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  • On a Photograph of Manadel al-Jamadi, and: On Deep Blue vs. Kasparov
  • Joel Brouwer (bio)

On a Photograph of Manadel al-Jamadi

This isn’t Manadel al-Jamadi. This ishow his face looked after he was alive.Go Google him and you’ll see what I mean.Where’s the rest of him? The soldier haszoomed too much; we can’t say. A hand, a foot,a face, a leg, a head stood for the wholeto be imagined. Jamadi walkedinto a shower room at Abu Ghraib.For much imaginary work was there.Remember how we argued over having a TVin the bedroom? An hour later, to movethe body out of the cellblock withoutupsetting the prisoners, MPs putan IV in his arm and rushed him outon a stretcher, as if he’d fallen ill.The lacerated face cradled by icetakes on a glassy sheen, as if we’re seeingit on an LCD screen, which we are.CIA agent Mark Swanner believedJamadi was just playing possum.Conceit deceitful, so compact, so kind.You said something like, “Isn’t there enoughsimulacra in here?” Casper’s Ratiotells us that a body in the opendecays twice as fast as one underwaterand eight times faster than one buried.We argue in a nice way when we do. We striveto be cordial, like the therapist said to.To see the actual cuts and contusions,you’d have to open up the whole bag anddump out a bunch of ice. For Achilles’ imagestood his spear. The thumbs-up. That brilliant grin.There’s no way to say how many factors affectthe speed of decomposition. Our TVflashes ads from its thrift-store plinth. [End Page 123] We make compromises all the time. “Yeah,we called him Bernie.” Precise terms, recalledin tranquility. His bones probablystill exist. Grip’d in an armed hand; himselfbehind. “You see that, Weekend at Bernie’s?I don’t want to spoil it for you.” Was leftunseen, save to the eye of mind. “You gorent that and you’ll see what I mean.” [End Page 124]

On Deep Blue vs. Kasparov

For this sad spectacle you dragged me outof the house? The spot-lit Russianrepresenting humanity, brined in his sweat,just disgusts. Can he have sacrificedboth bishops already? O that our Geniuswere a little more so. Who could blame uswhen we switch sides to root for the digitspimpling Deep Blue’s screen? Our choicesboil down to a scrim of salt in the bottomof the pot, and we lick at it dumb as deer.It is unhappy, but too late to be helped,the discovery we have made: that we exist.Ever afterwards, we suspect our instruments.Pale revanchists in the gallery, shakingwith rage, raise old-timey revolversand are quickly subdued. Why can I neverunderstand anything’s significanceas it’s happening? Sleep lingers all ourlifetime about our eyes, as night hoversall day in the boughs of the fir-tree. Unhappybut too late to be helped: crisp midwinter,a tidy pond edged with terrific pines,the indifferent snow including usunawares. 32.Rc7 Re8: the Russian’s attackis hilarious. Deep Blue’s ciphers yawn,swim, and glitter. Sparks spat from the future.Belatedness, notre amour. Remember Greenwich?While you climbed the hill to the observatoryand mused upon time’s elasticity,I scarfed fish and chips until I felt sick.Ghost-like we glide through nature, and should notknow our place again. We should seek firstthe last thing we want to find. Logic.But the Russian lunged for his king, our king,too late. The diode-freckled obelisk hissedand emitted its terse solution, perfectas a snowflake or microwave oven. [End Page 125] How could we counter? A beaker of tears?Dappled apple orchards? A baby’s face?All our top doctors, starlets, and priests wepton their knees like peasants before their laird.Might my sense of having come after the endbe a symptom of attention deficit? Thatis a...

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