Documente Academic
Documente Profesional
Documente Cultură
To a friend: Lifes a
playground to these
people. Totally
unrealistic view of
life. [snorts line of xanax]
PREFACE :
Wallace Stevens is the shit, Hart Crane is the shit, John Ashbery is the shit, T.S Eliot is
the shit, Soren Kierkegaard is the shit, Friedrich Nietzsche is the shit, Harold Bloom is the shit,
Emily Dickinson is the shit, William Carlos Williams is the shit, Ezra Pound is the shit, Octavio
Paz is the shit, Samuel Beckett is the shit, Arthur Rimbaud is the shit, A.R Ammons is the shit,
James Joyce is the shit, Virginia Woolf is the shit, Kurt Vonnegut is the shit, Franz Kafka is the
shit, Percy Bysshe Shelley is the shit, Walt Whitman is the shit. Mostly poets, but these all and a
few more I would wager have caused me more than ever to see what the nature of my connection
is with the world. A Romantic lyric poem works with the ve senses - and imo, whatever chosen
words - with lyricism in mind - work, really, as a sort of divining rod to detect those lumps of dirt ,
as if set in burial, and what is buried things in reality called assurances, telling the poet to dig up
that corpse, where is lain the lies perception greets us with as smells, tastes, touches, and which
all but too easily deludes us into conrming the reality of these things. what is the point of
reading works by these people ?? to reveal to us an undercurrent of senses, maybe even just as
thickly there - once we urge ourselves on into that realm - that while peripherally in us most of the
time would in this case reveal, in the case of poems or even just le mot juste, a universal and
absolute perception.
D.C - - - - >we are : born - -> work to be aware of ourselves - - >
discern that from recognizing awareness - - > nd purity in what results from this distinction - - >
fall in love with memories - - > nd it is experience that builds us mentally, but memory which
builds experience - - > discover obvious yet revealing thing about ourselves that is simply apart
from us but as a leaf is apart from a tree, and which somewhere in the hermeneutical narrative we
always knew - - > realize that at the root of this epiphany is a chemical released before death - - >
horror - - > ? ? ? - - > prot / fall from grace and begin life once more as punishment.
PART I : : pomes, chiey lyrical
[NONSENSE-SHIVAH]
.
The windlives
To be captured in
Its truest form
Within one
Lungful, at least,
That you might take, o small
Life. for all the worlds order
Is in your inhalations, o Samantha;