“Slease refuses the comforts of rootedness, stability, permanence. In doing so, he represents what the philosopher Rose Braidotti identifies as the model of nomadic subjectivity “in flux, never opposed to a dominant hierarchy yet intrinsically other, always in the process of becoming, and perpetually engaged in dynamic power relations both creative and restrictive.” For many years now this “world alien,” as he jokingly calls himself in the interview with Wetherington, has been writing poems that celebrate flexible identity and mobile imagination. Equally introspective and retrospective, Play Yr Kardz Right beautifully illustrates his nomadic poetics” (Piotr Gwiazda in Jacket 2).
After the death of my brother Aaron, I began having a series of dreams about flies. Every night the flies came. One night, I tried to speak to one of them. But it wasn’t a real fly. It wasn’t organic. It was a giant fly made of cardboard. It was an artsy fly. My childhood dog, lady, also showed up. And she dug a hole, just like maybe 20 years previously, to give birth. She was in great pain but something beautiful was happening too, the birth of new life. So there was the fly, the eater of poop, and my childhood dog, giving birth, but in a hole.
There was no speaking to the fly. It was a silent movie, full of images, like the early films of the surrealists.
Death and birth, back and forth, dancing together. Can they really be separated?