Lisa Jarnot said we needed a new avant-garde manifesto & suggested Ed Go should write it but he thought Michael Whalen would be better suited for the task because Ed Go wasn’t all that interested in the avant-garde & whatnot but it wasn’t so much that he wasn’t really interested in the avant-garde he just wasn’t interested in writing a manifesto but really what he was thinking was that if he set his thoughts down on paper someday someone would take it all too seriously & think he knew what the hell he was talking about when in actuality the only thing he’s certain of is that he’s not certain of anything so he thought he must never write about his ideas concerning writing in the same way that he’d decided years before not to ever put down in writing his "religious beliefs" for fear that someday somemisguided reader could take it to heart & before you know it churches in his name would be popping up all over the place— —Really, Ed Go? Churches in your name? Is the monument of your ego looming loftily over all you have written so overshadowing you can’t see the UTTER outLANDishness of this postuLAtion?
—Well, he says, someone once told me that Martin Luther once said don’t name any movements after me because he didn’t want any new religions sprouting up in his name; it did not occur to me then—the monumental egotism of my thinking—but if it could happen to ML & even Buddha it could happen to me—
—You’re just not all here, are you? I mean—you’re on your own trip, somewhere floating/boating in the arctic, trailing a tractor through a shroompatch in the junification of equinox’s vernal transposition.
—Well, all of this is of course just pretentical rhetoricaletic manifestationism on my part reflectizing what is at the essence of my approach to the writing of poetically embodified literaturism & what I believe to be the true temperamentalistic characteration of the artist & her-slash-his role in the performalating of creativistic endeavorment—which is to say that though I’m still not entirely comfortablized with the concept of disseminating my ideas about this matter into existence in a formation that could have any posteritorial implicationary substantiations, I have at least checked my ego enough to comprehend that what I write will probably not developalistically evolutionate into anyone’s gospel & in fact will most probably be forgotten by the few who might even read it. & who’s gonna read it after all—I probably wouldn’t even read something titled Ed Go’s Manifesto, I mean, it sounds either:
1-pretentious
2-boring
or
3-pretentious & boring
. So yes, Napoleon, go ahead & do it—Write my Manifesto!
Now at this point I had already given up on the hope of ever getting out of having to write shit for him—I would go down in history as Ed Go’s autobiographer & there was nothing I could do to change that, so I sat down & began writing his Manifesto but it occurred to me as I was writing it that there would be no escaping the essential moment, the seminal instant at the core of this piece—that event from his childhood, when he was old enough to consciously think about the nature of art but still young enough to be known as Eddie, when his mother walked into his room & caught him with his pants down——
—AAAAUUUUGGGGHHH!!!!!!!
—Eddie! What are you doing!?!!
—Don’t you know how to knock!?!!
—Don’t you know how to lock the door!?!! You’ll stunt your growth!!!!
The conversation was only going to go downhill from there / but fortunately for both / parties at that / moment a lightning / bolt struck through the window & / hit
the small b&w
tv which Eddie’s
grandparents had bought
him for his
9th birthday;
the surge of electrons
from that blast
was so bombastic
it broke the framework
of momentum &
propelled it pastward down
the linguistically lost
border between
apparently meterless
lineage &
repeatedly repeated
repeatedness straight
through iambically charged
particle phrasings
at supermetric back
angles past
the upward grade
of the freytagian slope—
