Inevitable as a one car pileup, sun rises and sets by waiting for the whole earth to move. At this speed, there is no doubt the driver will lose control. No one will think to audit luck in dust settling, all that matters for survival, all that matters for survivors building the same world they always do from memory. What else could account for it? The city is sitting at the table making lists of what to do for Armageddon, an endless meeting, waiting for the end of the world, rising with every revolution. Memory is the matter of production. Waiting is the means. It is in the hands of those who work it, those who work around it. Mao was half right. If you want to know theory and method, take it, take all of it in a body of memory. SS next>

this is the speech of my hands poetry by Christopher (Kit) Kelen and Steven Schroeder | images by Kit Kelen