Sunteți pe pagina 1din 96


all I had to do was take off the dust jacket
and now, Ashbery
o Ashbery
I love your poems to death.
this book. this naked book
I am so glad I have breathing to distract me from
thinking. And I suppose it is odd that that is all I can
configure as to the virtues of being and being alive. I look at
the trees everywhere eyes absolutely-
-Drenched in lucidness: I find out this:
That the random skunk smell is life, the
Cigarette I smoke is life, is fleeting, just
One type of contraband to eat my lungs
Into a killing before I make one on the
Lit Job Market, even the physical award
For being really wonderful is the total
Crux of life, the quietly passing cars a
Ways back as I see them, shuffling traffic,
This physical platelet is life, and if life is
GOD, it too is the motel, an unspeakable-
-Violence rattling us: a neutral spectrum for
Us to have impressive ideas about: for
Example: and all of it blind as hell! I jest
About it all to feel as if I snatched a bolt
Of lightning and laughed at the grace of
Death: which is pretty uncouth: GOD is
Blind, unconscious: and we as aware folk-
-On even the basest level, even some
Simplistic turd, drudging out one big idea
After another, living for such a spice of
What is in actuality common sense and not
Much feels his timely erhebung and makes
It as much his as a clueless musical savant
Makes sex his viol: of course there is a viol
Miniature for the miniature petty griefs truly
An excuse to pity a self with remarks that
Matter enough in the head to be never
Rid of. One wills thru hell, whether in
A motel - in a place with trees on it - or an
Urban curbstomp: the latest treat for
Hoodrats since the busting fire hydrant-
-Last week: grim clouds of crime and
Venture I think of: as life provokes me sans
Saying or thinking a thing: o to wonder at-
-A spacious universe: par exemplarrrrrrr:
The greatness of this great, blind neutral
Is found in we very intelligences that
Impress whatever and any on it, maybe
Needing to fill the chaos of such a
Senseless kingdom with magnificent
Psyche, needing to have really important-
-Feelings that shake the planet, or at
Least make one feel its massive orbit
Beneath their feet: once again I say as I
Cannot enough that I feel: I feel like I
Am struggling against the turning of
The Earth: my old lover and I and how
Sad! once hugged and teetered to-and-fro,
As if our feet were whelming like ships
At the dreadful sea-storm, to GOD prob.
Nothing more than a nice little rondure for
Her tiny friends that she likes to play house
With: rondure to stoke fun imagining with-
-And consider as a roller coaster! however
The whole crew dies, sans the craven
Captain, who tells everyone hes and how
Usual, Going down with the ship but he
Really treats himself with too much
Positive regard for being so nastily selfish:
He kills SKIPPER, intending to use his body-
-For food after using his body as a raft that
Did not work very well anyway, so he found
In the distance of the seas now calm surface
- How fast the time flew to drown all the crew! -
A large, a large intact barrel: he dislodged
The top of the barrel, which thankfully was
Empty enough to buoy him, and stuck the
Dead man in there: you know, for food:
What? he didnt know where he was, most
Likely would wash up somewhere really
Far away from civilization, or something,
But, how funny!, well, he, the captain,
Not but spent a few hours bobbing around-
-Before coming into sight of Gloucester Bay:
So overcome with relief, he kicked his legs
Toward the first ship in port - forgetting
Completely of the dead man in his barrel,
Who had a series of large wounds in his back:
How frail is life: and how demented:
Upon appearing before a jury, the attorney
Asked why so many bloody holes were there,
And why he had been shoved into a barrel:
And, jumping upon his own momentary
Candor, feeling lifted, redeemed even, at
Least as far as ST. PETER was concerned,
Said the capt. - I killed him, you know. To eat.
In case I washed up on alien shores. The
Attorney, ruffled, disguised that instead,
Realizing such and such was in the bag;
Reportedly grew way too tickled by this
Triumph at the grim hand of a deliberate
Crime, and smiled ebulliently all over the
Place: the jury was disgusted at this joy,
A disgusting joy, and everyone-
-Vindicated the captain, made him innocent
On principle, thereby forever besmirching
The lawyers soullessly contiguously firm
Nice touch, amoral writer as I am: crapola:
An imagination - any - is quite in tow with
A harried MAMMA MORALS, perhaps
From time to time a motion of the head
To signify childish, window-less, bad
Confusion, unable to understand all the
Queer terms and aims: imagination has
Its own imprint, directive, dialectic etc.
Without needing be told foolish stories
About cannibalism: I suppose I project-
-All this upon a reality of blind GODs,
But then the need to chase after a nucleus
Undermines the meaning of such a wee-
-MORAL OF THE STORY : my minds
Captive really: the captain: anyway:
Life, yea, is great, bc, well, not only do
We get to be alive but we get to die
After having existed : and so then if life
Itself, blind, BLIND, is GOD, well it
Is easy to see, people themselves are
An upgrade from their very creator, by
Actually being blessed with the context
Of having been, as opposed to trees, motels,
Concepts of shipwreck, mediocre reveries:
If such things are material I would rather
Exit this place: this WORLD:
We get to - have known - that the WORLD
Is, at least up until when we die,
Tomorrow: Sartre had it right: thats really
The only tomorrow there is: I want to say-
-My life has been absolutely bonkers,
Unreal, exciting, but thats how it is for
Everyone: things get out of hand, and how
Joyous this is true - things, they get
Out of hand very fast: for everybody: life,
Being GOD, will refuse to bore you,
And then: well: that is why life is a gift:
And I wonder what this fetishizing of
Weltschmertzz, ennui, la noiaa, fuckingg
Sticky-ass feelings, malaise, whatnot, -
Ah many names for it : why do philosophers
Focus on that of all things: or poets:
Why not, I mean, yea, we would prob.
Notice if people stopped talking about-
-And / or analyzed - dissected - ugh boredom.
EXAMPLE : of why I am so great. That I
Gave suffering a chance too, - practiced so long
To thwart a most bizarre divine Fuck-Up, - bring
MMy hand of Abraham - wielding knife - down,
Then ask if it please may chill, chill, chilllll:
So, uhm, if you could just leave me to
Remain at the end of my tether without cutting
It free: thatd be great: its a skillful noose
Youve made and altogether resembles a
Weir,d genetic braid: so, lemme ask ya:
-I smoke.
synecdoche, metonymy, metaphor, irony.
- those ^ are the four master tropes in poems.
Irony and metaphor can explain themselves, but what is
synecdoche, and what is metonymy?
From what I can grasp, synecdoche, in common parlance, means
symbol or something that stands for something else. This
sounds like metaphor or ironyexcept in metaphor, it is an image
that stands for something else; in irony, it is the meaning that
stands for something that is COMPLETELY opposite what its intent
is. Specifically, synecdoche (pron. sin-ec-doe-key) is a part
used to to represent a whole, a whole used to represent a part.
This trope is favored by expansive writers, such as whitman,
because it enlarges the meaning of the work in a small space, as
well as focuses the meaning in the whole of the pome; so that,
by the end, we understand what whitman is saying, but only
because it is represented in such focused parts that relate back
to that ethereal, incomplete whole. In other words, it is part
of something that refers to the whole thing, while the whole
thing cannot be located, therefore giving the work the
impression of something infinite.
Metonymy is harder for me to understand.
In rhetoric, metonymy is, like, saying Hollywood when referring
to the big movie industry. Calling something something else that
is similar to it or rings a connotative bell in your mind.
Moreover this switch is done, as regards poems, to flesh out the
story. Browning is like that. Sort of like an imago: one thing
you see in your minds eye that rightly follows along the path
of narrative?
It seems something like Wallace Stevens: meanings that exist in
relation to other meanings. To cite BLOOM: contiguity replaces
resemblance. wtf does that mean lol
Well, contiguity means, in poetry and philosophy, a continuous
line of reasoning: associated meanings that cannot stand on
their own, because each one resembles the one after, and yet is
slightly different, in order to perpetuate whatever line of
reasoning one might have. So then you see why it is different if
it fuels the poem!
So then a line of poetry might refer to the previous line, but
it is not the same as the previous line. The reference of one
thing to something different, that nonetheless figuratively
elucidates what u had said before, produces powerif that makes
any sense. Kind of like Stevens poetic crossing.
Personally, i think the trope i favor, in my own writing, is
Staring down a bottle of
expired Roxicet in there, right there, my eyes glued there, my
face plain and stoic and I already nearly under the table with
five shots of Jger and three lines of good shit. Like I mean
fucking fire. But I guess blow and all that liquid courage
didnt drown out the noise, besides the prattle of assembled,
different friends at this guys house, of my minds own harping.
It was like thousand of pianos tapping a variety of keys. An
eager discord, I thought, to drown out with weird half-convos
and I guess a few pills. Yeah, it was reason enough to ingest
that shit, half the bottle nearly, and wind up passed out on the
side of the street at 3 A.M., picked up to my shaky haunches,
heaved rather, by a few preferably [in my mind] anonymous ex-
friends, them all bodies for the carnage, this disturbing
wastefulness, nearly a tale for Fitzgerald to read and think of
Airdales. I was green. Froggy. But at least I wasnt blue. But
from that day on I figured out how easy it was to steal pills.
How easy it was to lose people. Everyone. A few simple turns and
you can be throttled forever until you put down the brick. Left
me with a massive headache. The loss of trust people had in me
is a gift doe. And, at least now, I take an aspirin or two,
maybe. I was fourteen.
So. I guess. Much to explain. About my behavior, now and then.
In a word I have started recovering from my own illness that is
yet too much a choice for me to call DISEASE. Been shattered by
drugs, this time bundles of heroin. Spent four months in and out
of seedy places in Windsor Locks, CT, cultivating this
addiction, ignoramus that I am, who does not listen to his body.
Tried quitting seven times; sick sick sick, unending sick,
physical convulsions, puking black grease, needing water that
yet when I drank it burned my throat. Physical addiction is the
story of Narcissus embodied. Wasted money, wasted years. Now
however a GLIMMER OF HOPE, pardon the pithy saying. I am clean
now and scared of any drug, perhaps this reasoning comes too
late to retain the whole of what I once was. But I pick up the
scraps and call it a day like anyone does. Pacing the halls of
rehab, Mountainside it is called, a strict recovery center. I
have thus been out of pocket, out of touch. No technology there,
no phone, nada. So as of now I am clean. Only fitting Id push
myself to the extremity at the very end. I am doom-eager as
Orpheus, my solitary lady , haha. Carol, I have thirty days
clean and feel higher now than I ever was quenching my habit, by
the coming of the sun, my girlfriend and I driving to Hartford
to pick up and sick as hell.
Every morning that was what it was. Blank sleep, maybe too
disturbed to call it sleep, waking and heading to resume my
disembodiment etc. Ah,
Hell, I am done, I am serious, life is no joke; if one doesnt
take what they have been given seriously life will respond and
turn them into a joker, and their life an exposed punchline,
meaningless, detrimental to everyone. A bug is in every family
as Kafka said. But we are all bugs, sweaty, stinking, plain,
thoughtless, wrong. I have in such and such a way quit my
buzzing against the window and resigned myself to dying in this
place, this World, this planet: this imprisonment etc. between
two walls of infinite glass. Its lovely. For we are all
resigned. We as a race of people are stuck with lifes
retaliation against those who do not celebrate the gift that it
is. The positivity here is muddled I guess but it exists here in
the words.
I am staying sober. For good. For my brain. For my body, which
as of now I can make out a few directives without stalling. I
still stall. But I am healing. Just like you. We heal by
affirming the awesome power that takes our ommateum and feelers
to the glass walls and reveal our painful futility etc. which is
grace. Life is grace. So we shall live and continue to live
gracefully. I will try to write you more than I have in the
past. Truly. You are my moms friend but mine as well, and hope
is for us: impending like an armageddon that is a death of the
old World as the curtains draw for the new one. I guess that is
somewhat a mixed metaphor, but it works best to say for me what
I wish said. Carol you are and will remain my friend. To
reiterate, as apologetic people must, what they think others
might not understand clearly enough.
I read Madame Bovary by Flaubert. If there is any book that you
should read to understand the art of novels it is that one. He
made reality reality, but somehow the language/style is lush.
Wonderful, porous identities, gripping narrative, if only bc one
starts to see the story itself is simple and yet full of an
inner understanding of futility that fills everything and
expands it beyond the points of concrete narrative. Everything
works. Subtle yet undeniably florid. If that makes sense, which
it doesnt: which is why such a book is a work of genius worthy
of its authors embolism at fifty and subsequent tumble down the
stairs. Le Mot Juste. <3 <3 <3
On another note. I have basically had to reprogram my body to
find different ways of being physically comfortable, ways I had
before taken for granted, and which are now gone. I am busted
apart here. I want to say it was the drugs and really this is
true and its time for me to consider that I have done way too
many substances to have any more dopamine left for at least
another decade. this of course fills me with fear as I have been
living dreadfully even sober, now; have indeed experienced this
complete fragility of my own nervous system for over a year at
least. dont even worry about my spine. I once had this idea
that I had to keep cracking my neck so blood could circulate
from my head to my spine properly. if I didnt, I thought, blood
would pool into my skull and my brain would hemorrhage. other
such delusions when I was tripping sack for three months: you
name it really: cameras in house, life is a reality show, my
girlfriend is Eve fallen from grace, my girlfriend is magic, tv
is constantly making commentary on my own existence and
thoughts, my girlfriends apartment is a spaceship, my
girlfriend is dead and I am either unable to deal and so split
myself apart into a figment of her and her best friend is
actually a psychiatrist that comes to her house in actuality my
house where I have been holed up out of grief and is the only
person I let speak to her or her best friend who comes to visit
is a medium that channels her ghost, that I was Jesus and she
was a shepherdess of some kind, that Storrs, CT where I lived
with her was a mass commune of telepathic individuals, that when
I finally returned home to new york literally every single
pedestrian on the street was welcoming me back, that [and this
still happens] when people speak it is some highly backhanded
commentary or slang as regards my own however slight physical
positions and shifts, that I created a wormhole, that I
controlled the weather, that the apocalypse was fast
approaching, that I could drive my girlfriends car just by
talking to her, maddening, elaborate schemes as regards me being
the second coming, that God spoke to me and got pissed off at me
for calling it IT, that my long lost friend Justin in Storrs was
actually the voice of god, that I had created a new form of
calculus, that my girlfriends ex was a poltergeist inhabiting
the house in CT. Hah. I could go on. For the amount of psychosis
I endured truly I am amazed I am not at present in a padded room
because absolutely everything I have said is 100% true. I like
saying that maybe its a testament to my mental endurance or
intelligence that I can lose so much and still be here and with
it. moreover, the emotional blunt fucking force trauma that is
waking life. as I said my body and mind either conspire to stall
me into despair, over the ledge of which I teeter - probably for
good - or lift me up to higher zones and then do that but much
the disproportionately worse than the initiated better feeling
was good. you guys really dont have to believe any of this if
you think no human being can emerge sober minded or alive when
it is, has been a long, hard enough fucking job to merely ignore
a deadly shift of even one small digit. I have said elsewhere
that awareness in large doses is a poison and I stick to that as
it is probable to say that such a wearying perception of
significance, applied to the most atomic physical twitch - will
inflate beyond its borders of ever being recognized by someone
else. then I think that people hide most of their anxiety or
shrug it off easier than I because such atomic twitches they
might not even recognize. but to put so much obscene weight in
something - THAT - FUCKING UNSEEN, is not only frightening as
hell, not only gives you a tendency to doubt everything beyond
recognition, but often people see its impact on you in your eyes
and all of it is basically like being crushed by a boulder. I
mean holy fuck! when your sense of wellbeing depends on the
shift of a pinkie! and oh hell do I wish I was over-
exaggerating, in fact would rather you believe that first of all
because I dont think such an inhuman spiting of oneself is very
possible to live for long with and bc its a very nice reality.
so in a word I have emotional cancer. now. hopefully I die soon
from smoking, which is somewhat an over-exaggeration thankfully.
please tell me what it is like to not have to fight tooth and
nail to feel good? please. I beg you all to tell me how you do
it. And if anyone can relate, I beg you to join a denomination
or at least take up a hobby. Admit to anything of this
resonating with you and - well, this is hyperbole, but merely,
to be honest, because I dont know how long I actually could
keep this up - well yeah I WOULD AND YEAH I WILL FUCKING PRAY
FOR YOU EVERY NIGHT. I will toss and turn knowing somebody else
suffers eternally like this. The cricket brings no relief, as
T.S. Eliot wrote. and as well I imagine a wilderness of crickets
at the end of this absolutely desperate post. again, most likely
people will think to themselves, Hes just in a bad place or
something so misery is his world for right now. and I wont
deny how true it is that emotional states most persuasively
mimic permanent states. but I know this exactly because my life
is run - not all the time, I grant sufficient wiggle room for a
rare case of having an empty mind or feeling truly calm or
peaceful or even kind of happy - but I know this exactly
because. my. life. is. run. by. that. very. evil. despicable.
I frown and think about why I can
make something mean what it means in a practical sense and also
imply something independent of that left unsaid in the words
themselves obviously but completely dependent on a consciousness
of the words and tied together with the practical value.
I thought of that and my mind fed up with itself said,
"Its called WIT, you fool! It is called your dirty WIT."
So like Whitman was a journalist for a Staten Island paper
originally. Leaves Of Grass is a title simultaneously sublime
and throwaway, by way of having this experience it is easy to
tell. Leaves are the pages of a newspaper tied together, grass
is the editors casual junk filling up the page, in 19th century
printers lingo. It can also be a reference to Psalm 42 or 43
maybe, All flesh is grass etc. The people is grass or
something primal and rough and provocative not a lyric dainty
candyass piece of victorian dullness.
On another note. It is fascinating to consider that Walt
Whitmans rhetorical autoeroticism and positive capability
extend not only from his desire to fulfill a national ethos
based in freedom - the Emersonian desire actually - but
psychologically speaking is more personal, a sort of rebellion
in the face of dour penitence: growing up in a puritanical
household brimmed with his fathers ideologies as a follower of
part-black part-indian Quaker Elias Hicks. But moreover there is
no rebellion but in a hidden one, the afflatus of the poems
completely removed from their goals as poems. Whitman, for
example, was a complete elitist, private, not exactly a social
lion like Coleridge and certainly in no hurry - tho he had
visitors - to invite a coven of oblique self-referential artists
into his home, which of course was originally the manner of poet
he was at first considered.
On a possible homoerotic stance: besides one elegy from the
Sea-Drift - Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking - this view
anyway is taken too seriously but is also too confining for any
massive synecdoche as is Whitmans. -
PROLOGUE: to this generation of
pontiuses, for the jesus no one
fucks with, heres a set of
tampered pins
"Of mans first disobedience, and the fruit
Of that immortal tree, whose mortal taste
Brought death into the World and all our woe
- - - from the beginning of Paradise Lost, John Milton
"Cynicism isnt wisdom / its just a lazy way to say youve been
burned. / In fact it seems youd only be less certain after
everything youve ever learned."
- - - Nana Grizol
"Dont get stuck on a dreeee-eee-eee-eee-eee-eeeam."
- - - Thom Yorke
I suppose I might as well say how funny it is how often I
concern myself with something that has been around for eon on
eon, when maybe I would do well to give myself a friend in
myself and have my mind follow a normal inner monologue, like,
you know, qualities I possess or something.
that is to say, words, language, ideas I think of, but as if
trying to help these things, explore for the sake of seeing more
possibility in these things than has, as I see it, been properly
taken advantage of. that is I do not think about myself in
regards to writing and absurd as it sounds I do not consider
myself a writer at all. writers I see as people who are
fascinated with the label, name, etc. but not the selfless work,
which I am aware is pretty much a schema as narrow-minded as the
lip service of any redundant politico but at least is not so bad
as being an indifferent shithead who doesnt even look up from
lunch upon first word of an american presidents assassination,
as my father once recalled to me of his father.
I saw that as somewhat a vicious indifference. indifference is
not vicious he said. but indifferent people not only assume no
blame but do not bother even to rattle the cage with the most
polite stance. hell, being polite is even too much a risk.
basically cowardice wearing the mask of disconnection. cowardice
by proxy of barely lifting a finger for someone else. anyone
indifferent, ironically, will not be self-indifferent but very
much delusively absorbed in that. they make of it a regular
factotum, clerk job, assist themselves against a planet
resisting them and their fucked sense of personal specialness.
so as that is to have besides relatively batshit morals a
relatively well-kempt sanity. basically.
but indifference, like the word maybe - usually leans to the
negative, unless it is a coy pardoning for the sake of some
surprise and so then feigned anyway. a serious maybe is a no.
and my fathers father, now dead, lost the chance to surprise my
father. if he even ever thought to do that to begin with.
you all I bet see why I can say such things are vicious. seeing
as we as social media mongrels hide by sharing, it is only just
I assume I am the worst kind of cowardice. I purport, my tongue
is in cheek when I say I am my words written more than my words
spoken. so then this whole spread of language on this blog or
Facebook suddenly you understand. I do not know myself because I
have given all of my identity away to words that in turn I had
felt comfortable sharing, not under comfort of feeling anonymous
but precisely because the congenital source of truth in the
contemporary way at least is that all it is are lies. no we do
not have nearly as much fun as we seem, but everyone somehow
knows this and at the same time feels alienated from the rest of
what is a dream anyway, a happy ship that has left port and you.
but the real desert island, the true naufrage, is the
appearance, the FEIGN of improvised speech. because oh yes do
you deliberate what pictures to show and ponder meaninglessly
for hours on not even a status update but a response to
all this lost the novelty of being absurd long ago and is now
mostly just hopeless and sad. like, ok, we know everyone is
lying, but somehow feel we do not, because we know our antics,
we know our rationalizing, our tricks, our truths. and yet
somehow we feel sad that we arent having as much fun as the
lie. and this is enough to give the lie validation as something
that is happening in reality enough for us to consider it; and
ourselves o very low on the social ladder, unfamous, wretched
we then ape the content others shotgun all over cyberspace in a
massive knot of self-treason, and grow slowly more jealous of
our past candor.
as if it belonged to another person. this of course, irony of
ironies, is all caused by other people and caring what they
think. we dwell over our ruin and soon that becomes the lie in
place of the actual lie: pouting over drunk-pics and old
girlfriends in the arms of some new victim of which the relation
is ambiguous enough to be torture, and if not, an unwelcome
effrontery, a scandal. and all this of course is caused by what?
INDIFFERENCE. indifferent to ones own scruples. indifferent to
the idea of possessing good character and good will. because
most people will need constant evidence of this or believe
otherwise, which is distrustful and awful but not unsurprising
in this world of bite-sized info and the de facto bloodlessness
of white collar grief. a CFO chewing out his general counsel
only serves to make him feel disembodied which is the most
murderous high of them all. and it only serves to skullfuck
anyone on the tail-end of that situation.
but, however grim this premise, such sadness, depression,
despair etc. might be the manifesto to write as the final say on
such a withered zeitgeist. people these days are into awkward
cringe-worthy comedy these days and no surprise there. but
while clever today it will probably amount to a sort of
chaplinism tomorrow or worse, baffling maudlin.
yeah, but what is for sure is that people will always be people,
will always contain through the flat-falling of things an ardor
to pursue, a triumph to dream about, an unrequited skill to
despise its inability, as something external and abstract, to
hurry up to you and lose its stubborn desire to remain the pipe
dream. ah, thats a common disembodiment. we blame the skill for
not availing itself to us. that illusion of grandeur however is
less in place. people are not really aristocrats in america
anymore despite how rich one is. people these days in america
are, well, realistic. buffers no longer can keep up - and,
certainly not for the whole life of even the most pampered,
sheltered individual - with the fast-growing availability of
inferences at least - most involve the web and the ease of it -
definitely a forbidden fruit sort of deal - as to how shitty
absolutely everything on the face of the Earth is.
this is quite inept of us: that in the holes of people we find
something insufferable. BUT EVERYONE, EVERYONE, EVERYONE
is literally pockmarked. what is not ever novelty in any case
are the tears we shed. nor is feeling astounded, speechless,
itself - and funny, this - too deep for tears.
this is what makes someone a person. the hidden joys and
intensities and despairs etc.
so, all this is out there. take it or leave it. it is how I see
things after years of deep thought and my own afflictions by now
a regular birthright. I suppose being in my twenties will be the
coolest thing that ever happened to me, but probably because
they will come to an end and I will see this as something
cathartic or whatever. we hanker for change but do not live
within what changes. I only did this in the sense that I stayed
at home basically bedridden, stinking, dysfunctional, and manic
to the point of a very singular episode that was so frightening,
so harrowing - some literary professors would call it an
intellectual crisis [ahem HAROLD BLOOM] - that it resulted in
two and a half weeks of just straight amnesia. Like Vonneguts
amicable and naive character Rosewater, I saw a burning city,
wreathed in flame, and woke up sometime very much later on a
bench holding a tennis racket.
in my case, though, it was a pen.
uh, figuratively. I mean I basically wrote on the computer at
that time so I woke up at evening some time after the episode
doing what I am doing right now. I just said pen for dramatic
effect. sorry, I shouldnt apologize. in fact you know what FUCK
YOU!!! sorry.
heh. but I suspect these years - my twenties - will be the
coolest part of my life. it is when we can still be wowed like a
child at more complex faculties of existence and ritual and
soul. soulful optimism.
but then I hear myself say to keep telling myself that. for I
say my twenties will be cool despite a definite lacking as to
variety of ass. and despite a crippling addiction issue. and
despite the quandary of being simultaneously looked up to by no
one at all and looked down upon by people you rarely respect.
and despite the cornucopia of meds I have to take that basically
are slowly killing my sense of imagination. and the insufficient
social sway despite ironically being the most influential social
you know what I should either kill myself or just invent a time
machine and go back to somewhen like the 60s when being a
twentysomething was actually magnificent as opposed to the
vacuum of ennui, pharmacology, mediocrity, weight problems in
summa, the general passive game it now is.
at least you can use a gun in call of duty without your school
guidance counselor shitting his pants. because its not real.
but since when has anything over these past four years of mine
been real? perma-tripping for three months straight off a mere
four jesus tabs and albeit gram after gram of molly, thinking I
could talk to god, and my lover getting so sick of it she got
addicted to xanax? a few good books. those have been realer than
this cuckoofuck reality I see before me like a slaughtering
dagger. but the spot is still there despite rubbing. its chaps
my ass - and no I wont please you with the dick pun, delicious
as rubbing the angry member soft usually is. but I just fed you
all with my denying you. anyway:
I dont want to kill myself so I guess I am shit out of luck. I
mean I could grow some dignity but then I would have to move my
pot plants. ah fuck it. Ill just make a butter sandwich and
call it a sleepless night. besides, knowing me, the variety of
ass wouldnt fluctuate no matter if I went back in time to the
paleolithic era, when nobody was very discriminate as far as I
can tell or forward in time to when everyone fucks everyone,
families dont exist, and one can just click the magic booties
of soma-bliss together. or whatever we need to forget were
alive. shit. kind of sounds similar to the emancipated
selfishness of today, even worse for the civil rights touchstone
of having a black president - not inconsiderably to have himself
made, recently, considerable leaps in climate change legislation
- and, ah, only to lead a nation of lack-tragic, unprofound
people who would sooner shoot up a kindergarten, than look
inside themselves.
no wonder Huxley was fascinated with mason jars. our horrible
doom has been preserved from the beginning it seems.
my guess is, the sound of any regular traffic congestion on the
highway must be dinosaurs rolling in their graves.
- [When mechanism hath turned past departure with tapering
mechanism, finally away, and loose as a banshee whirred out down
the carpeted aisle of a particular minds prospective eyes:
well: I felt as dissimilar to those ensuing abstractions as
bled: from a moving cog to a synapse after next: like: whether
it should be met w umbrage or something: if I was a few shades
from the civilized and forgot a comrades drink, for example. A
raspy fealty with the singers of optimism gives me enough rug to
cut. And so often is it given me to look up at the skys
residing stare back, effectively pouring out the watchmakers
toolbox, and the grass below my feet suddenly littered with
strange, abstract metal.]
[reading the stories kafka I appreciate the formalism of a well-
organized drabness, or something like realitys stupendous
plainness, so much of which I tend to miss, but all of it there.
never abandoned the weave of all things tho I cannot number
every stitch. kafka shows me that words make a story; write the
words and the story comes, perhaps even changes imperceptibly,
and we are sorely shocked at K.s exclamation : Like a dog!
when that drabness on the surface tricks us w its clinical
monotony precisely to illuminate the delineation between what is
happening - the immanent attention to detail that comes w any
drab, plain description is an aid in this - and how it is
[Wallace Stevens is compulsively rereadable to me. Ya read it
over and over again, maybe the first handful of times you might
even just be purely reading the words [in my case hundreds,
which believe me is not a compliment] and what was a sort of
advancing torpor by its movement as the sun might clock slowly
over pictorial hills from a great distance yet it is of great
speed to those small beings on earth whom might only know its
immediacy in flooding the here and now around their small
places. An appreciation for the stillness that is the coming
winter morning, ends up having always been the true reason
behind the poems of him. Stillness, stillness, somber mind and
tired forms of motion, weary but somewhat as one would look
behind himself and see all how it was impossible to have lived
so long and pined withal a bad throat. Stevens beckons by the
music, you stay to have what resonates reveal itself to you,
perhaps unconsciously that is why you return to the same
pieces . . The same is true for me w Rimbaud. As for short
stories, Kafkas Description of a Struggle I suspect I could
reread forever and that in a sort of astonished fear. Poop.]
I the pusillanimous am now as much generally weak, and in
possession of no virtues whatever; at most have the good will my
past deeds typify, though I grovel so frequently before the
lightest touch of shade or flaw on me that actually doesn't
exist. Don't be sympathetic. A hint that is itself delusive I
come rather closer to, at present, intoxicated by doubt as I am
- so as to uncover the same fake lie about what I believe is who
I am. Now, well,
I now am left without a sense of being out of time otherwise.
Unable to vacate myself, remove the five senses: and encroach
upon that fine, friendly gravity as I had once ago as upon an
undiscovered, moldy land - the same land sans forgetting it at
least upon ending whatever visitation of power I allowed my
forgetting to disremember and pour out of effect. As water
through both ears!
But no I do not ever again come upon such nearly dispassionate
focus, a thing - ironic - the rudder for my passions actually.
Once free of that livery of all that forced habituation of
awareness had me throw aside, for good maybe - I find, I am
still just as absent as I had been of understanding time, at
But it comes about in such a way that my carefulness makes time
extinct for me - or vague - if I am lucky.
I rehearse my minutes beforehand, I dispose of what is almost
always the adequate prolepsis, before it comes - unsheathe
nothing for my battle - a sword of dry tendril and shrinking
calyx and crumbling leaf - before the speech of the clock has
dealt its hand, as the time comes to properly think it, and
thereof instead of a quietism I am upon ruinous anxiety, itself
the leftovers of a quickening towards the anticipation. But no
anticipation. A sneeze-rag.
. . . Tautology is all-encompassing and therefore a phenomenon;
for it does not encompass all but what it may represent on an
individual basis only. The subjective ethics of Kierkegaard need
boredom as an intended experience of the text: because its
immanently disorganized, it makes no pretense of a phenomenal
order but instead involves the reader, nearly guides her, via a
conscious, intended effect. It is the words which mean what the
reader feels.
Elvira leaves convent - Trauma is the fundamental mood apropos
the original intuitive glance
More real = Someones effect on another - involves another -
more fundamental - important - than intuitive original - which
is personal - more like a dream.
. . . To set out on a task! - alienating- many trains of
thought, as opposed to emotive writing, on one train only -
infinite resignation - try and fail, not instituting flaws like
a persian rug - a mistake, but more in earnest than arbitrarily
inserted flaws - ironically fuller to follow one train, than
create a system by connecting many, perhaps many already
abandoned, grassy boxcars - peh - phenomenology is a system, for
sure - the phenomenon is that it must be set out concretely for
all, on a universal level. - Kierkegaard only example of
dialectic as attempt at phenomenal essence. Single train to
represent non-system system. Different from Nietzsche, who was
fuck all on everything.
THEORY OF CHRIST : a vessel for GOD, no character of his own: to
be touched by GOD is to become GOD. And therefore overwhelm the
character of the individual - personality, et al. How does that
play into faith?
Faith = no room for nuance, absolute; touched by GOD, become
GOD, absolutely.
GOD removes from us because GOD loves our variety and mortal
nature. Faith is intellectual inertia, at least as regards the
thought that its leap is the intellect in motion
It is faith began us
Two equivalent GODs - absoluteness invades absolutely and is the
source of all variety by making possible the existence of
multiple somethings - not from nothing but from ONE THING - the
one thing exists by this same kinetic principle: it is not about
beginnings and endings, finite arcs. It is about that any thing
absolute already falls in line with thing-in-itself.
Language And The Myth Of Duality
Nihilism As Not A Pessimism
Verbal springs from nonverbal. Language springs from a need to
organize what is an intuitively concrete World, really a
complex. And so then a psychology. A dream.
Nietzsche was a poetic Kant and so then anti-Kant. No origin,
useless to consider.
Experience is a psychology
Experience is intuitive.
'heaven' is merely, and 'hell' too, the result of being
conscious of the World you left. Maybe just that's enough to
plague you or redeem.
Whoa odd
Freedom driven by skepticism. Volition = freedom to doubt.
Sometimes, we must begin with what we know is wrong.
Contraries feel both sides of balance.
IDEA : Pascal, human nature as a spring set in the center. To
disturb one side is to disturb the other also.
Principles / categories for reality degrade inspired practice -
philosophy, as verbiage, relies on afflatus / inspiration, the
Different from imposing order on natural disorder. Suppose order
as tabula rasa. Not from existential standpoint, yet the king is
chaos and the mask is liberating void, as of such.
Existence imposes order. Essence precedes existence, the mask is
disorder. The balance is disturbed by insubstantial talking. <
Lud Witt
Better to remain silent. Beckett had it right.
Assume order > entropy [Jacobs Ladder]
The order is originating . . more humble to start w order,
causes as preceding thing, existence not as free radical but the
very beginning for things, solid things, reality organized into
a table, chair, small sharp-
Chaos is the order, is literally more orderly than what is made
carefully sensible in words. It is us who presumed reality was
anything close to what words and discussions could box in, or
rather out.
The World is a painting. Goff,
[NOTES, on F.N.s The Gay Science on the concept of Amor Fati]
We trick fate by expecting it. Tender moments seem more to those
who have them than those apart from them, to whom they are
directed, and whom, sensing the act, define them strictly, and
as a result prematurely; for the acting on it has yet to be, tho
to the definer it seems definitive, for being, in his or her
eyes, fated to happen.
Nietzsches phil. is not quite existential nor quite like pure
hierarchal phenomena. As Blake lasted into the Romantic period
from the Baroque, as Beckett was considered Postmodern while
remaining a Modern, one starts to go backwards in attempting
arbitrary names and periods. And how ironic I say this!
It is not so alienating and more like some scrupulous wealth we
can identify but cant hold in our hands to use or trade and if
we get his value system wrong it is our own fault. It is
especially not so systematic; however the passion is classical,
the logical purge not quite so drowned in terms, yet the result
being, well, pure supernova. A period unto oneself.
My suitability to life I must compress into the meant words, you
kno, really earnest,go by how I feel, even if it is a weak
twinge, it will be an accurate expression of the twinge, how the
muscle throbs: babe of info: distant datagrown old. Old hat.
But I want to be surprised again, kno the position of my heart
again midst all spacious uselessnesskeyto somethingis to see
it plain, like an objectdepthless, lacking depth. But where
goes all this spelunking ??
Relative all
Regarding how I feel, what I feel
Is a dirty pile of rope, jammed
Bits, opportunities to stoke what is jut
From the slit of an image,
Carrion regarding, raising the noose tied,
Riddance of all complex children,
Haunting their rooms forever, how I feel
Regarding what I feel : a tomb
And masochism <wide>
To get me there.
That beautiful, present stranger.
I would love if love were not a cross,
My heart bent out of shape
To fit a figure for the burden
I have carried in her object,
The girl far gone, behind,
Yet tracingmy every step.
How I was a man:
Well, certainly I at the center
OF the crowd, in a huff
Walked off into anonymity, down
The hidden, spidery
Rows I counted, deliberate,
Not to stray, demeanor blank,
Eventually cleaner as lifted
Fogs of afterthoughts as various
Confusions, as spirits
Balled in various confusions,
Lifted, the bawdiness of day to more
Serious a light, slipped
Off the hosiery of day, slipped, to
Reveal earnest legs, fresher
Than before; that yellow
Socket drooled lightit was o o o
An alive sun. And I was one. I
Made me lie. So mad they
Dont believe me. What the fuck. <impermanence>
Now smell her a little,
And if its gettable, well then, let me know,
Comrades. Let me see that you understand
The stark raving madness of the universe.
This isnt smug talk, I know
This shit is dense, and hard, and sometimes
Rough around the edges. Maybe even
Straight up boring. But
Try and see works I work to work into pomes as
Anything but mild, see the fury in the words as I
Do. Maybe I beggar the concept too much.
But I aint changing anything. Its a vision.
Visions you do not alter, they give alter to
Your view of the World, by assuming a shape
Unexpectedly, perhaps at first only in your
Peripherals, but soon
A smash into the eyesocket, right there, without
You even knowing whats hallucinated and
Whats out of your control to see as a realness;
A vision, something, that is, that is
There for to make you know that you arent too
Alone, maybe just a littlebut if you
Think about how The Vision
Came to mind, you find it is an amalgam
Of the thoughts thought well and concisely
Enough to produce a phenomenon
Completely outside of your ability to have
Shaped it consciously. Thats
What I mean. Something of an OUTSIDERFORCE
That perhaps is relic: a depthy gratitude
The universe has, in giving one that
Pasty shard; is seen in that
You are the part of its delivery to you
OF something very much from a place
Where you have not been. This is
The literarily welcomed plague
OF hallucinated vision. And I wont dare
Sully the gift of something to me given
By something not me, in my head,
Nonetheless. So sue. And find, well,
You sue your wishes for being wished,
And come to a place
Where nastiness is, and then judgments
By others louden, thinking it is merely
A peripheral expression, the bad tautology
OF a contrite hollering for
Meaning to give its chance you,
When, really, it is all a polite
Grace of the sky and the
Cosmos. And I would not be happier
With my little shrugs
OF nothing, my little weaves,
My million-swervesat ease, Mr Talker
My celebrated illness
Of the disease.
It isn't that one could not make this up.
It is that speech could not write this down.
. .. . . . . . .. .. . . .. .. . .. .. ..
The philosophic dame
Her refrain, and then
Pretends: an instance anew: that
Of fear, feeds fear, sees it in
The lucid breeze: which gets
Thrown back,
Attack on the wind - thrown -
By the wind, and descends it all friendly.
The stillness like
A veil, on the
Stockstill trees, on it all;
Drawn from the rapier,
This sword is a broken man
And delicate the season
For the weaponrys plan,
Dismiss this uh kiss of the stokers stick,
The blade in
Your back,
And then filter it all
Like dirty blood
From the bite. Spite
Licks against, punctually,
A bathos: surrounds
The grounds in smoke, before
The last minute plays
Its crudity, the lost joke, a laugh
At the path, and a welter for
The ringing birds disturbs
Some objection, a cough before silence
. .. . . . . . .. .. . . .. .. . .. .. ..
. .. . . . . . .. .. . . .. .. . .. .. ..
Into the practice of a given meaning for the gulch-
-As if it were there in thirst, no masquerade,
But dryness, no interminable neverland, but
Writhed in lye, already dead but whispering,
Feebly, into the nastiest ear of them all,
A tough ghost, sinister as bones, mendicant
For raveled proxies and cheap spasm,
A novel broker for the currency of spent,
A bizarre gerund, doing without the verb, a field
But seen deserted as an axe to rust, a lethal
Prescience and a faith in grievance for
Coronation, what that is that is left to make
Sense of the doom, the test off the text and
Making speech somber as a prelude to
Exotic nothing, speaks but doesnt, walks
But prepares for the cardboard, when EARTH
Gets all alone within a mind a gulch,
A spare livingness redeemless, for she is
Smoking dust and without a filial dread for
Her, is left hopeless, is dry as the brain
Of a random klutz bleeding harmonies onto
The floor, she dont, she cant, shes preaching
Matters to herself following mortal dangers
Already passed thru, mortal dangers,
Yea, like you care, like you care so much to
Leave and regret leaving, spy on your
Own feelings like tearing up a science, deep
Cores, lost, breaks not given, slack not
Given, shes a desert, ah, shes the
Ghost, you just justly dont tell me, poem,
To spare my antipodes their lack of relation
And rising up of futility like something of
A birth, a happiest cause to bring the dead
To a life already decided to end, I hope,
I hope she lives, I hope the canvas her
Mind makes empties before the portrait
Becomes picture, herself unknown as a
Gulch in the hot barren heat,
Afterbirth, worsening, eking mind, thoughts,
Laceration of a hairsbreadth of decency,
A moment of karma, irreversible,
Tuned to the carnage of tomorrow when
Asperities lead her here to scream at herself,
While loving me, hating me for love,
When like a despot I have tried to rise her,
Thwarting her, ranking her, qualitative,
She makes the qualitative quantitative, ah,
Poem, you go to many places, poem,
You go too many places, you find your room,
You go mindfucking, you fuck like chimps,
You illuminate a dram, furnish trash,
Glum partitions, dreamy cloudless day too
Blue to get me beyond blurs, naked sun
Burning the gulch to pieces, senseless,
Carnage, I said that perforce to drown it
Out of possibility, for I have made
The morning psychotic night, found friend
In whats not left, resigned to the nothingness
Of what is, what is and dreams like
The vault of sky opening upon a stupid world.
. .. . . . . . .. .. . . .. .. . .. .. ..
I used to smoke and pace outside of the motel room.
It was 126. Right next to where my lover and I stayed.
Once. This was minutes ago. How funny I see it already
As so long ago. As if a deep intimacy forded time
Out, to leave the event in the minutes that began
It. Ceasing to be real, the moment hinges
On chaos. So many thoughts can draw out for hours.
But it is the ego not time that nuzzles a lackluster
Commonplace out of puzzled fragility, and to freak it
Thence into something, perhaps, more positive.
More like you. Who is her. But she might as well
Be here for me to see all this beauty everyplace.
For example. Item: man with natty hair descends
Into gates of hell, his favorite. Item: some mother
Eats a sandwich looking for her sons monsters.
Item: fat guy gets thin, thin guy puts on a handsome
Few. Item: writer relishes the nicety of balance
As its own eternal commonplace. But then,
And I guess I will make this a bad thing or whatever,
But personally, I think its the oddest and therefore
Most rattling ITEM: A flock of birds quickens
From a tree thousands of miles away. The flock
Of birds however, I am learning to my horror,
Is right next to me, sitting its casual burgeon
On the motionless sheet of this motel room
Bed. Remember that time when I wrote that?
Yeah. I dont either. I do think though that
I am lumbering, lack true gesture, lack even
Too little to mourn what I lack, which somehow
Makes me humble if that is I can see the
Nitpicking of myself bad and thorough enough
To actually trick myself into saying something
Nice about myself. No one else is though.
I was alone hundreds of years ago, back when.
I was made of strings. I was a haunting piece of
Artwork. Or the sound of a garbage truck at
Four in the morning. But now I just really smoke,
And pace, thinking, well, I should add some
Different thing now, should be as one who
Will smoke but never actually doing it. This
Stasis is most comforting to me, that I can
Move forward by staying still. I should just
Accept that nobody is subtle all the time.
There are moments, moments we lumber,
Most of all hamfisted, and I cant believe
How obvious Im making this even now.
It was never a matter of being deliberately
Abstruse, reality says, waking me up,
But more, I as being reality was more intrigued
By complexity, making it worthwhile at the bezel
Of the struggle. Humans are simple, predictable.
And for awhile between the break and the door
Back inside, I imagined that I could sans mercy
Exist for the first time in that harbored space,
Could paint my image and leave it there, on
The underside of realitys desk, some snoring
GOD there, head pillowed by no sentinel but
Pages, ignorant though weathered with
Scrawl. GOD would later wake up with a
Backache from falling asleep hunched
Over his task. I suppose my head took me
With itself. By the way, I paced minutes ago,
Got a room with her awhile ago, but now it
Seems kind of pleasant to perceive the same
Amount of passed time. Was this poem
Even written?
. .. . . . . . .. .. . . .. .. . .. .. ..
The Worlds
A beautiful
Communication. And, yet, still,
In all that
Sunders, rips the
Throat apart for
Words, there is
A grace rejected
And a grace
Affirmed. Think of a
Swamp lain
Beside the
Ignorant lake;
The bile dwells
There, the septic
Invading of a
Followed desire
To eternitys
Strict end, in
Grandest, brave
Apocalypse, as
One betrays
His vaunted yes
In response-
-To the myriad
Voices of doubt and scoff delivered.
And then, one
Enters the realm
Of endless
Ceasing instead,
A rocky arbitrary,
A seeming amiss; and then, if one wages war enough,
An elegant impartiality: or just conveyance of that neutral:
Centers result from this, this, this, this, this,
The pain of our bliss. Of
Course we turn and nod
Our heads, I attempt to
Reconnoiter with an originating flaw, or something
For the sake of comrades;
Acknowledging thus invigorating
A misery. Or other.
Of course, we
Do it wrong,
Until the final
Take. Then
The universe
Begins again for
Us, who left
So much carnage
In that desirous
Flap, that
Next-door lake.
We feed, choking on
Rotted life, details to the point of protozoa.
A smog of
Leftovers and
Algae distress
The bog, but o the lake is as much the worser
Lacking, a true nothing, a
Conniption; stake it all rather
On an only emptiness in
Us, not on the sound: well, one thinks of
Miseries pacing conspicuously
Around in their created
Rooms: a fallen
People and a
Fallen king, yet
GODs in us
Remain, by
The by, and to
Their business
They pretend
A lifting from
The ladder,
Abandoning parallels,
Muddled references
And warmnessfor a
Truth in fine
That grows as one injecting antibodies: all this
Comes down to the infinity
Of one simplicity:
Followed by, maybe, possibly, needlessly,
Ironic remorse, no less, for the
Painstaking nods that recur. Nods
To a void, the
Same one, but an irony for being an aid:
It is reckless, worse because at the same
Time by friend
And friend, not person
And person, so that in the end both ends are ends, and
The gross permits doubly grossly, the fineries cut: that all
Become negative, a bruise, is ruthless bullshit: it starts
In what is just, after all: regarding just a
Freedomfrom the
Margents, banks, polluted with maddening, scummy
Detail, yet finally coming tragic, a naufrage; one
Is ashore to beat ones
Feet and feel no
Deck, nor rocking then, and then control returns,
Non-commital and astonished and
Loose. It is these
Freedoms we betray
In simultaneously admitting our different nodding bogs,
Shouting our pain unmoving and as stagnant.
From removed lips, I and I, but somewhere other-
-That whisper an immediate chain of orbital events,
Admittance beside, around itself for sympathy: yes:
All planets, bodies of water, antibodies to diagnose the will.
The silence too then is there, to
Confide in: bleaker, well, in bleaker
Ways: than even the last corporeal relation, the
Most hellish
Personage, beside himself.
. .. . . . . . .. .. . . .. .. . .. .. ..
First rain
Pissin down on aluminum
Siding aflame, and
The clonus alone gets
Me mental and hiding again,
A grave for a diced
Angel for the crevasse
Left in the crap
And dirt.
I leave the
Train later full of beer
And hurt. I looked so long
In the wilderness of my spine
For motive. Eh
Lifes angle, or some foundational
Emotion? This regime seems
Seems a river of mirrors
Of the flame. The last time
I looked to dine
On pearls I guess
My teeth cracked like
Little girls, and my head is a
Strewn askew
With empty grass
Here and there, and
The cloudy talk
Of ruins disturbs
This unbelievable Earth. I
Find an only braid to ease
My beard, cradle
Fear like intestines
In my lap, o children
Its a rap, Ive driven alright?
To the wild end. And might as well
Be dead. I pull
The soggy scarf across my
Sodden cheek against
The silently falling snow, now.
For the rain got colder, and with the trailer
Are for my heart;
The canyon, indiscriminate berth.
A contagion
Or an art, to swallow
To swallow and ignore. Unseemly
In a fiery mess. O the humanity, o
My disgusting, her dead wretchedness.
Thank you. I scatter to the station then,
Cant nothing be my best relation,
This is the field of vision I choose: all just
To use a spike to hike
The pulse and empty state
. .. . . . . . .. .. . . .. .. . .. .. ..
It is me and my careless, deranged
Luck, has brought - it seems -
You here, fed to the place by
Foreboding - powerlessness -
That what you wish what you want
To become becomes what you
Are not: you dread the
Unexpected metamorphosis, yet
Will little against it on your own, not bc
Your will is weak, rather like
A guarded secret it is cautious of
Revealing all in full exertion unsubdued.
Make the brawn to be you
Yourself, find value there,
Everywhere accomplishment, bc
For you, to move still, heart
Beating - to manage
A thread of least complacence
About the day as you are
Woven into another, and your will,
Mon Semblable, brother and
Symbol and treasure, along w/ you,
Is to have done more as
To effort than a president in
Wartime; eager threats
Of powerlessness aside, what
Gives you strength is what you relish
Of strength - in will - the freedom to Do
The Thing.
. .. . . . . . .. .. . . .. .. . .. .. ..
embed artifice / in the very
breeze / then, all / become
a plea to be / real / imposing
a rushing sound / of saving /
for oneself / the grand obvious,
and / the delectable insistence
/ of a reality / forcefully shorn /
that is / you have, you / have /
only / dead answers . from way
back when / when everything
had been created / merely / and
the flesh of any scene before
eyes / a thing of only / the quality
of words / and thus, a / plea
for substance / and an area to
live / wherein nothing answers no questions asked / because that
artful socket / has perennially been / is your eyes themselves
. .. . . . . . .. .. . . .. .. . .. .. ..
I think my mind has a mind
Of its own. Some would call
This an identity pit. I call it
Gnosis. I call many things
As they are to me. My mind
Has other plans. My mind
Wants to see me healthy.
It wants me to take my jaws,
Waiting for death, off the
Curb. I just want to kill off
Everything, make specious
And trivial everything, deny
The personal as damaged
For all time. But thats it
Exactly. It is impossible for
Anyone to break apart like
That. Nietzsche called insanity
A delight in unreason. I
Think thats more accurate
Than the whole, doing the
Same thing and expecting
A different result jargon.
Sanity is in us. I think maybe
It returns to us after we die.
The most deteriorated soul
Is still better than a dead
Star. The explosion might
Create planets, but the
Mind has a purity sans
Destruction. We all have
Half a mind to destroy the
Other half of our mind we
Dont quite understand. But,
Like a magician, it wont
Reveal its secret. Not ever.
I suppose its true that when
I jumped the second time I
Expected to hit the ground
Harder than ever. But worse,
I was suspended by a rope,
Drifted easily to the ground.
A leap of faith sometimes
Needs a harness in that way.
The faith involves the notion
That one will not fly but die,
Or break, or enter a stupid
Wilderness of schizophrenic
Denial, denying not reason
But denying that one is not
Reasonable. The fact is,
Language is that harness
That will always be a tautology,
That is that harness, that safety,
That cant be touched by
The sabotage we all strive to
Replicate in seeing as
Nothing but an oddly there
And extant redundancy, a
Redundancy that, because
Whatever created the
Universe is a fucking dunce,
Ends up being, well, pretty
Much the way things are.
But maybe its not so duncelike
Because anyway we are very
Wounded as people who
Think. The whole Cartesian
Method irks me but damn does
It make me think. That doubt
Involves understanding the lay
Of the land first. Only that
Which we cannot understand
We cannot doubt, which was
His explanation of GOD, at
Least, as far as I can tell. Ive
Only really scoped out
Descartes, but I like it, very
Methodical. Its a bit like what
Schopenhauer said about
Being a hypocrite and involves
Intellectual finagling in the
Same way: that it is hypocritical
To deny one is talented, to call
Themselves mediocre: saying one
Thing while doing something
Different: like a strange logical
Inverse: if reality was as it is
To us, that is, as the
Raw nerve we exactly dont
See it as, then maybe the soul,
Whether material or whatever,
Would be ruined. If I called
Myself a charlatan I would be
Closest to killing myself and
Would generally feel shitty and
Bummed otherwise. The fact is we
Are all insane, all broken and
Blessed and whatnot, simply
Because reality is a useless
Ideal that is useless to get to
The bottom of because in any
Case it would still amount to
Some spectral apparent
Reality that must be so, as
The limits of the mind must
Be so, so as to ward off
The ever-under-attack Unreal
Part of the mind that is the
Soul basically, a material,
Or maybe an infinite object
Without the ability to degrade.
Ah, who knows. Im tired as
Fuck and pretty messed up
And yet I delight in unreason
Just to bleed into my skull,
Voracious for some triumphant
Sense of loss, more fodder
For the poems I suppose, but
Loss is loss. We are limited
From being able to encroach
Upon the part of ourselves
We do not understand so as
Not to doubt its existence since
It is no matter whether it is
But why it does, and I guess
The reality never before us,
Before our eyes, must be
Pretty damn scary to need
Language to distance us from
It. Id imagine cavemen just
Kind of dwelled in some anguishing,
Immense silence all the time
And eventually the crossover
Came about and the species
Couldnt take having to guess
Without a conclusive rapport
With other cranial beings, however
Vastly shrunk, they probably
Started to see the soul of this
Planet, this planet and
Themselves too, and like an
Animal baffled they themselves
Didnt understand the sensation
Of being baffled, made words
To try and figure it out forever.
Little did cavemen or grunting
Hunter-gatherers rather know
That this creation would light a
Fire under humanitys ass,
And for all time everyone would
Be obsessed, maybe so wrong,
With the truth: with getting back
To those perverse, soulless,
Tongueless roots. Words are the
Soul I guess is what I mean by
Suspending us above the ground
Upon the leap, and anchoring us
Down. Whatever created
Everything probably figured this
Would happen, but then again
Maybe GOD is just a file clerk,
Maybe Earth-total is one file, at
Most the first shit to deal with
Would be atrocities in Africa
Or starvation in India or those
Kidnapped girls from Nigeria or
Well, I could go on about all
The horrible shit that goes on
On a daily basis, like clockwork,
Like a thing that repeats itself
Because we as people had the
Bright idea that we were actually
Reasonable instead of seeing
Ourselves as perverse as
Primitive peoples, animals blessed
Unknowing they were blessed,
To now, as I see it, people who
Think they know. You have to
Suffer for knowledge. You have
To really suffer. You have to
Expand your mind but preceding
An agonizing withering of self
And body for a long time. Leopardi
Basically revolutionized the way
We look at poetry: the miserable
Fuck developed a hunchback
And bad eyes from studying by
Candlelight for hours on end.
And guess what? He was in his
Parents clutches until the
Last years of his life! A mind wants
Itself to not be known, to be
Content but also spread its wings,
Pardon the bromide. But thats
Kind of fucked because a little
Bit of both often looks the same
As all or nothing. But now Im
Loading all you reading this
With confusion. Frost had a good
Way: he said: Be whole again
Beyond confusion. He is right,
Fucking right. So right I get
A boner just thinking how right
He is. Forget about being
Confused. Delight in unreason
As not being something
Wrong with you but just the
Nature of our minds, secretive,
Beautiful, protective of the
Self in us, protective of sanity
Rather, selfhood I am still
Working on, autonomy, independence,
Finding a job. Well this is screwball
As all hell isnt it? Did you even
Understand my poem? Good,
It doesnt matter. Just as figuring
Out real and not real is about
The same as Descartes refusing eggs
Too long under the ass of the chicken.
Im not a proponent of intellectual
Laziness, no no, but we have to work
Carefully to the point of hunchbacks
To make systematic sense, we
Gotta really be OK with only being
And ever only being able to rest in
A continuum of words and limits,
It helps us save who we are, helps
That part of us, sacred and sane,
Never die. And maybe losing that
One part of us that baffles the
Animal in us is exactly what we
Need to see that purity, that soul,
For the soul is, exactly, nothing,
And even if we rot in the ground
Thats still pretty amazing. Lack
Of consciousness I would imagine
As being a higher form. A higher
Understanding, not necessarily
Because consciousness muddles
But rather that it is an extra layer,
Perhaps necessary to maintain
Our material nothing, our sanity
That is, sans redundancy, unharnessed
Because finally able to swoop
Into the air.
. .. . . . . . .. .. . . .. .. . .. .. ..
"You said it will be painless / a needle in the dark."
- - The National, PINK RABBITS
We even brace ourselves,
& at long last we manage
To wallow our way out of
Our wrong valleys wallow:
The busy shade of some
Cypress, and whose leaves
The gild for branches seem
In motion for some intent
To join with the shade
They give, the result,
Confusions of substance,
Color, texture, etc. that
Lend to an abrasively
Loud psychology in a
Head already overfull
With questions of source,
Cognition, the desirous,
The sex and sexfiend:
At random: like a head
Blown off in the back
Seat: a pulp of fiction:
Ourch! the trigger
Pulled mistakenly as
The vague thug was
Making a point to
His counterpart, having
Been pointing the
Weapon there,
Explaining such to
His hostage, fearful
Shitless: and so do
We hover over the
Mistaken stream, a
Detached eye kept
Specially for the bilge:
Unreal stream: of
Thuggish, abrasive
Context, dappled water-
-Fluent as tradetalk,
And, the wind, o,
The wind, more
Dominant, as like a
Brusque word,
Just between the
Manager and lackey,
A demand forgotten,
A lax twick of the ear
And a bang on the
Head, nyuck, nyuck,
Nyuck, we manage,
Yes, amidst chaos we
Manage to waddle,
Weakly, we wankers,
Out of our wrong valleys,
Emerge, convivial with
The days char [charm?]
We go, from the chasm-
shade that would have
Swallowed us: inviting
Our ignorance to dance
With it in hopes we might
Know it, we straggle
Behind those two
Wanderers: trying to get
A clear view of our
Futurity, via this sort
Of supplicated-
Acknowledgment, of
Cluelessness somehow
Displayed in that
Illuminated socket,
And conceive a
Handsomest possible
Outcome, tho bizarre,
One sans blowing apart
The brains: the light
Is drawn like a curtain,
Of course to the
Opposite effect: a
Pictorial, aesthetic,
Flagrant approach, an
Assuming us as sky
Which may not be
Betteror worse, the
Sun. But wherefore
These multiple dandys,
Inclusion of the-
-World a foolish
Polemical stunt; why
Do we have gall
Enough to think we
Learn enough of
Ourselves to get-
-Past the testy brink
Of what extravagance
Had greeted us, as
Individuals, to exist
Beside, and right
Besideits ornament
Of myriad: calculated
Glory calculated by
Sure time, which
Us with it mutually
Quickens the
Triangular shade
Across, across the
Sundial only
For us to transgress?
Or just myself, squatting
My decrepitude in a
Transcendence really
A misnomer. We consider
More baffling circles,
Feel we are used to
Its repetitive bounty,
And now we as we
Mustnot to, ahem,
I mean, you kno,
Not to take advantage
Of the preachiest of
Pluralities, despite
Its questionableness-
-As to an accurate
Shade of time, the
Timea personage
Of zeitgeistwe begin
To reel upon knowing
It all this an inevitable-
-Grand statement on
Reality, perhaps by
Someone more vocal
Than WE, who shrink
From the shrill steam
Of the churchorgan
Maybe, though, as
Pious folks, respect
Any mouthpiece of
The Gewd Lawd: Good
Lord: WE reel, yea,
Once nose-to-nose
With the mawnin: morning:
Fuck: the fat face of fact,
Reality, as permanent
As a knock on the door:
Despite how little it is,
All of what a day is in-
-The wake of all days
That have been, for
You, for me,however
Consequential an
Answering something
Like this, that doesnt
Make sense, would be,
We receive no sign, no
Answer, for how did
We survive? Following
That empty discourse
Between the light shed
By the sun & the sun
Itself, things in all their
Meander & meekness-
-Come to inhabit
Themselves again:
Twigs, rock, dirt: one
Begins parlay no more
With something
Nonsensical, averting
Eyes away from there-
-To focus on honesty
Anyway instead,but
Where? Well, where
One had obviously
Always wanted ones
Own, particularly prickly
Side of sight to rest on,
Something like a bias
Just for them. To narrow
Reality down to this,
This even someplace
To manifest as gestures,
Impressions ghostly:
The rotating shoulder-
-A retainer for the
Uncertain pious, you
Kno, to give belief a
Higher, stranger altitude,
Perhaps as far gone-
-As Pluto, but, more,
A depth unshakable:
So then a thing not to-
-Rocket forth into
Unbreathable void, but
Sink, sink to depths to
An, some, unbreathable,
Coral-strewn pith: the
Given scoff, of course:
The eye rolling like
A paraplegic, the scoff
Stuck inones throat
Squandered however:
The pressure no longer
Even enough to squeeze
Out a chuckle: the eyes
Buckle, then,
Buckle at this realization,
Erhm, of perennial
Ungratefulness, ignored
Intimacy of view, that
Is worldview,and,
That goldeny bias wilts
With whatever was
Previously handed to
Openness, and then
All is, suitably, indistinct,
Outright secretive,
Laughter, down to
A hacking incredulity
Of stuff & spit from a
Throat burnished-
-With unmentionable
Dust: a subject, sinking
Subject, growing
Better as it drowns:
Something about that
Dont make sense, but
Well enough, well
Enough, you know, to
Interest, enrapture,
Explode the head,
Brains a-wing, & to
Spatter nonsense-
-All over the backseat,
A beige pleather. Things
Come to inhabit their
Elongated materials,
Again, batten down
The bait for light-on-
all to eat, so as to make
Flawed way. Fishy sort
Of reasoning, that,
We snigger, being
Cloistereted [portmanteau]
In some extant
Possibility too lush for
Any of a product but
Plurality: vents to
Passages, and gives-
-Along the way, traps,
Shaky science: nathless,
There are buoys of
Manner and form,
Bobbing patent findings
To the streams-
-Emotional surface:
Feelings etc. science etc.
Blessing a fulness finally
Upon these fracturing
Blocks of stanza:
Occult emissions to
Clog the foggy stanza
Further: down, down,
Down, low to the lowest
Valley: clues trend: as
Predicted: they begin,
Fair enough, as a wager
Of light to if not provide
A foot or two to make
Steps, at least reveal
From a fixity what is
Uponpsyches bulbous,
Awkward way, until a
Final warning peal, to
Indicate the presence
Of a search: we await
Response awhile: then,
Uh, the search is off:
Nathless, whatever it
Is is still out there,
Definitely: at least one-
-Context-hostage: kept
In a vagary resembling
Sadism: bound
Together with tenacious
Rope [hope]: a thick
Hide: organized evil:
The respiratory mobile-
-Of season and season
And season is really
Perfect for this our
Causal societys getting,
Yea, a regular rotten
Ideal for evil people,
Who eat up the fodders,
Manna of manners, of
Unbelievable repetition:
We, WE, think ourselves
The ideal: are proud of
Its gab:and as tho to
Soothe a trembling cybil
Muttering, damned
Sacristanwe ahem rank
Whatever riled shadows
Of responsibility and,
Of course, create
Our time, build statues
So light that light
Itself could work as their
Plinth: responsibilities:
Agh: ah : to ford some,
We will, once we are
Shaved of our previous
Discrepancies, leave
Others dead on the
Side of the path, a
One tortuous, tenuous:
Will it hold against
The weakening powers
Of encroaching
Trepidation, fear of
Cranial bursts,
Embolisms, unneeded
Bullets in the head?
Of quaint apocalypses
Daily one might
Speak: you kno,
Casual, dramatic ones,
Threaded & dreaded
& there & that fully
By the timethat
Negative quilts made:
Quills: tame, tame,
Tame thee, pen: quills:
Inkflood, antediluvian
Wisdom poured: blood:
And all the missing-
-Bastards from the
Count: uncertain sun
-light, filled with odd,
Old testimonies dump
Nightmares on the
Will: a restless horse,
Bridle with a sound
Clamp, for now. But
Teeth are proud and
Restive. But, stay
Your hand, for what
Stems from this
Particular psychology
Of leaves on the
Soaked hills, crud;
Leaves banged to
Wisps, dirty ones?
Bloody go the gulping
Strings, twanging
Strings, stay, stay:
Brave the whiny,
Whanging wind, just,
Like, after all, a simplicity:
Whom this blurry-
-Hostage banters with:
A captor: whom is a
Kind of organized evil,
Composed despicably
Throughout whole pleas that
Each one cause a raise
Of voice, when at
Crescendo of the-
-Obligatory rant:
Confession:yea, a
Pressing matter here,
And the ego as one
Would suppose affronted
By interruptions, from
That lowly cowering-
-Cowering hostage, he
Stiffening back at the
Nudge of the damned
Captors/bandits gun:
But: whom prayers would
Presume a productive
'Yes' that would amount
To a different set of guy:
The good lord tackles
Naysaying enough
Already: ahem: clips
Of yourself shagging
Ass from cops show
Up online in droves,
And going viral lands
You in jail: that happened:
While the wood snores,
Of course, the saw
Remains silent and
Disgruntled, that is,
With neighboring
Desiderata, wood-chip,
Thin, aromatic punk,
The keif of woodlands:
An egg to swallow
Snakes: poorly-drawn
Fruit: casket droppings
Are possible even if
Sustained under the
Muscular ambitions of
The sunniest pallbearer:
If close to the deceased,
They would tear up &
Rage & stuff: makes
Sense, if onlythat
Does, sans regards the
Context of all else:
Hostage: moral carrion,
Grumpy standards of
Living ruin the face of
Any eventual corpse:
If even it was a happy
Death: apart from the
Couch, the pallbearer
Has no respite in life &
Is hassled by stressors
Both general & too,
Well, specific to remain
Anything but unspecified:
His exertion, in the
Moment, tho, dont
Flag, and all soon is
Settled, that is, six
Feet under, and as
Thunder punctuates
Wellwe all go home
To our forgetting of it,
It, death, gone, and
Then, incipit tragoedia:
But honed in on whats
Abreast in our own-
-Breast, a personal
Taxation: by then,
Empiricism has lost its
Place in any sort of big
Macrocosmic duty to
Alight ourselves from
Intimate holes in the
Argument, for the sake
Of the entire, that is,
World: not only do we
Relate those illogical
Commitments to our-
Selves, but by proxy we
Assume the greater
Good illogical, piggish,
Consumptive,and smile:
Us is I, I is us: one thinks
Of the detached, formal
Unit one as a cruel
Ward [wad] whom
Entertains the parents,
But whom the children
Secretly despise the
Smile of: molars packed
With blockage: hoarse
Bravado, hermetic,
Oversensitive seethe
Of smile; shouting a
Devilish finger to the
Devilish door: get out,
Says the ward: an
Exceeding annoyance
To communicate stirs
The tongue of the
Ward, piece of shit,
To click and smack,
An unseemly sputtering
Demand, eating cashews:
I think of every attempt
To start over as a new
Mollifying glance at that
Pissed beauty with its
Eyes closed anyway: more
Reassuring to me in doing
Than her a source of
Anger I tried to divert,
And to myself more
Diverting from my own
Angers alone: I am trying
To beat PASCAL with
Unbelievable import,
Mere occupation: but
Poetry is, yea, while
Cool, swell as shit
Really, still a diversion:
So then, let me be an
Artisan: or carpenter:
Or creator of carpets:
OR, a tail-coated
Server of gruyere
Perhaps: I am manic!
Manic! I search thru
Formal strata to find
Iterations of the fair,
Thinnest past the even
Tho evenest oblique
Shades, or some
Substance based on
Its difference from
Others, that is a
Substance by that
Differing quality
Only: ghosts: not
That is of self but
Verbiage: translations
Of verbiage: as
Uneven as that which
If asked to be like a
Fabricwould confuse
Everything further:
By that is of course
Adding some motion
Of substance-
-Really a differ, from
A thing with as much
Moss, merely, as
Your own cranium,
& no heaving rug
Of patterns delightful:
No no. Guess I am
Back to bleeding
Nonsense: but its
The best to bleed
If you let it: this is
Too much for any
Fine stitchings
Unraveling: for us all,
Dissolute and stressed,
To assume as sacred
Material, you know,
The kind you throw
On the floor: arrogant
Sphere: I look again: I
Look, perceive two
Wanderers again: o
For one glimpse beyond
The given astral perimeters:
The usual beatitudes
& transcendences: if
Only just the next place,
However proximate,
However close: praise
Of where we are would,
After all, reduce the
Indifferent colossus,
Make that praiseful
Place where we ought
To stay: conjurer but
Conjure!: well, hm:
Well, drizzly, barren
Lordships of wastelandd
Be my own pleasance
That-wise: a place, uh,
Where right, wrong
Balances arent really
Balances, every creature
A cynic, nathless
Respectful of life, the
Cynicism perhaps more
A projection of an
Inner, hidden value for
The Worlds valued
Existents, the stoker
Perhaps anger at the
Unreasonable suffering
Of them: most
Of them: anyways: do
Not leave this poem on
The plate for weeks,
It wont mature, just
Begin to have an odor
Or something, stink
& be rotten: drink &
Be merry: hah: plying
Wordplay: or something
The like: ah, fuck, fuck,
Do not provide a name,
Saith me to my me, I
Tell myself, for this
Delivered parcel. For
All gesture, even infinite
Gesture, overtakes what
The pen had meant lit
With burgeoning implication:
Overfull: this burns with
Transitions: the transitions
Each await their burning
Explanation, the way the
Man arrested gets bored
Of the bullpen, salivates
Over the chance to finally
Get ruined in court, for
Murder, yea, or just
Cosmospills that are
Planets, charted or -un:
But his mind is an apparent
Carnage, whatever the
Crime: let us as we
Should leave him to shit
In a shared cells toilet,
His mate looking on
Expressionless, beating
Blood state in the veins
With some intense
Delusion conveyed as a
Vacancy of, uh, sorts:
Let us speak no more
Of this felon or that,
Let us speak no more
Of reasoning if it
Always be cut straight in
Half, you know, with a
Dangerous weapon or
Something a convict or
Felon would salivate over
Having the way the sane
Would over a mere court
Date : Three months?
Gimme that cake! I got
Three felony charges!
Do that shit inna second,
Man!: WE: all WE wanted
Was way back at the
Break of day, before
Crimes of nonsense
Produced a state of
Emergency, its fixing
Dependent on that
Last buck that is the
Poem itself: will it fail
Or succeed, this: will
It: questionmark:
The night was leftovers
Of glaring particles of
Dark the day somehow
Kept alive till a time we
Mainly consider to be
Afternoon, yet that
Perhaps is, in actuality,
The dull spate between
Minutes & metaphysic,
You know,when all
Around is nightfall, &
Yet the sun odd: it is
Burning, it is, burning
In the sky, there &
Pat, surprising, yea:
Just mixed up doe:
You kno, when the
Sun bothers to take
A particularly deep
Breath, inhaling flame
So as to flame, maybe
Much as Zarathustras
Shepherd, fast with the
Head of a snake in his
Throat: bit it off, spit it
Out, laughed pitilessly
At pity, & at the pains
That metaphysic takes
To be its soothing-
-World of opposites,
Tethered round itself
In one orb: a darling
Example and scope
For the colossus, by
Now a regular scrofula
On the poem: of all
I shant of this pursue
I love only, doe not
Purely: I go reminding
Myself of it likewise to
Cool it down as to
Make it an apprehended
Cleanliness, that is, I
Flesh out to refine,
Mention again to
Remove: doubts clean,
Doe, as is this doubtful
Thing: its strength is
This, or whatever: next
Statue, the next on the
Conveyor belt: of the
Statue factory: next minute:
Next flaw, next
Victim: thank you sir,
May I have another: it:
Wuestionmark: Q:
A giant huh? hangs
All over the morning
Sky, like a noose but
A cut noose, purely
In time: a clean break
Before death gets
Thorough: the curve
That would have made
An end: or the place where
The knot tied round.
The sphere below, the
Dropping head, freed:
Flaws however, continue
To dominate around the
Colossus, & one thinks
Of a gang of rodents
Swarming round a
Larger dying vessel:
Dark flaws mostly,
Impatient with
Imagery: like a long
Wait to cross: I prefer
Isolated instances of
That, doe: anomalies:
Fun: ah, purely
Coincidental, the day
Rallies its rays,
Surrounds the untimely
Fragments of darksome
By chance still there,
Verily, you big bear:
My guess regarding
This is: time broke-
-Well enough to fuel
A given humans urge
To medicate in the
Face of what is no
Drill, is bona fide
Apocalypse, is no hope,
Is end of the mother-
fuckin line, a forever
Shittiness: I certainly
Give my duty &
Devotion to the haze-
-Enough to sanction
A corrosion, forever
There in its bane: despite
All this all the while
Leaves flow, like
Water: that is, flagrantly,
Caught in crimes of
Nonsense: its native,
Chaos, beams all over
Everything: it is all
Over: game over,
Man: game over: were
Dead: thanatos: boom
Of nuclear boons,
A holocaust: & we get
Ready for its subsequent
Winter, a shudder-causing
If all were gone, would
Be left the suspending
Kiss of artificiality , Id
Guess, but, really, any
Loss before we manage
As we must to detach
Blunts the rest of the
Real, along with what
Isnt, which as such is
In the place of what
Had been a signal for
The real only, like
Trumpets for royalty
OR preludes to a
Day: wishfulness, or,
Maybe, just a day that
I wish to have that
Announces itself, you
Know, thru whatever
Bronze means available:
Cosmic drugs on the scale:
Horrible: people: instead
I will think about stuff like
Or will focus the rabble
Of thoughts on stuff like
A very ticklish abdomen:
Evil, good, things your
Mother likes to sew, wax
On [wax off], talk about-
-But only t the dinner
Table: not nonsense: a
Vacation: a breath of
Fresh err: shitter table:
& finally upon shoring up
All the wreck, to piece,
Cylinder by cylinder [what?]
All of it together, we find
We are nothing more than
A cat falling onto the
Windshield of your
Lucid spirit: a negative
Burp to conceal-
-Randomness with
Randomness more than
What it all actually amounts
To, tho lasting the spots,
Dapples, of time, and infinitely
Infant the day to wean us off
The night land: the whistling
Braids of reeds, which all of us
But is, according to Pascal:
"But it is a thinking reed.
Nature need not arm itself
To destroy him. [sic]
That is whom think at
Least for themselves, fill
The stream to just the
Right amount of awareness-
-For the song. Drown my
Sunny patois, long
Enough to get my somber,
Hangdog self to the grave:
It will be a remoteness, as
Tho being were anchor
To palpitating nothingness.
I am alive with all these
Especial favors I give
Myself: hahahhahaha:
The whole series of
Them together taken,
Quite demanding, a
Hermeneutical backache,
Eyesplitting : I am
Diversions beside the sun,
Still,tho I took as it
Kicked and screamed, all
Of us, leading that
Eurydice thru the
Weather: WE embarrassingly
Took defining to extremes,
I did, WE did: oh well:
Maybe some stuff here
Could exact a stillness-
proper by forcing the
Scruple to fit to very
Being: I guess its
Ammunition tothat
That I honored the mess,
Though a great deal of
Why I did that was for the
Sake of saying I had, in
All honesty, figured out
Theevilsand goods
All.What is, purloined
Of these, that is, is
Perennial as mud-gushing
Steps thru leafy
Mushinesses of insistent,
Cruddy hills, still yet to
Fill their height I hike
Up to, just now, hiking
& waking at the
Bottom of them again,
Hiking again: but the
Point of the cheekiness-
-Of the eeriness the
Horizon I see there
From the bottom,
Valley of my hill
Demonstrates is that
Perhaps, the sun has
No cheek in itself, &
Is a reflecting surface
For that, you know, the
Cheek, that is, the gall:
Of course: one you kno
Who might seek to
Become the sun & jump
The gun, waking upon
Landing in an endless
Trough of mud: ah,
A muddy sun that does
Not care but well enough
To spur those like us at
The lowlands, out of sight,
And sides of sight, all
There in a shade & thus
A cancellation & a chill in
Reckoning, well, that
One, WE, I, has, have risked a
Carnage that was, however
Destructive, ours: it may
Engulf itself, along with
Those supposed beings-
-It affects a fear within:
O bloody subject: blood-
sun: we search and will
For that: for something
More than spore
A wound, or violent
Incision, erhm, surgery-
-Mistaken for murder,
Erhm, the editing process,
The nature of scary
Punctures the heart wheezes
Thickened plasma thru: for
All that is the sun: developing
The artisans tubes: ah, wonders,
Wonders!, and no matter
Really, withal it not being
The exact punk, chest
Filled fiery with holes, whom,
Wishing consciousness,
Receives a heart attack.
of perfection is the center of all complex and
regress. Yes, we build the sepulchers of the fathers,
but what of the fathers? Had they no madness as contrived of the
alabaster as is now all that stands for their unreal
greatness? So long now has their humanity remained sourceless,
unperturbed, unpublished, definitely unwritten. And yet the
greatness is there too really: a great abandon: a great hazard:
and whats stamped into the page for whiskery
analysis to ramble over is mere precious failure of the risk. It
is time to idolize none and find it rather redundantly, that is
again, in all. Such a thing by its peculiar nature is
indefinable: a chaotic beam shed over hills does not define the
hills and does not turn the valleys marsh into an individual.
Humankind, grand as nature, believes in virtues of lessness
anyway. This humility alone, recognized or alienated, is alone
enough to topple mountains from their mute splendor into the
realms of a derision only found in that which has no tongue. Our
insignificance is an innate quality; I myself believe it even as
I say otherwise. So then it is almost to kick a dead horse, at
least by this point in human evolution, to mention such things,
which ironically appear to me the other way, that is, as needs
for control. To control by hearing our own footfalls die off and
calling that beautiful. To control bc we must need the
evanescence, clarity, redeeming aesthetic of stuff that lasts a
shorter time than we do. It uplifts us to recognize our tininess
as a wandering beauty indeed, and we small yet autonomous. So
then I might go on my whole life explaining death as lain in all
prideful expressionsnay imagination itselfand will. Points of
self along the grid; and anyway we are, I feel, on no sort of
divine radar. But to say pat that I am better than mountains
could be so high a cosmic sin that angels just might descend to
correct the misgiving. That statement is however the most
precise absurdity. We are better than mountains; for there is
already more than enough in us that thinks, well: that thinks
otherwise. And as well I shudder to think that nature need not
be infected with knowledge: it is pregnant enough without sin.
Drive!, kaleidoscopic chaos, through thems trees:
A rain falls, lifting fog, and come the sun
In elemental beams, through chilly morning,
Running, and running ways as neat in soft
Askew, through quick, dissembling clouds and
Lissome; cowering from the branching light
Which dries the dripping leaves again, again,
Again: when followers each are made to lead
Through and through this trail of dusty
Blood: and none is lemming: storms a hanging
Prospect, unsure the bough, the twig unsure,
Uncertain as a joke made half the truth it
Shielded by the shield itself, and heaven,
Yellow heaven is a ray to yield up the
Frozen past: in bloody thaw: it hurtles there,
Bouncing, whatever, in ricochet upon the edges,
Sidereal quiddity of a craps table: in spent
Spins, it comes to a stop by chance, and hints
A fall in dole to entrance cometh: and parts
The gate so we might view the common stain:
That is to make the individual in blood: and
Hanker, buzzing bloom, after some creeping
Canker: exposes blood therewith: the silence
Of the page, now some full scream: this,
This, this Once there thing: merely of
A bad fall one year: then enigmatic ones
Have since betrayed an eager call to make
Things worse, in effort and location:
On the rise while flies go barreling, slanted,
Buzzing needless injury, desirous:
And sometime coarsen GODHEADs:
Figurative perfections: this proves a nature
To impress, yes, upon, like chance, towns,
Cities, plains hills, a gamble each, a drama
And a bustle each: here a pain, a miss, a
Hit: praise it for it gets equally atoned in
Funny music, here, a BOING! of the bizarre
Guitar, a string to sing for Summers howling
Misfits still left: getting drunk for hours, wetting
Pants: and tears to give an adjunct to
Expressionless: deny routine, when thoughts
Are all a glare, a practice: GIVE ALL UP
To chance, upon this: with antiquity we, some
See a prescient carnival that explains what is
Now: predicting states of moss, a carpentry,
Each tree a follicle: the Earth to head a spasm:
And the crest breaks of the Earth into
Earth: to reveal a wound unfilled. In intimate
Disbelief we stayed to our own quarters, made
A sound across an intimate way, a path,
Terrain ourselves to pass each, only; good
Ways less a bastion then corrupt,to
Fool, become the fine dispossessed, and
Lessen an obstruction in our throat:
Connive no more, but settle salty payments,
Ramble morosely on and figure, what
To let to haunts of whirling sand.
This woods, though descript, eases into blurs:
Yeah, free: and no dont tell nobody
This, just between you and me there is
No story, just a death or two that rocked
The World: proclaim it, lamely as you want,
I dont care: like, just as that, the straight fact,
No sane, no sacred: just bad death:
Carnage merely: only: distract the meant
Merely, only: distract the meant misery your
Mind gets you to face on reg, for minds as
Yours are twin to maple trees. We folly
And distend, deflate, cease, cause rivals
Ire, make insignificance a thing, scene, rot
In bubbles of our created, lurid hardness,
Tho verbose the quelling wind as much the
Blathering brush in it when it starts once
Again to pitch a meager grill once eyes stand
On their toes and, hell, my finery commits
To feeble distance from those throes my
Infinite character hath been in, crazy throes
Of mind, of mind, of mind, dins of fuckin
Venom, snake to throat, a faltering WHY?
Do not relate that instance to the sky, screw
It, ah: but wonder still: whooooo exactly shrugs
Off their clothes and bares their cuts from
Sleeve, for blind flies to signify? And yet no lie.
Ive made a pyre for my beginnings, I shall
Light it, shall, and close the door on method,
Sense, Reason, and Rapport, grow a beard,
Get weird, live in caves, only shadows friends:
Uh the drip of schisms lifts itself: shadow be
Shadow: still this divorce from me and myself
Has no choice but chore to make of this
Dumb voice, a prelude to cranial woods,
Where diameter, perimeter retreats, and all
Is compass, uptown, sidetoside, a remedy
For the honorable deceased: when distance makes-
-Captors of thems trees.
. . . . . . . . .
It is not the grave agency one has,
A selfhood; nothing so eternally defined.
It is working with what one has,
What is in the stead of fate; something
Lifted to reveal abyssal latitudes,
Pungent if smelled. It is something in the
Stead of discrepancy. It is a bit like
A notation on the matter of not getting
There, succeeding elsewhere but
Caught in that originating state of
Mind. For, it brought you to the place,
Held in a cosmos of whims and outer
Currents, vibes. It is a layer without
Notation. It is fact impossible to not
Ignore, by proxy of a said thing, a
Remembered house, roof tiles,
Clean table announcing the slightest
Abandoned crumb, a subsequent
Purity, got from odd jobs still to do:
It is , by regret, a neighbors lost dog.
Anguish. But what swerves? Do you
Plunge into, o ephebe, what uh has
Already been said, derogatory
Wanderer? And hope for crystal? Do
You face youth as harbinger for
Loss, GOD; or is the trying in the doing?
Or, must plain speech be, well,
Never, ever loitering as one on stoop;
Or can one get, without relenting
To external tartarus, sums, placative
Planets, that nudge and shift
The stars out of their remarkable orbit?
Realms, these, of a conceit for
Barren things. How I live is by what
Is poor, empty, but strange with
Possibility. It is no grave palimpsest, no
Permanence. It is exposed chastity.
No gravel, breaking
Ones teeth
An era
Or two. No. . . . . . . . .
Knowledge is the reigning thing,
But [it is] not the thing and not the reign:
Faith does. Such a thing stuff it is [as] of
A Summers day etc. [I guess] the sun is up,
Yet all around is nightfall. Maybe this means,
You must let go of what seizes you. You
Will find its grasp teaches in absence of
The grasp: a slow lesson made of light, which
Ends, lessens with the usual dew, ubiquitous
As its upon all the grass, a rant of it
Upon that veritable hill climbed; a useless
Trek towards useless wisdom [maybe]:
Where [do] we go even from our
Valued selves forgetting more, where
One was meant to go [?] [it] is a thing
To give a language to those pastures
Green however. Those rants, yea, you know
What I am talking of: you take a spidery
Hand to them with the glee of a proletariat
Upon his bread to them [those ranting hills]
Without a clue, to break them, break da
Hillses: leaf by motherfucking leaf,
From their exchange with this abnormal
Nature, sun and heat yet all is dark around,
And mortal business become a faith in
Knowledge: as ludicrous as
Equation is believed, realities b plunge
In silence by their partners in ourselves,
Ignoring them : my love is an otherness:
And chance no variable but concrete,
An objection [uh] to [no possibility of] mirrored
Nothings: for the psyche to subdue: into
An irrigated substance, yea, clean for
The trail; to mess apart with feet of dirt,
Yet who would stamp out the face of karmic
Dew? But the sun? When light no longer
Can or will travel. Becometh more
A pond for tantalus: and all more holy,
Unmentionable airs of things, things,
Notions eked from cranial hells, us mocking
Through the deadening our own
Eventual grave: just with too many analytical
Or emotive motives: in an apocalypse,
Things like a motive and belief I realize
Are combined, imprisoned in grey
Solution: entropy: or even a fall to pardon
The final desperate, stumped shrug, with
With a pathos not dissimilar of failure.
Entropy after allwhich is the
Reasoners realm, to drill and toil
Thru these blade by blade by blade of
Mournful grassesis unlike faith,
Which takes belief in motives for the
World by storm: we somehow fill the
Primordial space, consume it nearly:
Artless atoms: scuttling as if mirror to
Mirror: thats what I see and the
Tendency: a Wilderness of mirrors [sic]
As The Tsetse [Eliot] would say: AH,
All this is escaping, ever, ever from vanity,
The more confusing the more I am humbled:
And wiping the face off that once-greeny
Hill with, with uh heated dark, I evaporate
The sun. We go forgetting grass
To recall our end in dearths in logic rather,
And a magic is then the World, upon
This night of day, the mix is one in us
Ourselves, ourselves to make our way, thru
Swampy cleverness and foreign conceits,
And stolen rays of that once young,
Now ruined and unshedding
[Your sun will let its rays be
Again, upon this pretended
World, for all you KNOW. And
Guts, fodder, everything not
Yourself for yourself is every-
thing, and this reality of det-
atchment still holds real in
That balmy stillness, of one
Night perhaps intruded upon
By sun, and the collapse of
All one thinks into their
Feelings like some analytic
To proceed the spell of a
Wordless language, that
Which is faith.
I must not impose meaning on the world for it is as much to see
the path my own life takes, forgetting its conclusion
approximately and yet it is a universal conclusion, for yet we
die. I know this and I do not know it; its concept is the only
reality or knowledge to consider, the experience a thwart, a
cramp, an ideal of relief sans fulfillment for the grim, a vague
apprehension for the healthy. Such is to sense mortality: I have
in mind my own deterioration and frailty but no terrific
immortal silence will reveal. So then I reach to understand,
grope to ask my own desperation be more than a suggestive
pallor, to be something communicative of what throngs Samuel
Becketts hiddenness, so to speak.
A flower grew in lungs that is bouquet
By now; still to sere and riven by
The stark yet careful doubt some shade
Of freedom greeted to pursue
By my own promise. In entrance to
This orbit comes a sceptic
Burnt to death and driest at the root,
And evil if I did not win the war.
The calyx shattered and the waxing stem
Hath blended in my life both love and hate,
And as this bloomed to things magnificent
The matter of the weakness of that starting
Rose did speak a jungle through the rain of it.
And sorrow poured in drops of shattered leaves,
And in my fist were incubated pearl
As seed not mine to give but mine to take:
Some sphere of emptiness, to warm within
That everlasting sight inspiring as
It fell thru love and hate and even flesh,
Really. Wakened through remorse, a bower;
For my comforting shades of things, instead,
Entrusted to mycellf to feed the dead
Alive once more, and sample some brief craft
Of searing laughter from Cranes Broken Tower,
Where levels are mere dusky climes for logic
To foggy up and stew aloft debris
Of foggy mind that meant what it withstood,
When standing in a solitary wood
Like some pillar, made the pearl what broke
To free the flower from a choking grip
By the burly hands of demiurge
A worldwide armistice could not provide
With peace; so leave me to my solitary lease
And blend again what cannot be controlled.
It is as if the sun had got too bold
To with its burning laugh not sere all cowards
As swinging go the falling bells I know
Not where. so whether this, imaginations
Curl, could stomp my sideways from the better
Word, I take the thing that comes, a carnival;
I take the hitching strands. A girl
In each refractory parting like infinity:
When by that smolder, lungs hath stirred
A partial requiem in place of nothing,
Though loss partake, as well,consumes
Whats horrible to head; which tells me of
Some finery as at first might crush than bleed
The glinting miles of unfolding flowers,
The genus nameless, an evolving subject
Imbued. To call the shower some drained corpse
To pile in hills of rudiment and dull
Betrayal of the dream; personal guts and minds;
Yet all of this to me appears to rhyme
With madness. Shall I say it is a shape?
Shall I upon recourse nudge on my knee
To whisper bangs of sunlight on the pearl
That is and hasnt yet drained all the fuel,
And which in craving for it forms a soul;
Does this detesteth not a thing? And petals
Falling, king? I find more in the verbs my doing
Does, an act to harp away into the buzz
Afflicted ears despair to feel to hear,
These girls, each crumble, beauty the veneer
For havoc. And I have no choice
To see but what I see and when I do,
In spite of darkness cold that silence
Calls to you, a smallness in the violence
Of each retracted word in conversation;
Of each morose conniption, explanation
Must entail, for I define myself
With breath and breath and beat and
Beat, will hoard all though, including terror,
Will stand them on my shelf. The terror doesnt
Bond a minstrel, troubadour ARNAUT,
Who spoke to sing his chances by the floe
Where Orpheus responded to the wind,
And heard some most unpeptic echo there,
Upon itself the character of wear,
That tired nature speaks in raspiness.
I would endure the dullest fellows bliss
To spawn my own; an animatic masque
Is all in World who praise a haunting task,
Their demon made of ghosts to dog a thought,
And step by step corrupt and neatly that their
Emanating, as if too much a risk: a serious
Pleasure, something maybe touched: to be
Resigned withal the creaks of footsteps. Leaks
Thru standard floors. They all them-
-Make a party of my solitude.
[To see where people havent yet
Considerably seen, and mock like doggerel,
This vision makes parade of no garbage
But thorough as a view through windows
Recalleth weathered dreams to paradigm
And moment, and the still image breaks sheds
Of different happenstance and cruel device,
When burrowed from the head the waiting
Mushrooms, found by pigs, are thrown
Behind, besides relief somewhere in finding
The package, forgotten, left to blight
In shiversome implicative doubt-paths
Worded somewhere else in realms of quell
And peace; are somewhere picked in froggy
Legions up by straps of liquified boots
Their factory and totem of production,
A seizing up despite naught there to
Seize, the act a making of the thing
By art divided, and a ripe conclusion staved
Off so long, a relatively swell
Commitment to the job of making and
A hurtle towards the carrion and guile,
A victor running rampant on his smiles
Evaded wisdom, now to bother sorrow
Again, to make a stead: theres ended
Days, I quite before my mind begins,
Yet force no falter, merely fail,
Tho exert.
Elsewhere were made few a thoughtful stain
That once, now relic, flew alone before
A state of eyes no glare could rob a layer
From what familiar objects liked to be
Besides a fear as darting from the light
Yet that if of behest less tearful miles
Each year of causes made to shed itself
Would focus things into dissimilar
Parts, between with myriad confusions;
Each one a name for the one, contained within,
Could suffer the claims, a nakedness of elsewhere
No mind could stitch together stiff,
And all more nebulous than one possibility
Made of self-scorn and acuteness
Of the mask, could wire blackly over well;
I knew not what I saw, yet took the rest
As what I did, but plainly as an object,
Any, dissolved it all in rightful substance
As anxious as the tears that blurred my sight
Of what by salty stain upon the book
My eyes made many, took within their tombs
Mere chaos; to become a unity
The message, old and dire,
Curbed too much.
. . . . . . . . .
The concept of the soul / we are closer to in / figuring out
the / concept / of us / so that the race / is a declination to
the point / of a pin / unknown as an ant the weight of my step
as / beyond a crushing / source / but / we defer to ignorance /
either as an obligatory means of / respecting knowledge / so
as / to attain it / or we with great / exactness / know why / we
would not know / which involves an / atomic view of the World /
just as deceitful / just as arrogant / but bleeding true /
enough / to separate / us / from the ant / by admitting
ourselves the ant / in the face / of that abstract grace /
maybe / entirely manufactured / but at least / humble / at least
it is / and at least as self-defeating / as any and / all of our
everyday / displeasured routine / as close to us as a womb of /
substance / birthing / if nothing at the first, a child / of
silent listening / made of what / one might cling to / ephebe
the result / of / a chatty nothing and / of more preponderance /
than that nothing, in / a fusty bed / of the generalized
selfhood / stark blazing / reality lets us / see / which one
does / hoping not to disappear / with each small reflection, /
for memory is a mirror / that fades with each looking at / the
desired king / there / of the conscious mob / perhaps as faulty,
but to himself king / of the conscious mob / dragass /
personality / the sum of his habits and foggy openness / opening
to good weather / / as if by hiding to confess / his heart /
one with the race / nodding to the concept of insignificance /
just a mob of ants
. . . . . . . . .
Time is the great organizer and the great divider; reason needs
time to reason, without which all reason would be a simultaneity
and one chaotic principle. In other words, time is a gateway to
this pure reason; once we have minutes, we must fill them with
stuff other than what is, by now at most a deceased causa prima.
Such is the brain: and yet, an origin for this or at least a
single one, is chaotic for a lack of relation. We would not
exist without this relation, an inherent poverty and abyss, an
endlessly displaced context that is an imposition on reason, yet
not at least known, though it no longer, truly, is, without it.
Such is the brain: an able emptiness where some needless
foundation had been, removed for the flourishing of all else by
an able compound of minutes, days, hours, years, eons. For only
nothing need be there.
. . . . . . . . .
All we might respect
Of one is that she
Disguise her
A sanity
And spare ones personal
[security thereby]
The result, ironically, maybe,
Of an drenched
A quench of the a
Drought their own,
Which might be
Just as secure in
Its express tearful,
Open confession as anothers
Elaborat hiddenness. Every
Camel is a straw, millions already
That broke my back
Finally. Looks like Im back
In the
Junk heap. [Clean doe. More
The junk life wills me to be, grotesque,
Trashy. HAH never again to be
Recycled, never again
What Id been,
Coca Cola Classic. Ah well,
Ive done enough
Anyway. Vocalissimus. I
Tried the zephyr; its tried the knit
In of my brow [for too long to
Say so long to looking
Ever-creepy:] permanence
Left in the dominant right eye. My
Ears always sen to pop,
Like Im on a plane
Or something. Coffee-buzz. I
Wonder what
The MRI will show.
Nothing, but
Ive had this
Weird bump on my head
For over three years.
My ankle, the right one,
Always seems to
Seize up. Agh, I hate
Hospitals. Sense is prodigal,
It returns a rugged truth,
Where had left a confidence
Unwisely pristine. I suppose, that
Is what has burned me.
Pascal argued for one
Soul being as equivalent
In China
As in Europe, and
By extension the
Same great
Identity. [Reminds
Me kind of of
How as the gown
Of a women in Lhassa, is
An invisible element
Of place, made visible. I
Goddamn it will hit you w/ intent,
Laughing:] Or, Transcendent
Eyeball. Stare down
The Emersonian wish. But
Now we must. Choice
To have no
Like waiting [an artists need] yeah,
Yeah, we got to. You, me,
Everyfucknbody: [once pissed off]
We write make in our
Own way, [create a tapestry
Of our character,
Rollover unimportant
To sleep well.]
Pick make a rock gravel in
My sock just as important as
The greatest
Poetical endeavor. [That might
Knock them right off the
Fuck: for example,] punching
Numbers on a pay-phone.
Someone responding
Positively [to some friendly
Shit another made
Your business you bring in
To reel them, feel
Proper swagyourself
Where cool originates doe:]
I nod dont know: a clink of a
Single key on the
Piano. All of these are
Things, materials. [No!]
A soul is lain in
Them. [Indeed] [No! Okay] the
Graveyard is filled with calumn
Always, then; whistle,
Spite. In dight to recognize, you
Urge me instead, create
A local place to couch
Your comments blandishments,
Place them like beer bottles
Or bundles to fill
An empty room. Count
The mason jars, [talking
Graves each, talking, bickering;
Fiending epitaph, names
For the best loss: dead
Folk going nuts
For a grandeur, by
Fighting a lack-tragic:] an old
Friend you meet at a bar
Says something odd, but why
You know only: Get this, he says,
He says, swigging a
Pabst stolen from some
Hipster, he says, Yo, hey, folly
Right and stay straightwillya?
Is that not all the dead
Network [ ?? ] asks for? Do
You, as anything but
Not me, believe in love, after
Love, after love? Things
Take place inside
Myself. Running matters
Cleanse like piss [to wet your
Deathbed.] Eat some candy
Within the graveyard,
Sure, phuckem: walk out during
The blunt, stand alone and
Weep at the graves etc. weep
While your shorty gets
Eyed over by her EX, [them in
The car.] Of course,
Doubt excoriates da cawnshus
Mind, but also riles
Up temporary squads nshit,
Lofty men, brothers with hands
Sifting into pockets to
Hide a wart. Let them
Experience life thru a wonderful
Lens. Peek into your, my
Positivity, and then WE are those,
Facets of it, the same thing,
The same joy: MAKE NOTHING
[Volition is the mother
Of doubt, driven
By an ego wh
Whose reflection
Is of something
Less than ample.]
. . . . . . . . .
Reason is not chaotic. So theres that.
Reason imposes order upon
What is by its nature
Chaotic; thing-in-itself
Or nothing. Uhm
Increase of order inertially
By instituting the very
Initials of variety, scribbled in ink, blanched;
Which leads to a synchronicity.
An eventual
Of an absurd, lonely, singular
Transcendence is an
Unclassified evolving
Unknown. Or,
Rectifying source. As such we
By our very being
There. Just that.
Complexity develops
From the mind of man, which suggests
A complicated GOD. A big,
Flowering GOD.
Is necessary; and
But duality removes the WORLDs
Of men,
Considering only the
WORLD as that chaotic nothing,
Which is rather thoughtless,
A poetics, a running
Of the string.
But to
Make an impression of
Chaos is not to be chaos,
Which has no impression, unbound
By cause at all, is
A consuming reality, a kicked foot
Seen out of the corner of
Your eye. The question is, when
One returns no glance, is that
A conscious ignorance, which flowers
To paint better pains, exquisite, surreal,
Or is the emotion itself conscious
In recommending a pleasanter
Drawing away; a refusal to hurt,
Or a compromise on both sides
Of pains coin, a savage wonder
To tell out of hells seemingness
As, in line with realitya absurd concretion,
A literal metaphor?
I have known her lately.
And so all of a sudden I bleed tears forever and ever -
how horrible the mandate of life, that it is to learn to wonder
at suffering, not not suffer -