Singlemost. The
Singlemost, as I understand it, does allow for epiphany, but a pyrrhic one, an ultimate
realization about the futility of human endeavors.” The thumb, index, and middle of
my right hand laze palm-up, floating before me as I speak.
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“That's child's play. If that were the puny extent of it, if it were comparable to a
religious epiphany, why should the Singlemost even matter if we ourselves can infer
the depth of that futility? We know each in our darkest hearts how absolutely,
absurdly small we are. A little bit of that solipsism, there?” He wags his left index.
“Do you not accept that there must be something aside from and outside of our
recursive meaning-loops, our virtual markets and hypertext farms, something that will
make us rise above the pyrrhic epiphany you described, a next step?”
“I can't say.”
“Because you haven't experienced the Singlemost.”
“Because it's a philosophical crutch, a deferral, a refusal to provide any truth,
instead providing endless references to references to references of truth, images of
images, and you, my friend, are no Fermat.” I shift forward in the seat, my hands flat
on my knees. “The very fact that the Singlemost would be experiential means that it
can't really exist, because I'll misinterpret it, as humans do with all phenomena. Any
singular moment has arbitrary interpretations when meaning is imposed, and it must
be imposed. That's just how we work—we can't operate outside of meaning. Anyway,
what exists outside of us, we like to think, outside meaning, outside form as function
—it's hard to say, but it's probably something having to do with the natural world,
with experiencing and acting in the world without an interface, a medium, though
then again every organism has a medium, even those chemoautotrophs way down
where there's no light—”
“The form which governs both is the same, so necessarily a connection must
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exist, and necessarily there must exist something to explain the connection, the
relationship. Humans are not disconnected from nature, much as we like to believe,
and much as we've tried to make it so, and make ourselves believe it is so.”
“You mean that the manifestations of your logical motion are related? Are
different manifestations even distinct in your vision?”
“They are different ways of saying the same thing.”
“It's all very Galilean, this indiscernible force permeating everything, allowing
the universe its properties, though how we cannot know. They say the same thing,
but the echoes are so loud that what's actually said we can't know, we only hear a
Babel.”
“The reason a singlemost is distinct is to afford some level of flexibility.
Subjectively, any moment may provide a person with understanding. But the
Singlemost is much different. It is not a calculus; one cannot simply choose the
moment which should be the Singlemost, like setting a limit for a function, apply our
own ends and use it as a means. The Singlemost is its own end, and the means is
itself.”
“But why can't you just apply it however you want? What's to distinguish
understanding on the level of the Singlemost versus the understanding afforded by
interpretation? Aren't you, right now, doing exactly that? Aren't you building off of a
questionable premise and refusing to question it?”
“You've trapped me into trying to make objective something I cannot make
objective.”
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“You have to ask questions. You don't have to solve problems but you can at
least delineate the nature and structure of problems. Knowledge doesn't have to be
about power, about imposing upon our world. I can already tell you're the type who
will trap himself into himself, looking for a proper organizing structure to explain the
unwritten, to classify something you aren't equipped to understand. Then again, that
is a universal human trait, and I suppose it makes no difference in the end. You've
taken the word games a little too seriously, losing sight of the world along the way.”
“These are not simply word games for me. I need to understand. You are right
—the logical motion is flawed, but so far it is the best structure I can conceive of.”
“It's the assumed unity with which it analyzes the world that allows its failure.
Text bubbles inside text bubbles. Use is meaning. The world is the world.”
The scene blurs then fades out, the voices hovering in afterimage, muffled
before trailing into silence.
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8.Ludicrous that some could claim the death of the author. Subjectivity yields in
the writer only ever the more exertion for the sake of achieving either clarity or
ambiguity, affording her the infinitesimal and flaunting the impossibility of its being
surmounted. That connection is futile cannot stymie the attempt to achieve it. Why
must language be the key that is its own lock? Because our hearts are locked and
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something must pretend to be unlocking. Language is a learned concealment existing
only in a failed state, measure for measure.
To begin, we may consider all acts means of communication, modes of
language. What is denoted metalanguage is the state of what is denoted object
language, for acts must only be about and in context to other acts. Object language
looks at itself in the mirror and is unable to deduce an explanation for its
understanding of the relationship. The expression and the content have a relationship
denoted relata that is unexplainable, ERC (cf. Barthes), contained therein (in R of ERC)
a language looking itself over in a mirror: expression utilizing the infinite possibility of
language attempting to explain this possibility that makes language possible.
Embedded in our attempts to break the mirror that is everything is that very mirror.
Must we consider thus all acts, called language, futile? The trait of humanity, then, is a
penchant for absurdity. Chomsky's universal grammar still applies because universal
properties within (which cause) multiplicity are the prevalent system in nature.
However black swans and randomness we may consider the cornerstone of the
effulgence of the universe. It is this cornerstone that provides a limit to nature's
growth, which we may call balance. Human society prevents this. Speaking concretely,
the preeminent problems are population and, therein, imbalanced means distribution,
incorrect attitudes towards ecology and the very old dichotomy of direct experience
and a world at large, outside of oneself. The Zen slap so to speak, and if it can be said
that there is some interest in ancient cultures in a relationship if not an equality
between emptiness and fullness then it can be said that Western culture and the
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properties therein are the empty. Primitivism is one of the most vital tools available to
a society disconnected from the reality of all it consumes. Cuisine is decoration for
slaughter that should be respected. All this has been known. Why worth the re-
stating?
Knowing itself must be devalued. Doing is the logical conclusion which should
be contained therein, but most often people do without knowing and the doing is
empty, happening most starkly to those deprived of basic necessities ie clothing,
food, shelter, gender and sexuality equality, education, et al and must subtly in those
with all or most imaginable luxuries. Though to consider anything universal and not a
commodity is absurd. People pay for bottles of water. People tell racial minorities that
they speak well. People, even Chomsky, consider pornography a cause and not a
symptom. People visit the Natural History Museum on 79th and CPW to see made-of-
plastic animals, convincing if only because they are life-size. And complaints are made
about the zoo. They fear the lack of glass and the darkness of the exhibit of a whale
eating a giant squid. Languages are not learned; language is not learned. Imitation is
the herald, and the humanistic quality of a thing is the imitative. Barthes illustrates
with the example of road signs. Philosophies of which God is a basic tenet may be
said to be absurd, but if God is invoked as universal law then it is an Old Testament
God, punishing and slaughtering and offering answers that are questions that defy
question. The human is not the question mark but the exclamation mark and irony
therein; the human is a microwave radiating vividly with nothing inside. Believe all
rumors true. Why did Hamlet have to be true. Barack Obama adds the phrase "the
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audacity of hope" to common jargon and also becomes president. Lovers of
knowledge, by the nature of loving, do not have what they seek. Thus to love
knowledge is not only necessary but absurd, and philosophy is a life full circle put
into quotes which emphasizes the spaces between each word and in each letter of the
language of that life; acts are earthquakes in cloudy stasis; the sea and space are
silent forever. Sound is peculiar because we do not know it; for nature love is obsolete
and plants trump machinery; carbon is injurious love that respites me a life whose
very comfort is still a dying horror.
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9.It began one day, as I was reading a book, gentling the swells of syntax, when I
suddenly, hovering between two words of a sentence, two letters of a word, realized
that the voice reading back to me might not be my own—and I soon would find
myself apprehensive even about that which Descartes could not doubt—how many
people are up there, really? Are there enough chairs for everyone? Are these voices
without body? They must be, if to my own flesh I can assign none, if any ambivalence
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at all presents itself. And what is this croaking expelled from me stumbling among
rubble in my throat, the words pushed too far together, lurching to escape from
possibility as they leap, spoken, to ecstatic death like fish caught in a net of silence? In
their speaking they are born to die, and the other unborn voices crowd the wrinkles
at the edges of my eyes, and all the unspoken words orbiting the phrase in its
conception are like passengers stuffed in a tin subway, the great crashing and eloping
on the tracks like lethargic tectonic plates, a few mealymouthed words escaping,
hands reaching through the closing doors... It all finds its way in somehow.
Asked who I am, what should I say? How could I know to whom the question is
directed, to whom it refers? What am I if not the intersection of my perception and
my being perceived? Am I the person I convince myself I am when alone, the
crossroads of the voices' blathering, the echoes of the day as the sun burrows away,
revealing one last brazen ankle under night's hemline? I tug at your dress. I find
borrowed light. Look for twine pulling the eyes, the lower jaw—my nostrils flare like
two fireflies in a second-long staring contest, I try to peel myself from experience
distending further my form. Diffuse, without center. There's too much of me, the
Rubenesque body extending forth from the empty convergence-point, the fat
forming the shield, Oh I am a boy with breasts, heaving to keep me from finagling
into needle-eyed, needle-nosed Angels. I can't float for the weight of speech, I can't
mend the parallel into the singular, I terror to look inward.
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I tire quickly of warping conjectures with O. deGaffe in his hermitage. Never has
an apartment in the Bronx been so devoid of sirens, crackhead yelps, the squeals of
stopped cars and the roaring motion of buses. To him it is pristine, and he goes days
at a time without leaving his house, legs crossed on his bed and cradling a mug of
black coffee, staring at his white bedroom walls trying to answer questions without
answers, which aren't even questions. He expects the bare walls will reply, but they
only resound his contemplation, ricocheting vacuous. He answers himself and
convinces himself that the answer came from elsewhere. Our bedrooms are
doppelgangers of each other, tiny with the computer desk right past the entrance at
the head or foot of the bed behind which is the radiator, except for my window with
the bright slabs of expanding and contracting light, little hopping birds and the fuzzy
exclamation points of squirrel tails in a tree. Too long in his prisonlike room and my
legs and eyes start joggling, and when I hear of the Singlemost one time too many I
coax him into leaving his home, untangling his legs, perhaps changing his clothes. I
consider it a small victory each time his feet pass through the threshold of his
apartment's entrance.
He will only smile what he considers a philosopher's smile, and it exhausts me.
His thought-contraptions are humorless yet at the same time mired in irony, and he
can never grasp the edges of the game or play with the porous edges of his words.
No, it can never be a game for him, and though he would accept on a good day that
all motion, as he defines it, is a Copernican orbit around a vacuum, still he scrambles
to move forward, tripping, crawling, the straight line always folding into itself like two
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ends of a string coming together. For him answers will never be questions with
incorrect punctuation, and paths will always be more than the collection of empty
spaces where one used to be. Make no mistake, though—he's a keeper.
I met O. deGaffe under a carpet of trees. He had a round mirror placed gingerly
between the upyearning legs of the oldest, thickest one, at the base of the wide V the
split limbs formed. Three smaller trees huddled around this one like cronies. My first
glance proved not enough—my feet slowed and I observed him observe himself and
take notes in a small notebook the cover of which looked like human skin. There were
networks of veins like red thunder on it, and tiny scattered pores, though I later
learned that the cover was, obviously, simple plastic. He had his right foot set on one
of the old titan's roots crackling through the concrete. Looking toward where my feet
pointed, I realized that had I kept walking I would have been heel-deep in a straggle
of turds which looked like a thick mustache. As I resolved to speak to him a thin pole
of light flitted through twig symmetries of green elven ears to land brightsprawling
on his stark hairless head, and he turned around before I began to speak.
“No, I am not a writer,” he says as he jots.
“Mmm, correct me if I'm wrong, but, you're writing as we speak.” In the
middle of my sentence the soft scribbles stop, the lacuna drowned by the sweeps of
traffic. The small slam of the humanskin notebook punctuates my inaccuracy. I note
that on the blank inside of the cover is written: LOGIC IS DISTANCE... He'd neatly
drawn next to the ellipsis an arrow pointing to the lined pages.
“Writing is, in fact, the least important task a writer has, easing the notebook
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into a back pocket of his khakis and stepping forward from the enormous root. His
arms drift down until the pads of his fingers face the sidewalk.
“You know, I actually agree with you.”
“Which would lead me to assume that you,”wagging a promontory-like
index, “would call yourself a writer.”
“I suppose I might call myself that, if asked. Since you aren't asking me, it's not
what I'm calling myself.”
“Ah, well... what will you call yourself?”
I venture a hand which his own clasps. “Manuel Abreu.”
“O. deGaffe.” He clasps his hands behind his back, cocks his head up to look
at the sky. The shadows are long at this hour, the sky's colors weakly inverted: the
clouds are slate blue as they claw through, the sky a gradient shifting from hoary
pearls to achromatic fecklessness.
“What does the 'O' stand for?”
“Nothing. It is not my real name.”
“Right,” a mazed hand on my head.
He begins to move east down Gun Hill. “Shall we walk?” I fall in step with
him. The Bronx River passes under us, here a semen-colored furl, here a grisly barf-
verdure.
June was all rain and sometimes still sweater season, though on a few days it
was so humid I could see my breath, and scant the sun blessed us the incult with its
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startled heatsparkling series of jutting glasses, bodies appearing wavy and diluted in
the heat's refraction as kids cartwheeled on asphalt and the corona burning the
clouds to taffy. The last winter was long and the world weird, and even in March and
April the rocks of cold still pelted. We got used to June's crass rain slowing down the
sun, the white vortex of all color, the light skewing that contagion of myriads, the
disgusting sewage and gunk that sluices at the foot of every curb, no longer crusted
with layers of black snow. The clouds were drunk hearts above us, or in droves
looking like holes in old shirts, ballistic wet pindrops precluding corrugated sheer
downpour that looked like sharp slope fields. Blade of grass vs. braid of glass. The
earth's growing was in coming and my nose jamming, pills swallowing, and Beauty
will be convulsive or will not be at all, as Breton said.
It's the last day of June, this first day of our meeting, O. deGaffe not yet wearing
his Jake Jarmel glasses. He likely knows I know it's a sly Seinfeld reference. Presently
the sun is unplugged and a hammerhead cloud above us commences burst fire,
artillery rain, soaking through clothes like acid rain piercing the skin of marble bodies,
like the oblivion of a pure overtone ringing with a phantom fundamental through
your body and for those few minutes the rain plodded and made penumbrae about
our feet. Rain formed a shroud around our perimeters. Rain was a solid.
“I had assumed,” I wiped my soaking lips broadly with my right palm, “that
the conversation would go on as normal.”
“Are you assuming we share a piece of the same soul,” eschewing the raised
pitch which denotes a question, the question mark an untraced void.
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“You won't woo me by moving so quickly,” as the sun comes voodoo in the
world space.
“Oh, if I fail, it's fine. One cannot learn anything from humans anyway; they
only have meaning with reference to other humans.”
“Meaning is sought socially, but it cannot be had. Humans created the notion,
and we cannot grasp any concrete instances of meaning, only apply it as a
structure.”
“And the meaning is found in the striving for meaning.”
“Indeed, the empty ghost betwixt the opposites.”
“The opposites being?” his sundrowned hand palm-up.
“Anything at all, that being the way things are defined in our minds. We know
what is, that is, approximate that knowing, by knowing what is not.”
“Right, Derrida and such.”
“Well, Locke and Heraklitos and others had similar ideas before, but Derrida's
notions were significantly more sophisticated, I suppose.”
“The assumption being that ideas are distinct.” The prophecy became self-
fulfilling, and all of our philosophical conversations would eventually overlap, unable
to attain distinction from the rest, losing all definition, formless as a squadron of kids
in silly square hats looking like potatoes in sacks beneath their graduation robes, as
the plume of smog that kisses bare sky, as the collision of colors a city sunset could
take, all paths perfect like the paths of dandelion spores. The pattern of our
conversations predominantly resulted in increasingly absurd responses until I, ready
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raveling.
Maybe I'm biased, but Dominican Spanish, based even on my limited
experience as an expatriate growing up amidst the dense isolated Spanish-speaking
community of these blocks on E Gun Hill Rd, is very interesting, linguistically. It seems
that, not only do non-paisano Spanish speakers have difficulty understanding us, but,
incredibly, every conversation between Dominicans is a matter of mutual
misunderstanding. While, given a certain of amount of effort, mostly able to switch
between different modes of speaking, a good chunk of Dominicans also mostly don't
give a fuck, at least not about casual conversation, and that effort is mostly absent.
We speak as if our mouths were closed, words cut short, d's and s's and r's
disappearing, unless those r's become l's or i's, and words sliding together, gooey,
hardening over time to strange crystal fruit, expelled always faster, the arms and
eyebrows flailing to counteract the pervading nonsense. Call it the intersection of
Arawak, Africa, and Andalusia. Our manner of speaking leads to frequent requests for
repetition—hnnh or ah or eh, from other Dominicans, or que, or dígame, from the
more polite, or, in the case of one of the few encounters my father has had with an
actual Spanish person, from Madrid: perdone, pues, ¿os podeis repetir mas, buenooo,
despacio, no? with those vaguely Hebrew r's, and how strange, how vos became
vulgar, the peasants' echo desecrating its regality—but that same communicative
difficulty also leads to some great phrases—my dad calls shit on the street either
vidrio Inglés, English glass, or ñeca—and some frankly beautiful strings of sound. A
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conversation between two men: —Dique'n leh'quina su orilla almaron yeyo y pleito
sobre un pokwe llerba y llello. —¿Y ande anda Andy? —Delante'l'oh'pi'tal 'ta el. —Ah
poh'ta bien. Or between two mothers: —Nene pero no sea tan ñoño. —Eh' dañino
ese otro niño pa'el. Ehun ñemú. —Eso mimito me dijo Ñaño.
The most I've ever seen anyone ask my father to repeat a phrase is seven times.
Each time mi pai tried a new syntactic and semantic structure, and each time until the
last he failed. From: Kiseamo yoitu tiruntrompon a ese trabajito poh' mah' kenweh'tan
dao—that is, Quisiéramos yo y tu tirar un trompon a ese trabajito por mas que nos
estan dando—to: Que DE-ben pa-GA-rnos MAS. —Ay, claro, claro! Perdona. You
wonder where all the aggression comes from—well, actually, it comes from some
complex mix of self-hatred—many Dominicans, and many Spanish-speaking folks in
general, harbor some pretty racist beliefs, even and especially given our lovely
gradients of blackness, thin straight hair learning naughty crunchy angles, noses
widening in bloom, and let's not even mention Haitians—and either whiteyearning or
whitehating or a little of both to make, ultimately, whitefearing.
I want to know what I left there. A nostalgia for the never-occurred, die
Früheentrückten5: what would I have been? I don't visit, and perhaps I'm afraid, or
perhaps there are reasons, but let me just say—what the fuck is a Dominican-
American? You are either a Dominican or an American, and you are either a
Dominican in America, or an American in the Dominican, which is what I would be
were I to visit. La lengua, it is such a powerful connection among us, the expatriates,
5 Rilke—“early-departed”
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but how could I call it my tongue? I only speak it. Being born in a place is not the
same as being of that place (now I only wait to be captured en passant). How could it
be that I'm a tourist in the country I was born in? I maintain that the language in
which one is educated, in my case English, is one's language. And I'd say in many
ways my foray into English has been, complexly, a brilliant thing, as in sinking startled
into a beauty the beginning of a terror which, we revering, disdains calmly to destroy
me. I dream in both tongues, but in effect I traded Spanish in for English: the
dimension that Spanish takes on in the US is hard to fathom. Try as I, logic only
dresses wounds, or masks those who desire anonymous. I'm a tourist in this country
as well, an ephemera. What will you call yourself? I hear me say. I tell people my first
language was Spanish, la lengua de mis primeras babosuras, in order to keep it
simple—and in the interrupted convex roots of my groping spoken Spanish I can hear
warped swaying the island, further and further away—but that doesn't explain it all.
My nexus was morphing, because in the Bronx each person is a universe of speaking.
The poor don't aspire toward standardization in Spanish or English, they simply speak
as they know and that is so beautiful it is ungodly. Let's not even mention my patois
fetish.6
American English's influence on Dominican Spanish, and Spanish, in the
Western hemisphere in general (and for that matter the world's entirety), really can't
6 And I learned quickly to modify how I spoke based on who I was around, to not to be as Foster Wallace says a snootlet, because correcting the grammar of rowdy public school children is really never a good idea. Thanks to reading and
reading and reading, I was fluent from youth in White English—and I suppose there's a better way to put that, but GetReal—long before I had ever met a white person in real life. Linguistic failure comes from being unable to shift between
socially-distinct dialects of language, such as my P.S. 94 colleagues to whom the very notion of reading as opposed to,
say, basketball, was absurd—but let those preterite selves come later.
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be exaggerated. Helping verbs have long since been scheming against the future
tense—voy a hacer (vwacer) as opposed to yo haré, mimicking the English future
construction “I will do”—and perhaps among the uneducated and poor they are
winning. I can't make any concrete claims, but it's clear to me that Dominican
exposure to English had something to do with it, was probably sitting at that same
table as 'ir a' delineated the motion of its reign. And English words are Dominicanized
with great frequency—poloché, as opposed to camisa, comes from polo shirt; conflé,
as opposed to cereal, from Corn Flakes, jipeta, from Jeep SUV's... always a metonymy,
a brand name coming to engulf any product of that kind. The island becomes a brand
name for the West, the White, and Haiti reveals crumbling as a shadow the true
nature of the plague. Here is the weight of the price I fetch—being brown is a market
commodity. It is like being the lake into which Narcissus poured his eyes, reflecting
impervious images in a constantly-shifting niche allowed by latte capitalism—without
which the consumer and radical Left could never exist—which affords the unanswered
questioning of a bourgeois identity. Histories are subsets of White History.
Dominicans will always have something to prove. After France took over the
whole island in 1795, Spain's sloppy seconds, Haiti was the first Latin American nation
to claim independence, in 1804, and the Trinitarios didn't claim ours until 1844,
though the issue is complicated—our two-thirds of the island first claimed
independence from Spain in 1821, as Haití Español. So from whom was independence
claimed twenty-three years later? This is the part Dominicans will never let themselves
forget: it was from Haiti. Jean-Pierre Boyer probably figured it was a good idea to
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have both nations under the Haitian name converge into one, so his forces sallied on
in and nationalized most property, though, thankfully, he did abolish slavery.
But the disparate and competing forces which, like aligning planets, came
together under Duarte and allowed for our second attempt, would quickly revert to
bickering, and the nation was pretty much a shithole, Haiti trying to invade now and
then, tyranny and violence getting themselves settled, much like they were doing
throughout the rest of Latin America. The next nadir came when the acting leader,
General Pedro Santana, first, fourth, and now eighth president, literally sold us out to
Spain. The Dominican Republic is the only Latin American country ever to have been
recolonized. It was like Indian giving in reverse, taking independence then
relinquishing it: Santana believed that the new nation couldn't survive without being
annexed by its first sordid mother, and he was able to carry out his designs because
he exiled or killed the power players who weren't pro-Spain. Indeed, Santana was
such a dick that he exiled our founding father. Duarte did not die on Dominican soil.
On arriving from Caracas, his remains were ceremonially buried by another of the
D.R.'s gruesome dictators, Ulises Heureaux, not yet assassinated. Then again, Duarte
himself was pro-American... In an interesting turn of events, Haiti would back the
guerrilla groups fighting to restore independence from Spain, which came in 1865.
Only four years later Báez began talks with Grant about annexation with the
U.S. Grant's plan was to dump em niggers, who after the Civil War are apparently not
only people but free people, onto the island, to escape the burning white of Jim
Crow's shadow, to prevent them from troublemaking nice white country folk afraid of
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their shadows. Not even as an ex-slave outhouse would America take us. No, the U.S.
preferred to deal with us by intervention and economic caste systems, but I'm going
to pass over modern Dominican history because the role it plays in Dominican culture
now is clear. But the older history figures as importantly, to me, ancient hearts still
boiling against a world which grants them no control, no contingency. But in fact our
history keeps going in circles, the blood of female martyrs blood-blossoming before
firing squads, the assholes with absurd mustaches proportional to their hunger for
power who are... flexible about means of attaining it, the walls nations learn to build.
Columbus and his blood fantasies freed the Taínos from the mud-destiny of this
island, slayed them in their hammocks, cut their hands off when they had not gold
nor cotton, bronze bowels slit open in one upward thrust, the disease and slaughter
after just thirty years unbelievable, the cassava god hiding in the cave the sun hides in
by night, watching the bodies snuffed out like errant candlewicks and the headless
matriarchs posted before a bonfire of thirteen bodies for the twelve disciples and the
Son, and infants dangling by their doll-like legs and dashed against boulders, spitted
on stained swords... all the bodies became aggregate of that island's earth I do not
walk, toes cocooning into pebbles at the bottom of streams—to look into a mirror
like the mirror of the Magritte painting of the same name, and see one's back, the
true face forever eluded, the entire Antilles lifting ambiguous exclamation, asking,
really now, what is all this?
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10.It's past midnight and the heat's standing still and the corners are like hives.
Insects make presence, scuttling, numerating in dank niches. People swipe midges
and gnats from their ears and brows. It's as if heat and trash and bugs rise from the
concrete like smoke would. The blocks are swollen possibility. Roaches are a given,
always. Under the red awning of STACY GROCERY & DELI #1 a stocky man with
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cosmic latte skin sits on a crate turned upside-down, tracing lines on his scalp. Next
to him is a taller man in faded tweed supporting himself with his hand on the glass of
the storefront, which is covered in posters and presumably bulletproof. Manuel Arturo
Abreu's building comprises eight storefronts bookended by each threshold to the
basement, five east of the entrance and three west, the two past STACY being 20/20
WORLDWIDE SERVICES, INC. and LAW OFFICES ACCIDENT VICTIMS. The ridged metal
storefront eyelids are sometimes host to illiterate aerosol dreams. Sometimes you
might even see a centipede, the usual response being an instinctual stomp. Even in
the day and the night if you listen you might hear a cricket. Even in the Bronx if you
look there are fireflies. Look up. The second-guesses are almost audible. Pigeons
roost and chitter in these scuzzy awnings like hair filling in skin, the opposite of
erasing, under which people bumble and chatter. These insects avoid being crushed.
Slumped in the driver's seat of an curb-straddling 87 Chrysler New Yorker which
may or may not be his, his window open an inch, crumpled bills on the dash, a man
groans a terrible and plaintive groan. Chin on his chest, eyes closed but facing his
crotch, he says “God. Oh. Ah Gyahd.” It's four in the morning. The sky's lavender
lush with mud and darker than a heart's heart. No—the sky's like gravel under you,
formless, forever. Rain mingles with dew. Bottom half of a coke can in the passenger
seat, its edge mysteriously without serration, half-eaten candy bar inside it, wrapper
next to his right foot, empty tub of vaseline near the brake pedal, mirror shards under
the wrinkled money, his shoeless left foot on his right knee, pinky toe missing. The
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dirt on his foot rubs off on his grease-stained jeans. He's sitting on his hands. The
sun's due to rise like a short sigh, rattling, to offer dim sponges of light. He's got on
the classic bum hat, black, high up near his hairline and toppling over its own flaccid
lump of empty air.
So small as to be almost indefinite, a shriveled woman in an ankle-reaching
skirt slips a pamphlet through the crack in the driver's seat window. The cover looks
like this:
(cloud) WHERE (fire)
ARE YOU
GOING???
(cross)
It's your decision.
After inspecting the ants of text past the cover, he rolls down the window.
“Does God know everything that's gahnna happen?”
“No spika Ing'lish,” she replies.
“Dios sabes que vas pasará?”
“Ahh, ahh. Sí. Sí, mijito, es todopoderoso nuestro Dios, para el es todo
conocido, suponido.”
“Toda la es de la plan. Es todo la parte del plan.”
“Es el plan de Dios, el omnipotente, el omnisciente.”
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“No es mia decision. Es Dios. No hay, no puedo decision. Es todo sabido. Es
todo hacido.”
“Orale y te saldrá todo bien, llegará el socorro por cual pides.” He rolls up his
window again, all the way.
“Nigguh I'own' een git how it's errbody's getting poorer and all the shit it be
gettin' more expensive. Hadda be makin' fuckin' life-death decisions doing food
shopping. How fuck milk's like eight bucks, I'm stannen there thinkin' how'n fuck
Ah'm pohs'sa feed mines.” His clothes are XXL, but they're not baggy on his frame.
“Yiz wahlin out b, it's like four*,” and his clothes the same size, turning his
slight body into a probability cloud. His unwheedling face.
“And dis nigga talk some shit too.” He holds his thick maroon hand in front of
his face. “This fuckin' sun.” It's a hot bruise or it suppurates, spills onto buildings,
creating fractured light networks on their facades.
“Recession means hustle dohn' count no moah, you gotta be on det
networkin' game. Be goin' hard body on 'em, blowin' up they spot, steppin' on heads.
Come like a dot-com don.”
“Shet the fuck up. Like this nigga lives on this mahfuckin' block and we still
hadda be waitin'. I ain' kno' not one reliable dealer. Mahfuckas do what they want.
Monkey-ass niggas.”
“Like you got shit to do.”
* This final r dropped, as in “foah”
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“I got a fuckin' kid. Witchoh' manchild ass.”
Some minutes pass. On the gray roof of the store cluster east of Manuel Arturo
Abreu's building, light through the leaves of gangling trees is like a finger poking
through runs in a stocking. The gaps of light close up and the sun's hiding again
behind a cloud, scheming its next illumination. A third person walks up to them. “Yah
crumbs. Wudup yah twerp-ass mohfuckas.”
The smaller, sandy-looking guy responds, “Pyoo, pyoooo.” For some seconds
the dense one's head bobs in a continual nod, as if his hefty frame hid esoterica.
It's noon and, down on the westerly arm of the five-pointed star of E Gun Hill
Rd's intersection with Perry Ave and, bisecting that intersection, Reservoir Pl's
termination across the street, the Dominican hair salon, Hair Place, next to KWAHU
AFRICAN MARKET, is blasting un merenguito trying impossibly to accelerate past
itself, faster ever faster, guayo piano accordion bass all bursting fulgors and mas duro,
mas jevi, durísimo, jevísimo, tremendo, típico, phasing forever between the jaleo—ay
Negrita, pero ay Negrita— and the call-and-response, tiralo, golpe, golpe golpe...
The six hands exchange mute beneath conversation. As the results of the affair
ease their way into their new owners' pockets, a perplexed whitecoat dashes by them,
head down, walking toward the recently-completed glass facade of the Gun Hill Rd
subway station for the 2 and 5, where Gun Hill intersects with White Plains Rd, east
past the Bronx River Pkwy.
The next track is reggaeton with its sleek gaudy blips and bass rumbles. The
music conquers the traffic which seems as if it's been whipped into frenzy by sun, but
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Hair Place's booming stereo is nothing: farther down Gun Hill, on Hull Ave as the hill
begins to steepen, one block east of Perry, past a rarely-open Breyers Luncheon
Fountain (Candy Sodas Stationery) and EZ TAX Multiservices, is a Pentecostal church
—Los Candeleros de Oro—whose congregation's clamor is unbelievable, ecstatic for
the eschaton. All of its members are Hispanic. The church rises to its feet. A corito is
being hammered out by fiery, raspy, squeaky, and unheard voices; a crater-skinned
youth pulses unsteadily in four on a trap set, mouthing the beats; a piano eeks out
salsa chords; the pastor, Dr. Luis Cardenas, beats out the rumba clave, his face ticcing
as he switches expertly from the clave's three side to its two side over the boy's
wobble. Cuando el pueblo del Señor alaba a Dios, suceden cosas, suceden cosas...
maravillosas... the conflagration begins, glossolalia and stomping, fainting, coritos
morphing into one another. Rios de agua viva, rios de agua viva... Some of the devout
mill about outside, garrulous, ejecting Spanish. One stooped mustached man walks
the length of the block, then back west toward the church:
“That Jehovah give flame, that I raise adoring hands and the sky inscrutable,
that I a vessel may be taken, used, filled, formed, that I clay come from earth and back
to it, but for the mote of inspired soul upward which I bequeath, that God give
strength, that the lurking devil surface, but that the Hallelujah would be fire and the
blessing shall ignite, that to live is to worship and the fire is the blood, that I like a
match might be Lit, that the Son is saying to me, what is happening, that the body
decay and the spirit is upward and open and the Spirit forthcoming, blazing, that it
save me, Amen, Amen, avivamiento, avivamiento...”
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In the church folks hop, scream, let forces which necessarily must exist by their
fervor toss them around, the accumulating heat and sweat effulgent, epileptic jazz
hands and fists and legs swinging like as in a mosh pit of marionettes. El resplandor
fue como una luz, rayos brillantes salian de sus manos... But back up west:
The first one with arms like logs puts a friendly fist on the third's right shoulder.
“Kinda shit is this?”
“My man is inquisitive. Word. Shit's complex doh, so hearr* me boy. My Rasta
conneck was finna hit up Boston, to chill there with some of his boys, and he got a
ride there but no ride back, but this othah nucka he known long back in B-town when
he lived there said if he'd go to Seattle for the nicca, and pick up some dank sweet
B.C. herb, my man's'ah get uhh half O at least freebie, and then a substantial-ass
discount for him bulk coppin', and a free round-trip tick to the shit, back to Boston.
Fuck he gon' say no? I'd be hopping on that shit” A caucasian in crocs and a tie-dye
shirt lugs a tuba and a hefty brown-red beard from the Oval to Gun Hill, and
westward.
“That's some bullshit you nigga,” the umber-skinned mouse-man says. “How
he brang it back on a fucken plane? How he do det?”
“Ain't let me finish. Patience. My mans got tricked. Well, not tricked, but the
de-tails of the fuckin' situation he ain't think through. First he had to actually hit up
Canada to cop the kush. Ain't no one tole him hedda haftah go dumb far like that. So
he cop a rental, and that shit was not free, and gas is a bitch. Dis mahfuckin' Rasta
* The r enunciated so completely it's essentially over-pronounced, for emphasis
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carryin' a Q.P. in a Taurus.” He wipes a skein of sweat off his forehead with the outer
side of his left index. “Somehow the nigga got it back to New York, he done took the
entire p, split into quarters, and I seen it and it's like the most green I ever seen. And
he just ignorin' that Boston nigga's calls.”
“He lyin' to you,” the large one says. “That shit don't happen to a black man.
He'd 'uh been caught dumb quick. But if it smoke good I don't give a fuck, nigga
coulda said it was from deep space.” He gives an unresounding howl of a snicker.
“My dude . Issawn some celestial shit. Knock you out. Don't even be rollin' dem
fat L's lookin' like some present you leave in the toilet. You only even need a li'l. You
got a bowl?”
“I do but I don't think he do,” the small one says.
“I only roll wid blunts.”
“Aight fellas, been real, hitcha mans up, I hook yah up. Stay safe. One.” He
walks bowlegged down Perry and the other two turn around to walk west on Gun Hill.
“Shit stank.”
“Dead-ass you smell it up there? Reekin'.” Smiling he looks up at him.
“Ight let's blaze dutchie down in the alley and dip.”
“Werd.”
They push open the gate and trek down into Manuel Arturo Abreu's basement
alley redolent and fly-teeming, passing the first corner.
“This shit is dumb nasty. We cain' e'en sit,” the little one says.
“Shut the fuck up.” His sausage-fingers roll a blunt that looks like a thick turd.
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“Fatty fatty,” as the other one proudly brandishes it. The little one slides his
Jansport off his slender arm and by the time he's pulled out the two forties of Olde
English, another blunt of enormous girth has made itself apparent. He passes one of
the bottles to him.
Unlike alley newcomers who'd continually check either the west or east corner,
or both, these two know that, despite the plenitude of sounds that find their way
between and behind these tenements, almost no-one goes down there, and those
who do never turn the first corner, only dropping their trash and fleeting. Even the
poor avoid confronting their waste, in the winter with snow shoveled to the curb
sullying in their waist-high piles and secret stashes of shit and urine, or in the summer
with the skin sweltering off one's body, the stenches diverse and stifling in parks and
teeming kitchens. From a window above them—they stand under the second set of
fire escapes in the back alley, past the first recession—the scent of fried plantains and
roasted chicken conveys itself.
“Dem Spanish folk kuh' cook.” His hand's on his sleek belly. “Fuck it, we
uh'haftuh cop some grubs. Big nigga like you gotta be hungry.”
“Witcha bum ass. I got food at home kid. I ain't trahn take you on a date.”
“Pause,” index and middle fingers of one hand up like the pause symbol, the
careless floating thumb and the other two fingers curling into the palm making it look
like the brown Pantokrator's benediction.
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11.Manuel Arturo Abreu Rodriguez was also born in Santo Domingo, but he hasn't
been as lucky as I've. Right now he's probably scoping out a good place to sleep,
which is of course safer during the day. The Upper East and West Sides are the safest
places, he says, and you might even without worry sleep on a streetside brownstone,
but even there you've prissy yuppies and Jewish-American princesses and rowdy brats
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and street venders swatting you with one of their magazines or, worse, the Sunday
Times, and the body of the rabble goes on in that deformed penis of an island, the
grid making its evil incisions, Central Park pretending to be a metaphysical
bottleneck, the awed foreign families and fanny-pack-wearers awed and slowed in
walking in proportion to the acceleration of the Suits who durst not enter there. The
plastic green is cloying, the thousand swaying shoots and manicured trees and
humans listless in their inertia. Oh yes, the Big Apple has worms. And commuters.
Let's get this straight: The City, that is, Manhattan, is the most overrated place in the
world. First of all, you aren't welcome in the places people want to go, and the
exclusivity's what draws folks. Of course, for every set of eyes there's a different City,
and there are always the sectors of a town (not to mention four other boroughs, in
this case) that tourists refuse to acknowledge exist. Second, if you don't have money
to spend, and I don't mean spending money, I mean credit card money, you're
automatically limited, because the only freedom here is the freedom to Buy. Watch
the zeros pile on like infinite recursions of the Schwarzgerät.
The often-touted architecture of The City can be broken down into two
categories: pilfered desiccated tenements or abandoned warehouses turned chic and
dollar-hungry black holes of buildings shooting upward indefinitely like gargantuan
ikons—and we always thought the skyscrapers would pull out their steel roots from
the disgusting knot of sewage pipes and subway under the whole spectacle and crush
these strange startled tiny doll-like things with their funny clothes, the little kisses of
blood appearing in the giants' eyes as the explosion of a crushed ketchup packet
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would to us—but the skyscrapers are paper tigers: everything's up for grabs, the
whole City is rootless, a floating consumptive sacristy without sexton, burrowed in a
cloud that hangs by a string looped around a little girl's wrist.
I'm bitching, but I have to, because it seems like no-one understands my
beloved city. Especially not us, the natives. You get out of it and you can feel how
tensely-braided the city's made every one of your veins, how every isolated sound
penetrates further when there isn't a lovely cacophony, how you look over your
shoulders more than any of your friends do. No-one can comprehend it; only its
manifestations are discernible, but barely.
Anyway, Manuel Arturo Abreu Rodriguez is a Bronx Bum, so any harassment he
could experience in uptown Manhattan, with its focus on luxury and comfort, is much
preferable to what he grew up with. Though a bit younger than my parents, he
emigrated alone from the Dominican Republic long before them, and illegally—in the
early seventies, coming into his preteens, he would watch awed as the nascent block
parties inflated, the meat sizzling and the DJ plugged into street lights and the street
itself plugged with moving bodies like a cork snug in the mouth of a wine bottle. He
claims to have seen rap give birth to itself, to have been there at 1520 Sedgwick when
DJ Kool Herc stitched the break to itself, letting it dangle, the brown forms dripping in
the crowd pinned under James Brown's screeches and Kool Herc reciting “To the
beat, y'all!” And while it's possible that he was there, I also recall two other
conversations we had—one wherein he recalled the heart of Indian summer on
October 7, 1849, and gripping Poe's sodden pale hand on his deathbed in that little
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cottage at what is today Kingsbridge Rd and Grand Concourse, surrounded now by
tenements and confounding the dealers who're trying to dissect the area into turfs,
but in those days erupting into the rolling breasts of the Bronx's green hills and dales,
cupped by the wind's exploring hands, and Poe's flimsy palm was in his as he uttered
“Lord help my poor soul,” and he cried when he couldn't find the grave until the
reburial in 1875—and another, more importantly, when he confessed that he had long
ago ceased comprehending the subtle difference between memory, dream, and fancy.
Imagination, he says, is the only real “working ingredient” in human
consciousness. Everything derived from it is inextricable from it, and so one cannot
say that one perception supersedes another. It's all tendrils of the dream, a unified
whole, but humans cannot function without the whole split in half, itself opposite,
now recursive and linear instead of singular. Politics, religion, etc: watch the eyes shift
at Other's presence, whatever Other may be—I speculate, of course, because I've
never actually met him. O. deGaffe has met with him twice, once in Manhattan and
once in Queens, and claims he is brilliant in deshabille. Manuel Arturo Abreu
Rodriguez told him that the Bronx was his favorite borough, but he would never live
there again. Those streets were hot coals and he was no fakir, even though at fifteen,
when the waves of fire hurled into his building in Hunts Point, he had to leave with
almost nothing, awakened by a lacy finger of smoke tickling into his mouth, running
out with two shirts in his right fist, shorts stuffed into jeans in his left, and the clothes
he was wearing, not even realizing until he was a good distance away, Coño que vaina
es esa, ni las chanclas pude coger... and already there was glass somewhere in the
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squirming toes and that could be a spot of blood over closer to the blaze from which,
at least, he was able to escape with his penniless life.
“When I asked him about his parents,” O. deGaffe said, his lips pooched, “he
said he was a child of Trujillo.” I giggle.
Manuel Arturo Abreu Rodriguez traipsed the burning Bronx throughout the
seventies and eighties, and he says that he will never, ever tell any piece of that story
besides that aforementioned shoeless apotheosis. In 1985 he decided against the
uncertainty of being homeless throughout the South Bronx and moved northeast,
orbiting Norwood and Woodlawn. Montefiore acted as the great stabilizer, and still
does, being by far the largest employer in the Bronx and a buyer of last resort for the
past thirty years in this area, and it is the single reason that Norwood stayed afloat
during those gruesome crack years, when graffiti was so young that even style itself
was a luxury, the cry from the arm sticking out of the dream-ooze still primordial and
arisen from the territory-marking tags of gangs which are cartoonish until, well, you
know... Oddly enough, the very day of my birth, August 10, 1991, he left the Bronx for
good. He no longer found in himself a reason to call it home; he'd grappled with
daemons for no reason in that hollow tabernacle to redlining and Robert Moses'
Cross-Bronx Expressway. Chances are he was one of the few brown people who fled,
like a single chocolate sprinkle in ice cream.
Violence has been rooted in the Bronx since the quaint speakeasies of the
Prohibition, and even back when the immigrants were Jewish and European the most
available job to them was the illegal smuggling of drugs. Back when milk was
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delivered daily by horse, or on horsedriven sled in the country winters, back when the
Yankees were the Highlanders, eleven years after the blowup version of the Champs-
Élysées that was the Concourse opened to traffic, the art deco urbanity burgeoning
along in rays from its four tree-lined miles, each leaf like a firefly's bioluminescence
captured and projected indefinitely, sun caroming off them.
It's no coincidence that the most readily-available job to a black or immigrant
male in America is petty dealer of drug or flesh. The black market is similar to the
corporate world in that each's hierarchies are endless, lists and lists of names and
boxes of passports and unmarked vans and emptied apartments, an incomplete chase
through deserted alleys, none to be blamed except the scapegoats. Minorities have
allowed themselves to serve this role for the gratification of having a sneaker
collection in the double digits, for the rush of feeling the handgun in its holster
wherever it would be, the body still virgin to your touch, a hot warm center. The same
people allowing the weight into this country are the ones mandating for the arrest of
the petty dealers, and when a whupping is in order or the boys up high are in a bad
mood sometimes the bigger dealers, too, and you've got to figure the kingpins that
are at the somewhere-ends of those alley-mazes have to be getting scared, touching
their necks, making plans to dip.
Not that Manuel Arturo Abreu Rodriguez could ever be a dealer, being
homeless, without home or name or properties or family in the Official Records of
Somewhere, which critical mass of file cabinets extends on forever toward a vanishing
point that gets farther the closer one tries to get to it. Based on O. deGaffe's reports
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Manuel Arturo Abreu Rodriguez shares my view on the role of the verboten
marketplace in modern Western society, as necessary underbelly of and enabler for
so-called decent society, which without petty crime and the hungry desperation
which accompanies poverty would have no case for their parasitic sybaritic analytic tic
tic existence of et ceteras.
People will do anything if they are indigent enough, and people will do nothing
if they are rich enough, and these are the great crimes of the modern system.
I'd always been anxious to either tell my story through Norwood or to tell
Norwood's story through me, whatever either of those notions mean, if anything, and
this anxiety must have come from knowing forthwith that I'd never be able. To tell. I
wanted to voice the voiceless; nor would the mute allow me. Not only in the abstract
—I was a transplant, plucked from Nor Would's distorted-heart-shaped territory to be
an allowed brown mirror for a different worldspace, with recurring masks,
apprehending not only what DuBois called double consciousness, knowing one's
Otherness, seeing it in the flints of particular glances, but also the hovering educated-
liberal hyperconsciousness which is question unto question, window in window in
window7. Textbook symptom for which would be an unceasing internal monologue
7 Too delectable to me is this phrase for me to not re-use it, albeit in altered syntax and semantics. The source of it:
Remembering Sitcoms on a Train from “The Principles of Nonsense”
Traffic is murder ina passage of a song I was
so excited I could invade Poland— the axiom wanted to make glancing.
Diose monte en el caco con qué pasaba.
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about abstract, perhaps frivolous concepts—oneself, not in an environment, but
simply buoyed in an extrapolated Self. Double consciousness is about response to
external stimuli, warring dark body of asunder strength, some perceptual rebellion
and, ultimately, a celebration of fracturing; hyperconsciousness is about atrophy,
about eradicating those external forces, steamrolling chance and hardship in favor of
a turmoil in some tumid ablution, phenomenological shopping—and then again, we
in this first only world are more similar than we'd know.
I will devote my life to beating
my head against that wall.
Scordatura of our dendrites
the signal distance recursive,
figures dashing along a neverending axon hillock—
we loop a loop messy and Twombly,
Scelsi eternities of a single utterance,
augment, diminish the unison:
like Elaine I see the nipple on your soul,mother of all voice,
rats within rats. The rat symbolizes obviousness.
Your seat orange, red mine. Toss rivers in stones.
Skip stops. Express.
Salté a aprender
de mi asientoque el entender es maquillaje—
ábaco pintao el desmayar
de flores fantasmas echas por différance:dioses acaban con todo. Cacopelao ponga.
Crystal apple, two crystal bananas, crystal pepper.
Between two Gethsemane moons silver dragéesin a cake sky; in a window a window in a window,
singing polyester roses, a soapeater, newspaper or a hand brushing against my hand.
03/21/09 – 03/22/09
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12.“Intellect is paralysis.”
“Literature is silence.”
“Logic is irrelevant.”
“Language doesn't exist.”
I expel air from my nose as a weird silent giggle, my lips scrunching into a
smile. “I've just won by default. You know that statement is just plain false.”
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“Well, you should know that your biggest character flaw is that you don't
know what truth is.”
“You don't either,” my voice betraying itself, louder, almost a yell, the pitch
close to warranting an exclamation point.
“Ah, we aren't talking philosophy here, for as you know certain inescapable
and in fact quite functional human structures and tools are the biggest philosophical
problems—space, time, self, truth, language—”
“Language isn't a philosophical problem, it contains all philosophical
problems. And anyway but why would I lack understanding of one of those
structures?”
“Because you're a writer. It's all part of the story for you all. There's no
distinction between your lives and your art.”
“Well, if your logic is indeed so based on generalities, I don't see how it would
pertain to me in particular, in fact I would say the same is true for you—no distinction
at all between your philosophy and the real world. I mean, life itself might as well be a
disregardable abstraction in your philosophy, which rejects experience, which is
crucial to all life, and perception, which is crucial to all humans. Mirrors in mirrors.”
“Perception is the bane of our species. Were we able to directly interact with
the world, were we not trapped in this absurd user interface, we'd be better off.”
“Not that you could ever know the alternatives.”
“What I know is that perception makes everything an afterthought—”
“A tool.”
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“Precisely. And what species was ever better at using tools not of its body?”
“The disconnected little machines zooming through history's courtyards.”
“You're going to put that in a book somewhere, aren't you?”
“Gobbledygook.” A pause. “Will you ever write anything?”
“Writing is the very opposite of speech.”
“And so you've chosen speech. But pardon my arrogance but I feel I'm pretty
good at both.”
“Oh, doubtless you're a good writer, and you've conversational skills, but your
voice is normal, it has no theatrical edge, and in public speaking, in improvisational
speech, in rhetoric, you stumble, your eyes dart around the room like possessed
pigs.”
“I'm better in smaller groups, the jokes are quiet, ones you mull over.”
“Indeed, the humor becomes baser in a larger setting. I suppose it's to please
more people.”
“I become a dick, which seems paradoxical, but, aside from a few stinkers, only
a moderate dick, enough to keep noses wrinkled with laughter but not too
disgusting.”
“And all the sex jokes. Weird.”
“Sex jokes are a pretty standard baseline in most informal social situations
regardless of one's own experience.”
“A regular Here Comes Everyman.”
“Your idea of a joke would be a Finnegans Wake reference.”
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“Joyce is all a joke.”
“Yes, but it's really a very serious joke, which I happen to love. I stole the Wake,
the Blue Book of Eccles, and the Portrait—Dubliners at home, you know—from my
school's library. The Board fired the entire staff, and I was fond of most of them, so
fuck the Board, I says.”
“Intellectual property has no intrinsic monetary value, anyway.”
“A thing's value is what people are willing to pay for it, and that's got little to
do with the actual product. The advertising machine, you know.”
“Anywho, your second biggest flaw is your fascination and difficulty with
communication. It keeps you disjointed, disconnected from people, hidden behind
words as if it were freezing and you were piling on the layers. At the same time,
though, it's what gives you your writing ability, from the little I've read. In the struggle
you come out with small hard opaque gems. You might not answer any questions, in
fact you only end up creating more, but that's not what it's about for you.”
“Frankly I'm offended. Yes, that difficulty was and is a catalyst for me, but at
the same time it's what holds me back the most as a writer. It keeps me in the same
place, thinking the same things, acting the same way. It fetters my syntax, solidifies it
while at the same time removing it of substance. If in speech I accrue clothing against
the cold, in the heat of writing I try to strip off layers, only to find that they're endless
by the nature of being.”
“Being is being of.”
“We are a part of something, inautonomous, knowing nothing of the
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something mechanism and yearning to break from it like free radicals.”
“You know, I got a chance to finish Sleeping Lords . Good stuff, biggest
problem is I would say that a lot of the time your characters are just shamelessly
vehicles, mouthpieces for the novel's ideas. And in using them for the sake of logical
motion you end up writing them into a peculiar stasis. They don't sound like
characters in a book.”
“Well, in a way, they aren't, they're all a piece of who I was at the point of
writing, and I suppose now, still.”
“But you really hope you've changed.”
“Whoever said a writer collects all of her working material for the rest of her
life before eighteen is completely right. I certainly have changed, but I'll be writing
about roughly the same things indefinitely.”
“That's completely wrong. But anyway, just make sure the dialogue is
convincing, though, and try to steer away from the really involuted,
metametametafictional stuff. Calvino always did it better, and, though I suppose it
speaks to an important aspect of the human psyche, it's gimmicky after a while unless
it's sincere. A lot of the time people do it for its own sake, not that you do, mind. At
least not too often.”
“I completely agree. A lot of that book is obnoxious not only for character
dimension, which would be my justification, but because I was smart and also
immature—”
“Being now so mature you're geriatric—”
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fellatio, not causing him harm.”
“Well, first of all, everyone's some degree of bisexual. In fact, one alternative to
our current society would be something like the bonobos, with sex as currency. For
now we're more like chimps. As for Wittgenstein, I can't say what I'd do to him
without having met him. From what I've heard he was pretty temperamental and a bit
spoiled. Nonetheless—”
“And it'd be a donkey punch involved, right as he approaches climax, right
there in the back of your skull, not a sucker punch as you solemnly display your
psychosemantic debt to him.”
“My, you're raunchy today, aren't you? And all these mentions of Greek love-
knowledge sublimation, man-boy love... is there anything on your mind you want to
talk about? You know, yes, sexuality is a gray area, and I've told you I'm essentially
straight, and you've never mentioned your sexuality at all. If you're gay, actually, it
would make sense that I'm drawn to you, intellectually, given my favorite folks—
Wittgenstein, Gertrude Stein, Andy Warhol, of course the list goes on—and you, yes,
you should talk about it a bit.” I place my teeth over my lower lip and raise my upper
lip a bit. It's an ambiguous thing.
“Is that your way of insulting me? Very European, reminds me of back home.”
“Now that I think about it, I don't even know what 'back home' is. Really, I
don't even know your name. Kind of freaky, isn't it?”
“Now, do you really even need to know it?”
“No, the name itself isn't important... but the act of naming... Oh.”
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“I'll state it metaphorically, so you as a writer type can understand: I left a
piece of my heart in Tirana.”
“You know, it's funny, my best friend from third to sixth grade was Albanian.
And were I not a writer I'd still understand—the Dominican Republic, remember, that
twee two-thirds of Kiskeya—”
“Yes, but if that were the depth of my metaphor, it would be like the square
root of a negative number, for i is a vague Form like the Sun behind a gigot of ochre
cloud—look, look to the clouds8...”
8 He did not know that I had looked to the clouds, long ago, before I even dated my poems, and this piece was written
sometime February 2009:
Bottled Water from “The Principles of Nonsense”
"No phenomenon is mortal." Kazimir Malevich
One largest breath
I had my
heart halved
in the carved distance of a cloud
—clouds boiled
in saucepan revolution
and bloodied—
whittled cirrus
bones, broiled
yelps, a soupy
picayune mess of dragged
-out virga voices like
deflated
Oldenburgs—the
hostess deals floppycumulus burgers sauteed
with rain like unlucky
poker hands: the fern
cried out when there
would be rain; townfolk
clobbered by clouds like
marshmallow anvils, soakingup the red, bellies poked
by trees. Clouds' tonguesare furry like dogs'; stars
are onions for bleary nights
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“It would be a great honor and intimacy to know how the metaphor's depth
and weight.”
“You're too young to ever have been in love—metaphor's the only way you
could understand. She was—oh...”
“You're right. Love I haven't known, and the solitude of a love lost is
incomparably greater than the solitude of the self 's vacuum.”
“Yes—yes—to love is to give of yourself, to expel, and by that emptying allow
filling. To love another more than oneself—it is comparable to suicide, yes, it is
noble...”
“To me, it's scary, extremely scary, and delusional.”
“No wonder you're a virgin.”
“Actually well it's funny you say that, because though you could indeed claim
my I remain relatively chaste for fear of intimacy, I would say that it's because I want
to love, I don't want to rub with another as a body outside itself, as a means to
pleasure. It's like Kant, you know, an end in and of itself...”
“I wrote for her. In Albanian. I don't think I could bring myself to write in
or hotplates for making being wanting tiny infinity
into a smallness unwilling
to be uttered; the cloudspits on such a thing,
tumbling and mouths
yawning clear blue; the
yard has a mulch eyepatch.
The rogue clouds shit their
pants before the firingsquad and the rest is left
to hunting season; the sky
empties.
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English.”
“I don't think I could bring myself to write in Spanish. I include phrases and
fragments, and incorporate it in my poetry, but...”
“Yes, our experiences are different. I left a history; you left a possibility. I came
of age in my Tirona, kissing under the Kalaja, watching the buildings crowd in, as it
becomes a cardboard city. You will never know what you left. It is that emptiness that
shapes the edges of your agency, like the triangles of world between your outspread
fingers.”
“Past? Possibility? Humans can never know time, only motion, recursion.”
“Our walks, when we amble aimlessly the apples lacerated by the
bloodstreams of traffic, it reminds me of the walks, the Bronx had been pushed to the
bottom much like Albania had under Hoxha's thumb, and we would trickle through
the streets, the young, seep into the squares and sit at the feet of trees, and the smog
dancing over the eastern mountains, the Lanë empty of fish, only a dead nerve
network of sewage and baby trees in place of the hovels and shanties that used to
line the riverbank.”
“Some newspaper claimed looming cranes were the metaphor of the new
Bronx, the turnaround after the nadir. They're planning to turn the abandoned armory
down at Kingsbridge into a mall. A mall! And the tittering condos sprouting up
everywhere which might as well have their pinkies raised.” I lay my palm on my
forehead. “These are century-old cycles, though, and the picture we're privileged to
see is puny. We don't really know past that, and the vantage point's blind.”
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“We are taught to sing inside the cage.”
“I think self-hatred is necessary.”
“When it gets out of hand it's paralyzing.”
“You don't have to tell me.”
“Amazing, isn't it, monumental, futile to knead a person from the formless clay.
No wonder Freud said the first sexual experience is the expelling of the waste. The
entire history of Europe teaches us that love is the same as death, that the care with
which we shape that abstraction, ingest and digest that which plays along with our
believing we have agency, snickering, is like as embalmers tending to a carcass, the
blisters of habit crystallizing into a palpable supple self. It's why you write: in the face
of latte capitalism, and that phrase is so brilliant I don't think you made it up, how can
we still be authentic people? How can subjective consciousness connect with
subjective consciousness, how can it be anything other than a succession of dead
ends stringing themselves together like emptinesses between dashes?”
“In writing, that question, all questions only reverberate more questions, and
sometimes I just get frustrated. There are answers nowhere. Not even the Western
hardon for science has elucidated anything for us except that in between macro and
micro there's a cosm niched in there which we can't really explain. That an act of
observation is not a passive recording of phenomena but part and parcel of the
phenomenal genesis, indistinguishable from it and in a way creating it. And yes, no,
yes, we are doomed from the basically beginning, when inside begins to form from
outside—”
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“I know what you mean when you say we have the same conversation over
and over again.”
“Does that mean it's endlessly compelling or that we're profoundly shallow?”
“We're sharpening our blades here. Our allowed abstraction is like and of the
implied walls of civilization.”
“Once humans began to use abstraction as a tool against the natural world,
the very violence of naming, classifying kingdoms, it began to go awry. Walden
should be required reading.”
“The self must necessarily be fractured because the services which tend to it
when happy and blue are disparate, faceless nexuses which coy let us now be miffed
at them, now suck at the teat of Mother Wolf, now let us fancy notions of escape.”
“What we're witnessing is the flattening of culture. Expression as a commodity
and products are the conduit.”
“What we're witnessing is the flattening of this conversation. I feel like you.
Care to walk?”
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12.At pain my first reaction is believing it shall endure, and my hunches have
heretofore been correct, and it's creepy to be two with a noseful of dust from corners'
dust colonies and hot rolling tears and mucus spurting from different places and
know that in this dust I've encountered my absolute worst enemy allergy-wise, my
antigen antagonist, see; or to be five and know only the surface of the malady upon
feeling my heart stutter as if a pebble were lodged in there, only later knowing the
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condition by name—bicuspid aortic valve, fish-lipped instead of looking like a peace
sign—the heart murmuring, the valve regurgitating, and me nevertheless knowing by
this that I would never confuse which side my heart was on during the Pledge, that I
could never afford to imagine my heart as that absurd European symbol, vaguely
sexist in its evocation of female supine lips and/or contours and its inversion of the
climactic point of intersection, the convergence, into a nadir, a corner one reaches
and turns9, knowing that I could never confuse my mind with my heart or abstract the
pumping pumping machine in any way or turn it into a philosophical premise or a
shallow convertisement (both of which are admittedly useful), knowing even that with
every word I'd ever write I'd only lose more pieces in trying to patch the gap, and the
gap would burble and revel in the abstraction. Though I also knew I'd have severe
asthma, I somehow knew it would improve as I aged, and at this point, in my late
teens, it's barely anything at all, and what worried me more was the hole in my heart,
and what would fill it—ventricular septal defect, it's called. Many instances of VSD
close on their own, but mine would remain a wormhole. Somehow I always knew.
My petite Chinese pediatrician is apparently a halfwit, her charming British-
Chinese accent and outstanding politeness notwithstanding. On a bulletin board
behind her desk were shabby thank-you drawings from kids, some on looseleaf, which
drawings I was always sure were commissioned by her, politely but also passive-
aggressively, like an eBay member bitching about neg reps. The Montefiore wait at its
9 (and some radicals would likely say the symbol is a covert representation of a penis itself, smoothly transitioning from
testicles to penis-tip so as to emphasize the unity of the structure, which we should admit is actually rather absurd, with the
sac just sort of hanging there and the entire thing so vulnerable it's almost defiant)
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worst is a thing of lore, and I always snickeringly thought that when people called the
hospital “Monty-fury” it was in unconscious or wry or droll or thugly reference to
the anger the waiting inspires, and that I've heard folks on the phone speak of
“Monty-fuckin'-fury” proves my snickerthought right. It's more than infuriating to
wait for an hour in what always seems to be some showcase of the world's worst
parents, either letting their kids act like cruel monkey-gods or, worse, beating them in
public, and I'm not against a bit of discipline but Fucking Shit, sometimes, and it's
horrible to sit in the waiting room with your hands supporting your head by cradling
each cheek, sliding down and wrists touching at the chin, the head sliding out of the
crux and landing on one hand curled around the other fist, swaying my sight to what
there is to see, waiting and going to her when you've been experiencing
intermittently the worst pain in your life for about a month now, somewhere in your
right side under your ribs, pain that could be transcendent, that makes you cry (and
you haven't cried since, and hadn't cried thitherto since that time you made yourself
cry in a seventh-grade grade meeting, for no real reason except to see peoples'
reactions, and it was an amazing performance, I must say, girls offering tissues and
such), it's more than enraging or hopping-maddening to explain to this petite
whitecoat the brutal tumescence of this internal squall, to be a freshman and have to
point at the highest number, the most pain-scrunched smiley face on that absurd
bilingual “How much does it hurt” chart, and be given stool softener. She hadn't
even examined me. “Youvvvuh, itta seems you've a wee solid hard poopy, in the
tummy, yes...,” pointing at my stomach with a simian smile on her face. I took those
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pills for a week and still I inhabited the tulip of that distress, going fetal, my body the
O that disappeared when that word crossed the pond. The stabbing pangs increased
in frequency and duration, and finally I had to return to the hospital.
Would that mine were silent stones—buried beneath the fat is the hole from
where my gallbladder was removed. The stones could be used for sports, so big they
were. Thank [some deity] another doctor examined me when I returned to the
pediatric ward, at the beginning of the 05 winter. The surgery was a few months later.
Directly afterward I was relentlessly fed morphine (to be fair, I kept requesting more
and they never refused) and shooed out of the hospital. I and my family were told
there were space issues on that February night, only to find upon awaking the next
morning that there was a trail, an echo's echo of the original pain, and it was
discovered that the surgeons had been careless enough to let a rock fall into some
gastric passage or other. It was quickly removed—though, because of my VSD, I
require antibiotics before going under, and they started to knock me out without
doing so and I began to choke, my legs half-lotus, putting my head on one of my
knees and pulling at my hair, trying to cough breath, until finally the surgeons
realized their error—and afterward I was monitored for a week, and none need be
told the bland and banal horror of the food brought to your lap when you are laid out
on a hospital bed, the food that is not food which somehow is always clotted and of
gritty texture collecting in your molar's crooks, and you recall the blasé ease with
which Dahmer placed human limbs and organs side by side with supermarket isle
items, the gruesome nonchalance, the tiny facial tics and his hands hands. All the
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sensations were the same to him, all the meat equally bland, as if his entire palate, his
entire world were a hospital ward—
I am only body and the moments at which I realize this most clearly is when I
am in profoundest pain. Thus far I've only broached the corporeal. The metaphysical
is a delectable trap, and consciousness is a function of survival. If corporations, black
markets, and the violence their intersection bungles are by far the most lucrative
business models, I'd have to conclude that hospitals (and churches), as the logical
apposite to that violence, physical or metaphysical, often manifesting itself
immaterially, as it were, are another lucrative variety, though not so much so as that
of the bank cartels. In markets one is treated as a thing, a thing , and this same
muting, spirit-crippling objectification allows the healing process to take place in
hospitals, allows surgeons to look as bodies as machines, as clocks that at points
refuse to tick, or tick but with the hands unmoving or rotating backward, and swiftly
fix. The fix—the quick, perhaps costly instant solution to any conceivable problem—is
what created the sense of the word connoting addiction.
I can't help but think that if the conduits of my electric being are essentially
determined though not determinable, then the macro-image of my life is itself
delicately and elaborately planned out, pinned with decoration and ceremony,
occasional luck which always stanches eventually, pain that allows for deception and
Truth, feeling staged but without any plausible pattern to be discerned, and I
fumbling through the wrong roles, dancing mambo to tango, dreaming a tree of
dreams from puncturing through my skull, the tongue thickening, the roots
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thundering through my soles... the vein of the law extends to one's very window, and
if the Decoration isn't entirely planned then Addiction to the various makes it all
feasible, but let's stop here because I don't want to rewrite other, better books.
Language is the language of society, and violence is the language of power, and
another kind of violence is the language of nature. In language's self-referential
vacuum Society is able to gain foothold, convincing us of our inertia, instability and
insanity and depriving us of any real agency in return for the supposed privilege of
the spoken—but spoken language is only the preferred social mode in first-world
society when it is bastioned by written language, which is crucial in the West—and in
that category I include the internet, which while pretending to be a global village is
actually a dispensary of absurd anarcho-pop self-hating worship, not Promethean but
pornographic, and bloody good fun if there are enough pinches of salt to go around.
The internet's a hotbed of conspiracy, yeah I heard they're shutting the whole
thing down too, 2012 (of course the internet always sprouts back up like a weed), oh
yeah I heard 9/11 we done done it to ourselves (perhaps some education on Middle
Eastern policy and America's role in the area is in order?), pyramids done got built by
them Annunaki, everybody's a reptilian now, etc etc. People will find their
explanations. What's alarming is watching the Reality become influenced by the
internet, watching memes cross the Border like illegal migrants that are forced to live
as shadows, people talking themselves further and further into doing less things in
more time as opposed to more in less, or at least more in more or less in less,
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polyphonies of chit-chat sprent* about like newer flowers. The tongue is a flowerpot.
The little eyes on the tongue are rain. There under the furry surface lies the pearl
attached to a string. The face of Metaphor looked like a sopping prune or an internal
organ after it was stabbed in the face with a screwdriver by a Russian and a Jamaican
in a darker park, the stomach contracting with each blow, the nose bone crushed
inward and blood fountaining upward and the two droogs letting the body drop as it
chokes breathing blood and expediting themselves into, yes, an alley in the Internet...
Since we refuse to blame ourselves we should go ahead and just blame
language. The vicious brutal yes yes it convinces us to do its bidding, no one means
what they say the words simply tumble, yes out and they are enemy blocking us from
the World like bouncers outside a club. Absurd—language is not action, it is only a
* It is a lovely odd word.
The Gate from “The Principles of Nonsense”
Sprent was a senseless
litany passing in shade
over the utter gaze of goldencalf rivers, averted
& gushing the rock which held the dream. The rockspass blame, it being noiseless—
Pass into the gate, past hills of feather
pushing through the larynx's gutter, lanky—
The water sound bolted
on a bloated string—
brocades of smoke—
I shall sing you the flesh no longer yours
Pressed fingers on plugged eyes intoyou veins of sleep shshivverring
curling into yr
footprint, sunquilt
Do Not Pick Flowerslittle birds that hop, elders
with the pink fork feet apart, the Gate— opening—opening—
06/06/09
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medium in a medium, an image of an image. Human beings still make decisions that
have effects in their immediate external world, and possibly—definitely—with effects
not in immediacy, distant, like the hum a city gives off, the source of which none can
point to. One tries to tell one's story and instead find myself making a completely
different one before another, before oneself, expert bullshit which you can tell from
amateur by the admixture of truth and bull, concrete and cockamamie. Who could
resist blaming the Guvment for the fact that our only available tool for
communication, language in its multiplicity, has only one true function—to allow us
haven behind its ramparts, to defend, to distance, to abstract? And who could deny
the kernel of truth in that claim? The very language of all discourse is interconnected
with the political machines that allow it. Might as well blame Them for making sure
everything's already been said before, too. Henry James said of writers, “Doubt is
our passion.”
Meaning isn't actual. Everything is happening all the time. Throughout history,
humans have created families, societies, cultures, all purveyors of myth, vehicles of
Meaning—by necessity is the order imposed. The distinctive feature of Today's post-
post-Industrial society is that myth to which we all subscribe, that Meaning is
subjective, that we each may do what we please as long as all others may do so as
well, in vacuums, in cubicles, in reflections in the windows. And clearly (at least to
anyone who's radically leftist), those (we) who subscribe to this are in fact further
deprived of agency, gawking at the glittering possibilities and price tags for Meaning
throughout the malls and boutiques of the modern Western consciousness and
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allowing for continued subjugation, consumption, and waste production, concrete
and abstract. Meaning cannot be malleable; it is manufactured by circumstance and
conditioning—it is the fixing of stars that cannot refuse their own fizzling like a soft
drink did not choose carbonation.
The best possible outcome for this planet would be the eradication of the
human race, by its own hand or otherwise. The universe unfolds in millennia, but
human perception which cannot be linear but must branch off and off tried (and
succeeded, in the Reality and in the world at large) subdividing time, cleaving it into
smaller and smaller particles until nothing's left but a pile of dead units like dust
bunnies lingering under the couch, utils of happiness in the calculus of wellbeing and
mirth, and even if the numbers slid off clocks and watches like drool, even if the ticks
were forever suspended in glaciers like ants in amber, a ticking would still be inside
us, pumping selfishly like a ticker increasing its count, and it's impossible for anything
to exist outside that rushing metronome, the tiny blood-trees and messenger cells,
and Here We Are, our very being a form of noxious pollution to this world, life
crumpling at our footfalls, the very oils from our skin corrosive to other beings, trees
self-immolating in our presence, leaving seeds like Thích Qu ng Đ c left his scorchedả ứ
heart after being re-cremated, stomped flowers kamikaze-dreaming themselves
enormous and sent to pummel the world...
And I too imagine myself experiencing deja vu toward what never happened,
picturing myself as Orozco's Christ reviling his destiny and destroying his cross with a
hatchet, the human skin, taut against bones and burdened by human history, by
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machines and religion and stupidity and death snowballing, death hilarious, now
expunged of All and so light and ephemeral it's peeling off, the pure bone in places
showing through as if electric and the grooves racing around the holes in the hands
and feet, all of History that had caved the chest in tossed over the shoulder into that
great fire of his fury like a pinch of salt or kindling, pillars and idols and ideas and
language and logic and the guns of metaphor and abstraction and somber pious
skulls and rootless pilgrims in the pyre and something new given rise, a
deconstruction, an untranslation as the angle of the bones chisels itself through the
remaining translucing skin, the face steely, and the tongue is a fire, a world of iniquity,
spurning the burning halo for the darkness of his dread Love, the violence of aught
creation. And it will be Love that will not play at guesses, and the Reality we have
pawed becomes deservedly the Lamb, the flame now proceeding, mechanical, a sea
of flames, blue and whitehot coral reefs at the foot of the wool's blaze.
Not that I know anything. Not that I know anything.