brought me to school. One prepare the eggs the other
to yell at the gypsylimo. All the way to Brick Church and every day of the week. Of course. They would commiserating double onto my closest needful pace, set about with icepacks and ruin the animus. Insisting, ebullient kindness, and this anyway a sort of fakery. Or maybe shove me first until I tripped then become the benevolent and to lift me up by the armpits. But all this it had me puzzled as I woke at dawn's crack each day. Each and every verily yes. They the pair of them and whom these days I call -You Guys- would seem to even worship stubbornly the idea I was not but that I was an oaf predestined, and my prey the only unreal, unable to resuscitate, picky and shit. On peregrine, my sourceless state recalculated, the hateful mother and a father of the beyond, dreamer really, left me, the father while already associating his extremity to departure as I thought waving thus favorable hand and to wish me goodbye. Mother killed the bloke with her own cyanic blazes of eyes in the vase she bought, and they flowers and they the daffiest ones both and oh poor mother. You mistake yourself, I calculated, and so then assume these things will not go and oh hath ye told me in a spasm and then sudden catch, -The world's perfect honey. ] [Reality is just as accurate as memory. What to say of a memory that exists? Surely one does not see this as anything but redundant, for memory is the result of a previous passage of time wherein one has existed, and besides that only need be real within a minds dwelling. memory needs no physical representation outside of past representations of whatever reality was before you, in the moment, which anyway is a different case altogether. that memory is something that does not necessarily need to be as real as real can be to be something that essentially exists is the essential point. It is a new or rather an apart class of reality bc it is surely only to be taken as true within its own limits/borders. once outside of these it is no longer memory but imagination, or fiction, or bias. in the context of reality in the moment there is much more to process and so then much more at stake and much more under the shadow of doubt. memory creates details thru the perception of the person true but either way it is inherently known as less accurate. Why then does it feel so strange to classify a given memory as real? If a memory does not exist it is the work of imagination and clearly something of the moment, or dj vu, which is more a reaction of the brain itself rather than attributed to reality specifically. Hm. A real memory. The paradox of course is that memories are rather tenuous forms of reality. And yet for me to ask whether a memory is real at least to me seems trifling or a clever turn of phrase at most. And yet, why should we be so sure, if only in terms of diction, that there is a distinction to be made between a real and unreal memory? I ask myself this. Must expand, this could be my way into finally understanding a few things] [I think lack of perception is in a way an elevated perception, insofar as we would consider mental clarity to be a thing so stupendous as to change/transcnd. so in a way you are right. There is something after death: nothing We presuppose conjecture in asking questions abt death as we cannot answer any of them. To me it is less arrogant to construct a phenomenology of death with only intricately thought out answers, instead of revealing impossible doubts we already acknowledge Whatever comes it will be the same or different. Best use your imagination while u are here, at least there is powerful irony in wasting ur life to recognize a mythos I am simply saying as Socrates explored also that death could indeed be heaven or as much the same could b nothingness. The contrast between having senses and suddenly not seems like an amazingly revealing thing even if we are not aware of what reveals to us. Lack of perception/awareness could be a heaven unto itself. Mythology is one and the same with religion which is not necessarily a bad thing. As it is mostly guesswork one can only apply what seems most reasonable. Heaven to me is something like a thing completely different from life on earth. Life on earth is ruled by individual perception (at least in many cases). Ergo and so on. Lack of perception is a way most transcendent for me personally. The heaven of dogma is merely IMO being aware of the life you previously led and in either case, a la Blake, heaven is a hell, hell is a heaven. This of course depends upon awareness and the life we have led. Better worse etc. my only qualm with my own conjectures and theories is that if the afterlife is pure removal from everything well then the universe itself has no moral standard reward / punishment etc. that in its own way is beautiful tho because it means that morality is particular to the human race. Via Pascal we see that he has fallen from a higher virtue that once was his our sense of dignity right wrong make us immortal in any case so the ultimate punishment anyway would be to be completely savage and amoral bc while alive you had lost your chance to live forever and liv instead merely thru your nasty Imprint on the world. This all sounds probly very confusing as I am typing on my phone but it is a subjec that deserves thoughtful consideration. Amen] [Technically the glass is both empty and full and on an infinite plane that glass most likely was already or will be full which leads me to believe that degrees of things vary according to the human perception of both time and wellbeing - which in turn is a mere lens thru which we percieve differences anyway regarding both metaphor or literal glass. In other words a full-to-brim glass is just as frail a statement on happiness or sadness as half a glass, a quarter or a glass etc. as such a thing of course depends upon one's differences or variations merely perceived in the moment and as well in the context of time generally. Dualities like happiness and sadness confer a certain atavism or ancient reasoning to me and especially music today comes from many types of emotional angles all at once. ergo all is both meaningless and meaningful, and just as there is no spoon there is no glass] : TOILET PAPER IS NOT REAL PAPER NOR IS IT A TOILET : PREFACEE : : REALITY AS VIGILANCE " all matters of the spirit are dialectical." - - - sren kierkegaard, FEAR & TREMBLING [small observations, things understood and which when framed appear as anything framed - different, spacey, odd. my problm is all this deity stuff and speculations. no way to frame dat bc it is not - in such a way - understood . not able to be understood, not understood before. i search to formulate notions people do not have a set definition for so then the oddity of their conveyance, which - i - see, is lost on others who do not sense or have not yet sensed the same things and framed them in their own way. in other words the oddity is in seeing a different view than your own, but what if the view a writer is wishing to persuade has not yet been normalized ?? there is not that access to permanence one has in reading a thing they know put well in a different frame, a different perspective, a different glass. and all, all that to me - leads the world into an easy gathering of dust. and eventually literature will be placative, if it isnt already, and nobody will bother to expand their minds and at least part the veil, learn the action of reaching into ungraspable nothing grasping for the new anywhere and in any place. nobody will want to rock the boat bc every perception of what it means to rock the boat will have already been normalized. we will go thru the same dull round, bc no one will bother to uselessly grope after fact and reason, and give life to pathetic fallacy itself, call the window to thoughts a window itself that inquires for a purpose, a window that must release itself and become a door that opens upon the brilliant dark of day. god would not exist without intelligent men. - nor would progress.] [I doubt I am, therefore I am as real as I can ask of myself. this question is substantial enough to have been recurrent from age on age, really: of whether we exist. and furthermore to ask this question is a paradigm, it is a golden question that is the only totally extant absurdity, the only pure irony, given substance to its shadow over life; it is that which proves the opposite of what it seeks. it provides enough of a logical continuum, that unto infinity we might dream of absolutes and teleological dissections of cause and implement, when at the end of the day it is not about proving such things right or wrong but the mere art of them, which stokes a character of reality in people to the surface. to at least consider the possibility of - whether - we exist, we are not only aware and sure enough of being alive to grant brainspace to anything so meager as an assumption of the opposite, an eking notion of a doubt as to this, which - moreover - it is mostly true - we would find anyway to be unarguably unrealistic; but being so strong as to seriously suggest it, at least with the knowledge we will not suddenly disappear, in turn, maintains - well - that reality is indeed apart from the mind. our notions are not truths, nor is reality perhaps comprised of our notions but exists as something inextricably, unalterably bound, yet, absurdly, apart. its own basis is maybe something to be controlled not by someone at the controls, but by the simple mechanism of vigilance, or permanence, or static state, etc. my favorite fragment is one of Pascals : For life is a dream a little less inconstant. the nature of my gripes with reality amount to this fact : we would be happy just the same if we lived opposite stories, the artisan a king, the king an artisan, one becometh the other awake the other while asleep, and vice versa. reality is not what reality is but is mere consistency, familiarity. but I have forthright had problems with it being so simple as this. of course the dreamstate is different from a waking state, but is such the cause of an immanent difference or is such that way precisely because consciousness depends upon familiarity, daily life, everydayness, the things and shadows we come at grips with until we as people forget all that heat and drama ?? and maybe if such a thing is tucked away, slowly moving out of our views or at the least what is in front of us at the moment, like a single breeze through and from us reedy brains, well, then, it is absurd to consider anything else but a definite, an at least very definite - preconscious mind - one that really moves things backwards into it, not the preconscious which prepares the thoughts of the thinker like some incubating egg. if we saw reality as it was, everything would look the same, would merely remain alien, new, forever, as maybe upon looking at atoms those atoms would not be perceived and so then would not alter their appearance. perception is what makes us see differences, colors, things as separate from other things, other variants. the preconscious I would vouchsafe as something ill-fit for a hierarchal or conceived reality that falls back on mere precocious images, descriptions, of doubt, or a metaphor as to this failing clarity from our eyes. we do not enlist our brains to forget reality which is precisely why nobody can be aware of everything all at once. there is enough a blur between connections to allow dialectical leaps. a world seen thru a transparent eyeball, or something sans perception, would be to see it all at once, or, after all, like an amalgam of dreads and projections and joys - a dream, really - or even less than dream: like nothing. in other words it is death we consider in this, but wherein we see the universe thru no eyes, rather than a world we have already left. so the question becomes : to see the world thru the eyes of something unable to perceive - the eyes of death. well: we get too busy asking about death and thinking of ways its experience might be explained most accurately. what a pompous thing! regarding what is real then it is best to assume our waking life is more the dream than the dream itself. it is not familiar. we go places, new places, and remark, it seems like I am dreaming. but in my honest, inscrutable opinion, to ask whether god exists rather than leaving it as something that does and so then with the ability to be finagled by the imagination any way the imagination chooses is like a living creature describing what death is like. it is not about existence, nonexistence; it is not real nor is it unreal. and at the least to have these questions implies I exist enough to ask them, and live as a being-in-the-world, though rare is it I might find myself subject to pure, will-less knowing. [heidegger is 20th century schopenhauer, especially the use of language, so the juxtaposition of buzzwords/terms/ yaddayaddajargon, makes sense to me].] . [how should one go about re-presenting the will, that is, how can we repeat our very plastic, bendable chemistries willfully, which even if we could would impose upon that the will to do so and so then alter its - what? appearance? or compound, or core, or center? well it is a question simple enough of seeing the forest thru the trees but still inquiring as to the existence of one or two or all out of the individual oaks. if all that is reality is simultaneous and so then redundant, that is to say happens once as uniquity and forever after, originating the same, quite apparent it is that such a thing is very different from free will. the end is indeed where we start from but not in such a way as to indicate birth - from - destruction, but rather, the barriers are the stead for the proverbial steed, the lock is the key, the rooms outside. it is my blessed way to have enough desire to lead my life somewhere specific, albeit difficult. in the present treatment here I hope to specify rational thinking as a combination equally out to slay absurd darkness as absurd light. at least by the standards of time, to destroy these ad hominem dualities would call for no infinite amount of room but all things acting - outside of the divisions and significations time itself imposes, happening at once forever - and so then repeating as different significations; and, most crucially, if on the other hand all earthly conduct or rather any force of will in people generally is animal, immediate, random, and at most improvised based upon premature theories of right and wrong that seek to repair a hideously devolved godhead, well then one might believe as much is true that the only basis of right and wrong is within that very godhead, and apart from the rest of us. hideously devolved ? as in, mangled, warped, as in, by our thinking a worldly morality a universal proliferate force, bleeding everywhere into the farthest sun and way past - into the furthest psyches clutches. so wat to do ? such is schopenhauers conquest and ultimatum; merely, so very simply, to reconcile the mechanisms of will with the mechanisms of reality, when the will is so very concretely - abstractly - defined, yet reliant on nothing, because it is indeed a most sumptuous chimera - a magnificent art of a person, and as magnificent a changeling, and as shrewdly drawn as the most deliberate art; when it is apparent as well, that reality possesseth all of these same qualities, the world does, and yet it is a thing repeated - in schopenhauers view - and calcified to its deepest bone. two impermanent, or at the least volatile, things: one can change, the other remains, at the least, in its narrative by the day, and at large in the realm of some cosmic repetition we have no knowledge of, nor are pressured to seek, nor to understand, that such a thing is in my eyes what holds the very fabric of things together, but only by realitys nature of being in any case something whole and, if I may be so inclined, neatly configured as the elliptical track of stars.] . [moral recourse ah yes pascal was too a proponent. but faith as in what? faith in the goodness of humanity or faith in god's wrath! churchly hermaneutical advances aside I think that either/ or is one of his earliest and most difficult works. victor eremita it was. i think. the pseudonym. I would say he is the founder of existentialism as his subjective ethics are -well- subjective! based totally on individual truth. what he was trying to do I believe was incorporate a universal ethics, not by calling something as it was or like you know 'list making' like Kant - the uhh categorical imperative is already in itself deeply flawed - but his a priori contiguosly wove into the rest of everything else, including Freudian 'iceberg' theories of preconscious and such. there is a dialectical way I think to portray nihilism as its own emancipated theory, as something like a humanism. nietzsche's pessimism is never pessimism after all, if you read closely. his books wanted to celebrate at the end of the day and the oracular appearance of his dionysian spirit attests to a celebratory core, especially in The Gay Science. I personally believe, like Nietzsche, that an apparent reality is all there is and in its inscrutable way is in fact more imaginative than what reality might be broken down into, nay even more accurate - somewhat like an inverse-gestalt of sorts - than its parts clumped together. we perceive detail with regards to time, and memory or a socratice 'recalling' is the basis of all knowledge, wherein we might will to know all, when all, as kierkegaard might have thought, was in us from the start, an intuition of expanse and improvement, or even a will to power. the more imo we make recourse to moral ultimatums the more we will slip up as I have observed though in myself also in others a sort of knack for self-fulfilling prophecy, which too is a freudian argument. our fears will always trump us, so the problem is not to put them in perspective but to forget they are there, and go through life with a mind empty enough to be swift, deft, mordant. assuming a 'way out' is like assuming there is a problem to begin with, but maybe the genealogy of what we consider right and wrong has already hacked us to pieces for age on age. it is time to see nihilism as not an amoral pandering to immoralists but in fact proof in itself that there is a god, we just don't care that there is. it has served a conceptual purpose. but to figure out/weave thru/make out like, like a sui generis individual while hard to do is not proven by the fact we live unempirically for the most part. so then is it a worthy consideration ? do we want Kant to tell us how we are to live ?? of course not! best to describe humanity as it is in words that anyway in themselves and their chimerical way soundlessly sell a notion as to how we could improve than provide a means of improvement we anyway would find a way to disprove and/or indulge our fear of failing and fail thereby. Thank you I will be here all night [crickets]] . [mortality is the true miracle, not the perennial universe, nor perhaps life itself which suggests the perennial. the finite is the pursuit, Dan. remember that. that something might not last eternally is the most human way you can get really. and it is a purely human trait to be aware of this fact despite highest delusion. that we die. and the way we learn it is in its way to recuperate from the trauma of senseless birth, our thrownness into a world we will only endeavor to know so much of, yet perceive infinitely and, perhaps, at times, anew. all the cosmic spectacle might never heed that one distinguishing human factor, and indeed if the universe were alive, it would feel dwarfed in comparison. simply because we are the one thing it is not. so if there is a conceptual god: we have no choice but to concede it is both benevolent in not throwing us into the sun immediately - at least, immediately in our terms of time - and, also, that god is the worser side of the wick, for, anyway, it all burns to naught , , , maybe, in the end, anyway , , , , , , , , , "my candle burns at both ends / it will not last the night / but oh my foes and oh my friends / it gives a lovely light!" Edna St. Vincent Millay " . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . reality is like pain you get used to it but the same thrust continues, dedicated, towards an aim of delicatesse destruction. reality doesnt care, and will impose itself, like pain, without succour. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Liz conceived of herself at some Weird eve or tiding of something, A complete shade, She was master and Clone of the world, a fair trade, For such anyway was done. She lived within A light going spinal and feared By none in that intransient place That signified, though none knew why, That all it was was grace Though nobody touched it. A Cavern opens at its Unbelievable entrance. A Messy surrender presupposes Itself then at the sign of no ruin One goes. Liz went. She was decided as a queen For the fair place surrounding, A joint connection Was resounding all over its Perimeters, A sign of simple death But meant for all. That was the meat Of the matter. People Died, that was how it always Had been. But never such Beauty could have been a threat. Never such. Never such Silence could have been random, Liz thought cleanly. Shepherds attained her finally, They had the beautiful Woman. she relinquished The fear at her parting to them, Whom all dissipated Its power to hell. They put an Arm on her shoulder, shapeshifting, Attention paid to tenderness, letting Her through. Whatever Liz Might have guessed death to Be was wrong. The surrounding Place, so magnified by a staggering, Ample sense of deliverance Heeded her approach and let her Through its spine Very welcoming, Very shrouded now In her royal shape or shade. Her only artifice, being sensed alive While having passed away from the world. She would get over not being real For still the happiness was, the Sensuous peace, as thick as the Universe. The shapeshifting they Told her she had parted. This Was her catharsis. And no heaven Would have had this hope. The shapeshifting They collected Her fears and threw them Down into hell, The shapeshifting they Became her soul, invaluably Chimeric, suited themselves To the gruff mania, Contradiction, and drama Of her soul, Making impressions all the while Of a new convulsion Ever on the edge of its painted Self. She entered what So long had been impenetrable. She entered herself, made Herself a dream, forgave herself But saw it all folly point blank. She surrounded herself with this Liminal reality, adjusting Perhaps the queenly shade She had become so abruptly, To fit this incorruptible clone of fantasy But no fantasy. Just as those Once alive would think themselves Still alive, presumptuous Enough to assume a reality to a World of flighty sensations and acute Misunderstandings of the soul. Oh Liz . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . "you know we cant cop to / the frequency of your inner debate / it was all out of tune." - - - - REAL ESTATE, "Out of Tune" from LP, DAYS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . some bird is calld msnger pigeon, called to the top of the stairs to receive all this to receive everything wrapped in a blanket, b4 the war vacant previous vacant precious, altitude needed surrender to things to fall from to delivr what for deliverance was a crucial turnin mention the viols of one before chaos so before the world, far before in distance, when musicality was as nature, and manswarms not ruining fact is the bluff was steep and upon it a great sphere fell and then the world was on edge it being not enuf even to crater tht still height some bird grovels before thick master it is told him: mind the gap between consciousness nd your duty: suchs to convey something to someone messenger pigeon laugh a good laugh messenger pigeon he has no time for your bullshit much less time for anything, anymore, except celerity. messenger pigeon fly w good idea messenger pigeon fly, but struck by violent strm is left dead before creativity hits the recipient . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . spark made. regrets of fucking up many. a feat for the very sortilege of bullshit, spark made. an avalanche upon the stupid jump, a loss unrelated to heart but of the heart. of weakness I, of flaccid natures and peculiar habits, of black dreams, blacker daylight. unknown desultory there hath trod unusual streets in unusual clothes, far places to rest my crisis on, fair aqueduct, running a pleasant static over my web of lies. yea, spark made, I broke, so then uplifted nothing to my place in claritys tomb, o manic depressive, before I knew it out the window thinking grace to the ground where busted SPINE. I lived then on upon basis of sorrow, fortitude delicious enough to busted SPINE to make of me a ragged, barely functioning infant, a tired infant, you know, with bags under his eyes or some shit, waiting for Nel, but, my presence was cheap, a cent by cent sense made, a collected sense nobodies has all patience ta lishen tew. yeah, these three, these three fuckers: events, situations, shenanigans really: I jumped the gun and followed my nose, near-robotic, to the first tranquility seen, an escape of mind to peace ultimate, as if all it a game, the goal for honorific, saddle with god. well, I did, not expecting retalitions of that eddys core I saw the ghost of once, an imprint of a once-lord of things, creator, sustainer by death, a cosmic nothing to tap me to insanity, to death, like bits of water-torture plumb on the nose, until nothing was uplifted for years, me shifting within my weathered bones, making this nuisance of discomfiture my nature, feeding it beyond all decision, lullingly, I was tried by regret, rehearse my simpering apologies, I ate the mother- fucking horse I beat to death at least, at least this, a pain too wordy to call it only that but every word Ive evah scribbled, to scram the nuisance. lost the love, my flaccid, bumbling heart now with no object: needing none anyway as I found: love your people, do not love this unalive effigy burning your mind down my mind says to me through its own overloaded cells, its own tricky ambivalences more of that which bleeds through, to the point of inscrutable metaphor, a loop of my SPINE, a-squeal as I come in to look at me prick, maybe suck - it - too, tell a nun or something : tell here to come back, as I ward off anxieties in the psyche ward, disembodied: lithium maybies werk fer sum peple, na dunnit work for I. its that shunned feeling thats the most peculiarly crucial: the venom ebbs sans drugs at all : it also crucial to live: lithium in me opinion, is taken when the need to correct chemical imbalance overrides quality of life : my masthead: nearly broken: my godhead seen and in all its ugliness spoken, I perceived that eddy further into a developing atom: the birth of an adom, me delirious eve of a bathos, sunderedness: thinking of her dirty sundress w polka dotss - her cumin ta mete out rightful ire, at least, on an infinite plane, the fate of my effusiveness, the lurking battle I would lose, already done, and me at this point happy: will so I hurtled to the ground: well, I lost the love, atm "of my life" and for years after nursed an untidy, protracted-growing obsession held in a box of letters under my bed : they were sweet letters, they settled SPINE : not into *reconfigurations* never went to physical therapy for the becoming shards : becoming that is for a life already hell, in love with hell, wishing to be the void of god I saw that one night after - manic visions strewn hastily - barely thought-wise, mixing letters for meaning, next weeks I can remember after - that quality three-week amnesia, what a chunk! of life! - on a newspaper, a few reaaaams actually of the prophetic bullshit: written terrors, to dis day canawt figurit aout :sheez, but what, play god ??? change hell ter heavens, says I. dat not playing god. dat shenanigans on the personality of memories you retain: my mom always told me asaith : it is never too late to have a happy childhood : asaith: it is to late to have a happy teen love: with whether P. the dunes of ex I find wave theire dust into my breaths still, I stranded like Oxymandias among a choir of Shellys. Ihopeapoet is my final bearer of pall. but at least now I have these words that say the word pain - to stave me off from thinking death w my dirigible mind, a very ricochet across very planets, whom in greatness watch my odd foolish presumptions with contempt: I was in Psych WArd once and guy gave me is oxycontin: he had back problems: then I took my vikes without letting nurse check if I cheeked 'em : she yelled hey get back here, and, hear this, and, I say : I am in pain. good thing, and little did I know I was fated to speak the word only, perhaps feel infinitely otherwise wit each new abstract delight, each painful detail scoured: yer artform, say nurse in my mind, and I tell her, she is as real as words, words on an eddying atom. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . everything is awful and all the people are mad about it. a giant sleep overtook anyone who happened to be in their house, broke simplicity into the most idiotic complexity. the sleep blurred out, erased - reality - with questions, weird ones, hammering loudly on the windowpane for some reason. we all, fighting against the sleepy slowness proliferating our predictable hearts with already more vagary: one wished to enter the houses of all those sleeping children. maturity the only thing left to diminish, we took to the church, putting reason, ours, into the shaky hands of a god laughing with rapture, that is, at the FEW IMAGES LEFT . controversy, directing itself towards a source, soon find the creator of the stir to be right controversy then gets pissed off and continues onwards, to examine further problems for perhaps why it is right is wrong, is problematic. maybe: too nitpicking: controversy is really itself controversial, its source really a general, unhealable, eroding, despairing nature. do you remember the last time you were content for a straight 3 weeks ??? thought not. everybody has a problem with the world, sure, but everybody in turn has about as much understanding of why this problem is actually with themselves AS THEY DO OF THEMSELVES . and goodness if purely coincidental, for we have little that something reflexive in us couldnt well ruin. and if incident, or snowballing mistakes can happen in humans without them in turn asking for the shallow parts of their great depth, if the weight is a mellow weight of wrongdoing, and if one is able to brush themselves off, contain an image of goodness in the wary night, like a firefly caught by them in a fucking jar, well then. cluelessness reigns, here. I have enough, have had enough of monstrosities, and - sorry - declaim them all, as the fault of no one, as long as goodness too has no fault - IT IS COINCIDENTAL . when I have let out my anger on someone; when in my anger I am brave; and upon apologies, they then trespass the more into the woodsy violence of my temper; when I am sorry thus, and say so to him, I feel defeated. for in those woods I ran in hasty circles, providing not an explanation for my own insanity, exactly that for asserting its repetitive duty, without reason - I would assert and lay to waste the tranquiller thoughts of others, expecting brutes - they are - to slay me rightly, that oddity, that mania, - leave behind what common man I am with their retaliation. this is precisely why I am stoked, am scared the more, AT APOLOGIES FOR MY WRATH . this window is a true window, it exists. if that is to say, windows, by existing, or even just this window is a truth, a message delived and received. the frequency picked up clear, everything about this windows truth in concord with the window itself. does truth - truly - need a vessel ?? can something unable to manifest itself, still be true, if even only by dint of being something - like a concept, a virtue, scruples to be followed with a heavy hand. well, such things seem and seem all day, more lofty than earnest. perhaps that is why we are here, that is, why people continue to live: TO MAKE A WINDOW THINK . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . factitious blunts, unactual blunts this shit is diseased. my porch promises a lift but she stole the car fat uncles, they smoke like, pipes, tobacco we something we are cool. we get high with us tonight is the man the myth the legend. as unactual unactual unactual is not a real word. the porch is a real word. but on the flipside any racking-brained teleology would little possess a thing so simple as a porch unless as some say - some anonymous garbage cans fall over - some say some say some u r a prick and eat dick unless as some say the perfect is all and everywhere - and if as some say a causa prima was objectively an attempt at something positive - intentionality - we could say it alls just grate, including the porch. including the abandoned drive homewards. the disease is now gone by mentioning somethin again, i go off on my own and leave poor aunt fanny with my ridiculous, nameless, fuckable uncle. fabulous uncle. uncle joe. joe man the priest of smokefection. perfection = infection and so on . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . big dance uncle / afraid of age, frayy and i am him then. hymn i say. caught in municipal water cycles that is and so bent outta shape with poisons.damn you fucking canes / damn brine dance, moisture no pluck but bacterial trickle / notice variety, like something like a growth on the skull, an unnatural organism throbbing and pulsing like, really unhealthy , , , uncle say uncle say uncle says uncle. referring to his killable self like this par examplar : : DAFT: chaingangtricycles hitting blocks of of people with a hammer / blood everywhere ample time to crime away the disregard pissy people crass but inappropriately not offensive enough to be so inappropriate at the dinner table made of rain and also, and i am doing a killing on the irony market here sad baby is no sundae / thinking out his plan for the excruciating / dollop of shit set on his wifes life / too much worries for infant maritime warpeace, the waters vacant with sinister the locals flippant on drifting way to chores and blokes what who married em pon fuckin. making masses a truism is this like something you mention here and there like a fucking asshole a single buttcheek on the floor winking at you. he is seeking his other half , , , , , , , to an asshole, a duality to make a whole anus. who likes to debate the existence of a gathering whole individuals are besotted are got cornered with doneness. ah he is just like fascinating crud, thats still uh left in stained teeth. i am in wont of magic a dirty mess of soulcontrol and will deify the dirt and i will cancel beauty before a massive world made ugly by loving. ampitheatre exposed to the elements but no parthenon just a broken heart or whatever fuck yes am i wrong. not a hut made of pizza either is you, is you fucking pizza hut.dammitLIES lies, excrementing everywheere place. the place all the time, dronnul flabbitt say dead man, uncle man. coast butter / that is all i give the buttcheek. one day his gooch will- -find respite in sensations of a retracting firm penis. kafkas defense for morse code/he wnts psychoanalysis to counteract tubercular yellin. artist fetal under hay. strange time. my hat is empty. huh. no thankks, i did not even noticed thanks dio Forgive me I have not known what you have so often told me I have made it thru the breakers will not leave you behind despite my denial. my dick is not a place to fuck . . . . the poor chap did nothing and i fucked up. senseless , senseless , i cant even imagine. just all bad everything on this one dan. way to go. good luck trying to find peace when you are massively selfish good luck determining will when you have none to change. a bad time it is , to track a single hole in the stitching at least now but most likely forever - - - - one that is important one that cared about its filling up , one that is not funny but serious. too small to fit my big head thru i will never get this sweater of ignorance over my head, fucking dick. and crazy. and bloodlessly cold, thinking everything meant nothing? how heartlessly sparing. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ethereal wall, whose demarcations everywhere suggest one rouse a market forth, contain the best laid plans of people who durst sell their rose so that we sell our frailties away to those who might would see them anything short of fervid dreams consummation, would eclipse their turbid targets, leave as if by magic clear, straight shoots; but personally taken are our serious roots, differences, crucial ones: we curtail them, make vile plans to blackmail anyone!, just to forget buried blurs, pockmarks, irritations, collected together on the stands like nations of grease, monarchies prod to life by fishily easily obtainable products, like some grotesque, queasily insane anthology of the best emotional worst, coveted: this mystic drumming louse is to neighbors unmuffling the dead, enjoying his hand-me-down speakers, seen respectively, snoot to snoot, as a cause that wholly had been lost, and he uncaring; and they wish for his freedom, and well if they cannot have it enough to blare this music, they rife with tiff and tickery, - they want his being loud beyond annoyance corrupt itself under him, savaged by its very careless principle, he to interrupt his fighting that which is to involve oneself in life, and the unending race of rats upon their pelf. he makes this normal with his randomness, humanizes - description - of markets owing markets, an easy feign of disturbing commonness, when each to each they sell the selfsame thing, the quality wholly what is dependent on the individual, emotions, well, such things are resultant of - uh - a value purely speculative and cannot bleed themselves, travel other walls, the walls we smash identity and sorts of it into like a gooey mess, and how absurd we envy others mess that wouldnt work half so well if sold to us, just want it sold us for what qualities we see in others, we want to market me as an obliging bit of character, a mass-produced identity, the mean or average of what most would fit as, what is most sellable, a mes r us. derision tails him, does not reach past the walls, his jewelry frequent over his entire bodys tide, his past behind, sobering realities like an inability to this or that, forget him in their wake to scare up scariness in him like troops infiltrating base at lunar time, watch stricken of meaning by some runt of an anomaly, some glitchy shot of vodka for the cosmos, an elite, partaken of their grand spectaculars, while a powerful, minute, ball, of - nothing, corrupts them totally. and meanwhile, music plays to the mental palsy of neighbors, plays them deaf and dumb, plays them, with each drumming drum, a stupid curse had, plays through the walls and comes out as but noise . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Elliott Smith no work to get paid. Elliott Smith is too tired to care, But not tired enough to stab himself In the chest three times. Elliott smith consummation of inner strife Revealed as a detached boredom, Effusive as hell: revealing Arbitrary nature of the un-neutral To be especially close to the neutral. Elliott smith conveyer of Immortal, fragmented, human moments, Similar to Kierkegaards Either / Or. Love as anguish, Impossibility as possibility ultimate For detached infinite resignation, Faithless, ruinous, Intercessions at every turn. Elliott Smith was the last great existentialist Because people got tired of Feeling like their own head Was underwater, Got tired of or could not comprehend, So disheartened by disinhibitions, could not Pay attention merely, said to themself - enough reading About it, helluva great musical morbiditys All whats left of the argument To settle, lets go, this party sux : SPIRITUAL NEGATIVES [a narrative of HARLEQUIN., creator of all blessed things in the universe by dint of not creating a small diner in Southern Utah, which he also created the nonexistence of.] : 0. He loves an earth he never saw. He is all coming and no going but this specifically is not rhetoric and was the constitution of HARLEQUIN. Between the pace of time and the movement of change. Within that. It is and was and will be his native place and this confounding together all at once. The rushing of wind was the very thing a fact but there was only the force not the sound of wind the only sound was HARLEQUIN. in his usual tosses about his Howling Void. His cage was creation; as for him he could not be and generally felt mere and disused. He loves an earth he never saw. He sees it but insofar as he saw it well such a thing cannot well be deciphered as possible for reasons too obvious to be shouted at the top of lungs and rather then presented itself soon enough soon enough as a sort of obstinate knowing voice to HARLEQUIN. and he had the suspicion that such a voice it had created him his infinitude. He also enjoyed infinitude but did not enjoy the silent wind whose pressure he accused of whispers thereafter forgotten heard. Also the Indifferent Neutral was not like him and he did not like that at all. HARLEQUIN. we see before we have seen. His quality is the quality of idiom and yet tragically his wish is to be forgotten, not by being out of the cosmic picture as he was, but being out of such a thing in that he wished to be flesh. And like him these are the words made flesh, though seldom, and, trembling, partook. Howling Void was not so much the Indifferent Neutral and sometimes HARLEQUIN. would consider mimicking a conversation with his very place of residence if only to stoke the ire of the Indifferent Neutral, the creator of him and others like him and a thing so inhuman he could not despise more in any case or under any circumstances and his life was a dream; and all this vague thing, this vague, desultory apparition could want of the world was to enter it, barter his own fidelity to the timeless, and put those who slept below so peacefully in his place. For they would wish it if they knew it. He knew that. And in knowing he became himself a magnanimous sort and in one space created Heaven, the next Hell, the next purgatory, and all of these so small as to seem to him paltry and somewhat debased. This was his train of thought, and soon enough he is upon his thoughts themselves as material creations and soon enough he dies and dreams himself again and soon enough dies again. HARLEQUIN. it should be said, in making all of a thing his many things to bless upon blue spheres, red spheres, his consciousness, his workshop was rare to bother with implications as such things simply could not and were not in Howling void, that is as opposed to the meticulousness of an artisan he possessed the raw nature of an artist and held his empathy for pain nay closer than what he might have thought moral at all. And in such a way, he made Heaven, and Hell, and Purgatory, with nothing in mind other than to set him on his path to earth, the world of earth and its minute people, sleeping away and waking unbeknownst of him to cares all the more eternal than anything HARLEQUIN. could have huffed to a substance, a material, and he making for his only life only, and this also, of course, is as an artist is. His only companion was forever and its infinitude also, like so many of all other chimaeras here describe, a separate thing, and inevitably one thinks: it will always be unknown where to stop the buck, here, in the chaos of chaos and as well the chaos that is not chaos, in this burn and flourish, this havocked duality, and Void Howling toward him, as HARLEQUIN saw, to come away from a perfidy somewhere along the Neutral border, and past which stayed his guard and, somewhat, his maker. 1. [ON FOREVER] As if ready there and then to glide himself slightly but surely and at long last after so much time right spang into the grace of it that is this grace that is this prospect that is of having legs and even the prospect of legs the thing that only need be to attain them, at the very malleable point we begin this malleable narrative, HARLEQUIN. walked as he had done on forever. Slowly and somewhat curbed by an antagonizing weight he proceeded as he had always done on forever, from where he began which was where he had been to another place, and in slow yet strident footfalls lent what little refractions and spots of himself to an idea of a substance. But his form ran so much like a kind of spiritual negative, a talisman stuck in soot and dust. At the sound of his travel he awoke once more, suddenly out of the bastion and out to support these unwieldy mutations what that he seemed to life. As if it were a truism by its merely being thought. He was to be more than the mere berth of empty space the Indifferent Neutral wished for him to be. He thought. And one day to become as it were a rare materialized sort of thought instead. An object, or something, comprised of his deliberations, peregrinations, steps and footfalls. This. And all of his other thoughts, of course especially when one exists purely within a limit itself. Worthy to retain. He thought. If even as a single, absolute egg. Whether by shades of memory or physical keep. It was necessitous. It was to be done. It was deadly necessitous. And if the keep of it is in memory, thought HARLEQUIN. Well. He was right. For in a place so unreasonable as infinitude infinite if only by succeeding berms, because already within berms one must, one has really got to jot down all what has passed, so it does not go forever having been done; if denied paper, retained thru memory. And that on forever. It recently had come to him if at all anything as such, here, could be recent or old even that if there was a particular strain of words, kept in a proper ellipsis, he in turn, that is, HARLEQUIN., might could slowly raze them raze them, one by one, yet from whence begin and whence to end ?? of their needing his commitment to them: and so then each unimaginable abstraction passed away on from him would no longer blunt him, requiring nurse; and in turn a sanctimony in these thoughts were built upon them, over them; and eventually HARLEQUIN. could do nary a thing without making of it a material unto itself. This was in particular a soothe to him for the place was very deafening and hazardous and perhaps, he would ruminate bleakly, the result of lies. But mainly it was a soothe, this was a soothe, this all, this: for the idea that anything he thought so quickly became material was balm enough, and proof cold-hard that he had some grips left in him. Some thoughts extant well and right as rain. Somehow HARLEQUIN. would blankly wish correction to some engagement with a folly improvised and so then an attempt at the idiom and an unnatural folly, a folly exposing the nature of all folly. But soon he would be back to paying no mind and would and this reflexive and horrifyingly tedious as hiccups, as an iota of gas, loose from his makers hand all the work he had done to immaculately conceive himself and thereby a lesser reality into existing. This was how it had been but somehow it delighted HARLEQUIN. to know this too would also be how it would be. In that drawn out sort of way that reality makes mortals, what HARLEQUIN. reached to grasp overall was a sense of perennial standards for a clinically mortal person. It existed, this reality, [for the reality of the world he wished to enter he knew nothing about] just about, though it was not right. As of now. At least, it was a finer thing than his chaotic dwelling he knew and HARLEQUIN. was fine with that. Sometimes the pitch of rasp and wind together spooled unto his chamberless chambers ah some out of sorts, repetitious chord, or maybe voice. But he knew not commands and did not relish the possibility of being anything besides alone amongst silent beyond. Anyway such a presence would only be virus; he would have no say in what was to be done. At the least now, it was certain he knew what he had to do because he himself was the only vessel. But introduce an outsider of course well you will find your brain where it would usually tickle would burn. The nastiness of this voided somewhere not even a most reassuring voice could claim away from him. HARLEQUIN., of course, had had more unilaterally opposed experiences to creating what by now must be [or was] a vast array of multiple prisons before he had started to reason with the voice even; before then of course when he had made up his mind it had been some other, alone figure, biting into and thwarting what was already a waning pressure to succeed. He needed no concession ever in his life and not much could be said of his life but it was not due to having stubbornly eluded concessions. For the very sort of masculine twilight was the Howling Void and wast made his dwelling long before his own existence. Then he had been enameled of truth yet was always ever outside of the truth. Though it all existed it all existed in different forms of whatever vagary it must have had to be as all suggested the same absurdity in any case: Not why he had gone on, he knew that, but how he had gone on. As in a repressed and very local valve of his heart, muted, came one single note, a tremor, HARLEQUIN. all debilitated and bone began to collect a roster of clues as to this, and existing momently and abreast always of his blessed groundless ground, and he upon forever, like a snoozing Jupiter. 2. [MONKEY SANS HIS HEADPHONES] The truant himself. Thought HARLEQUIN. of his spites doubts pledges careening or in ricochet or soon to settle as it is as time decides. As time decides something so tranquil as being a thing, where does it come into play whether it is or is not crucial to drink his morning sludge proximately to bogie ?? As there is no prior. He can go anywhere as he is mad and the world to him is sane if maybe a tad too ebullient. As regards potential that is- -and potential that will not be. Questions breed like hamsters, thought HARLEQUIN. For example is the poet-as-clown a performer or an ironist ?? Or both ?? Thought HARLEQUIN. And if something then is possible of all this but never happens if only by pure chance, does it then [and one only need apply it to something so fleeting as the world to assume perhaps that there are a certain number of stories under a sun which yet, maybe, oh, yes, might be bigger than thoughts, ideas, inflammatory cranial backups have justice to give it [for he wast no sun, man]. And at this HARLEQUIN. turns away and fondles his earthy brood, his ground, his quadrapalegic, stationary forever, one last time Stationary and dull as a broke T.V. Harumph. Say maybe that it is the easiest thing to happen. Like as by the statistics of time there is one singular thing or one jailbird, one singular unique thing, and it happens to be the geometry of a table in the process of being set. And this uniquity in turn maybe even only based on one rotation of a fork, yet in such a supremely causal way that the particular combination of the angles of the utensils, items, dross, carrots, do not but offer themselves once in the span of life on earth. Well he then . . . would he have to set a table ?? Wast it all to do, just to be rid and finally able to extinguish his self all ancient and wizened but not glad and no more learned, more something wizened like as the crouching mildewed corners in some bloody small London flat. All HARLEQUIN. could think to do was set his table like a good animal. Resign to the eternal trudge and plod. There seemed to be a sensing of redemption welling in him that was no sleight nor thwart. the scant ways out this beauty into a beauty the more rugged, benign, egotistical, human, fantastically real. Though seen in all of its guise in clearer view soon enough it too meant as he understood that he was soon to, as well, no longer be and live upon forever. He brooded once more. He considered his grave infinitude and that apart yet a part of himself and ground. He resumed slightly at a teeter. But all the while lengthening and shortening components of this or that vague spot or particle of himself or perhaps his to him crummy and to us fantastically immense everything. This being so different from what made him tremble upon the dotage of his clear path stretching out of sight and into Howling Void and which made manifest thoughts and jargon and rectifying info. And all of it a whelm and shift of chaos and himself only on and upon for the pluck of himself, to earth. A place absorbed in what was so abstract to HARLEQUIN. before. As prior. Idiom he flet slowly be wrested. Suddenly there was prior and time seemed to be more like something possible. This. A place the Indifferent Neutral and that erratic sphere or wretched womb, a thing, a wretched thing, a miscarriage of what HARLEQUIN. saw as something that could have survived or at the least what afterbirth left not so lamed, diseased, tarnished. A tarnished nothing. Naught, naught. A nothing. It was upon him and the voice was upon him closer, and the mist heating his back as he created and created and all that and just in order to move even one minute closer to time and away from agelessness and timelessness and chaotic turpentine. But it could not reach him with its carnage and he upon knowing this was and is and will be a positive rakehell, and he thus a rebel, a chief of himself, and left finally to be deceased. And everything, he left everything way back in the beyond, himself to be, as quick as lightning thought HARLEQUIN. to be: A true Romantic hodgebody!, leviathan, master and manager of only himself. This was pure speculation thought HARLEQUIN. in measured tones. Yet it resonates somewhat like an idiom too. ????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????? ????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????? ????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????? "And yet o sorrow of what I perceived so humane !! And to think, insanity spares the children of my apish intellect !! And for what, for what is I assume the desire to give up reigns and chew the metal of the bit instead and all the while completely ignorant of this howling missive as is called the Indifferent Neutral." Also Sprach HARLEQUIN. "I hath given too much of my chaos, a chore anyway for myself only and so very pitifully at that to handle, to handle and always with music. And always that withal this forsaken omnipotent voice that breathes as a furthest agent from myself and as well as like a perverted close friend. It showers the nape of my neck with acridity and mist and oh my as to people," HARLEQUIN. said- -in his own head. "How could I do that to people ?? How could I do that to people and still believe I go and struggle to shag off from the heels of a listener in the folds of all this ubiquitous blank: a spell beneath my feet, and even moreand now less, and always inscrutable, as like a giant structure seen just there, there, yes: where one can just detect the curvature of the planet and see no great structures at all but mere-ness and dots. Wide, uncanny, astonishing forever." Also Sprach HARLEQUIN. For nobody should be as I, HARLEQUIN. said. And live in what is no subjective muddle but in fact is all things impenetrable penetrant impossible possible, received at once. Madding. HAH. Moral delinquent ?? Felony it might as well be, and the cage where I should go humming off back to. HARLEQUIN. finally said to himself, struggling to dilute the eddying and back-pronouncing voice. Better maybe if I could no longer create matter to at least become something like it. And yet what made him, what, what made him spit out the sludge, what, what made HARLEQUIN. send himself these empty letters to neurons ?? It was making messes all over the fucking cosmos. "The music been once now and for memory to uselessly embellish. I have no show of cards and no sense of rectitude by the Indifferent Neutral. The table unsettling and numinous and unfinished and all forks in wash. the sludge spit out like doggerel, or like a fine plane to close to being to be, if not before, and time all the farther if, that is, those horrendous footfalls could cue a vast undue space, filled with things, and reliquaries, the table extant and unset, the large, untended rafters of his vinyl case moldy and sick. And himself only a sickness of HARLEQUIN. anyway and for now. So the truant comes. And time appears . " ALSO SPRACH HARLEQUIN. . . . . . . . . . . : in a way if math is truly the only absolute truth, by proxy one is saying that multiple things, the fact that there are many objects, is too : But this does not prove any use as to finding out what consciousness is. We think which after all separates us from objects, but moreover we see and process, breathe, like animals. we ruminate but then you get off on this cosmic trail. Really we are just higher forms of objects, but such a thing is enough to assume a Jacobs Ladder, all uniform, all the same, merely infinite. And anyways such would be to assume a wooden chair has thoughts of his own. In a funny way it is a physical thought as it was made BY people who thought out its design. So maybe it is like, a higher source of energy is responsible for the objects that are humans. And more specifically for a use, to create itself. Thinking, better than being blank. Perhaps we are ourselves blank and expendable to some -thing- higher. With all the atrocities perennial it seems so, as atrocities happen every day; it seems we might be expendable IF THERE IS some higher creator. And perhaps we have the exact blessing we are somewhere in a middleground between thought and object if this is true. But that destroys the Jacobs Ladder does it not? I dont know, I just have a lot of questions. Is it a question that there is something of a higher substance, a higher chair? There seems to be enough of a gap between any hermeneutical evidence you could work through with someone who might believe in something higher: we as people are in a beautiful space to feel so small amongst something so infinite, that moreover we feel alone amongst this void. If everything is really an object, is thought itself something only the result of this? And if so is it somewhat like the servant who rules the master, but depends on the master for his livelihood? And in such a way do we rule over our bodies? OF COURSE we do. We choose day in day out what to ingest, after all, what kills us, what makes our -minds- stronger. But in such a way we need our brains to think. Perhaps, whatever higher animal, is of such a need. A place to put its thoughts, a place to HAVE thoughts. Which we the each of us is. So maybe we, this planet, as I have always thought, is the mind of GOD, and GOD merely the vessel. The same could be said for the possibility of other planets, other thoughts that might be. Maybe it is not so much like a Jacobs Ladder but a distinction between blankness and intelligence, like vinegar in olive oil. Not all one but, as math would say, variations, separate sums. Im no mathematician and still count on my hands sometimes but on the basic level and on the level -Wittgenstein- explores it might be that it is enough that math is the only truth. Maybe that such is true means other things are true. AT the end of the day all it is I ask: does consciousness exist? OR are we all objects? If however consciousness does not exist in such a way Math as well would not exist because everything in turn would be uniform, one thing: no sums or multiples. Maybe it is exactly true we create GOD. As in, that is in no hyperbolic way what happens. As in there is no division between something conscious from something unconscious besides the idea of being able to perceive what is there and KNOW it exists. And maybe reality is something like a very small scale; as in, it fixes itself only to what we see in the moment. What exists is separate from reality then but this does not make it unlike something real. So then is it a lie? Maybe existence is. For the reality of existence follows this near-tautology of a self-generating thing, a thing in need, when all of a sudden an opportunity is presented to HAVE thoughts, and taken by the vessel that is the creation of it. In my mind if there is a higher animal -moreover one without consciousness- perhaps, it one day on a whim created the planet, and thereby created people who thought. The whim here? What separated the olive oil and vinegar? I can only assume it must be something as divisive as Time, not by ways of it being a human concept on a watch, but something like the ability to change, alter. I have said elsewhere that change causes Time and that is what I believe beyond all shadow of a doubt. A division, an unalterable plural that perhaps was something long ago made, however, not instituted until there was something TO change, for example: existence, to consciousness, to maybe even pure will- less knowing. Something like what the earth gave a rhythm, a pulse. If sums exist, if math is as true as I assume it is, reality in turn cannot be anything besides what is fixed before us, and even the space to my back, mere vacancy, mere space, that only something like a human -gruffly aware of insignificance, yet aware all the same- will bother to bless with meaning what they do not see. And such is GOD. : THE BRAVEST THING why at all, all at nothing, the bravest thing. that is why -and only one why- -WE.B- exist. we hurl stuff at the nothing everyday. this is quite brave. we make it what it cannot be to prove ourselves abler than the thing itself made us, abler to change a thing so permanent, higher than that insensate blankness we got up from and dug back into. we are brave people, not only after figuring out the question to ask about ourselves, the fair/ugly questions and ceremonies ourselves induce to come out pretty on the other side; but we are braver now for even knowing to start at all, giving it all, pushing against meaninglessness like a sisyphus. we all throw the boulder, we dont push it, we pick it up like the world and hurl it at black luminous void, at darkness visible, wishing to light up, o so impossibly, that darkness, maybe find something that doesnt exist, never did. through the excessive dimensions of perspective: the sunday flowers, the broken glasses at the door next to a pair of LILACS shuttering as if cold, in the wind so very much itself, and cunning too; to reason our way into the very place we left, in order, like as prodigal, to return, why we do so, why we bother, why one wishes to escape a multitude of doubts harrying one, taken aback and cursing out the banshees when we cannot make sense of a motive? the -why- we throw at nothing just to make the nothing all, ourselves the god it gets. : A QUICK LIST OF DELUSIONS So somebody says. Good Morning. And I think, especially if I had a rocky night, but as Delusions rarely carry much context, I Would probably assume, nonetheless that That, well, they are awakening me. Whoever says it, that is, to the true nature of My mourning. Or what I mourn. If I see a bird I connect it to change. Or something Half-omen half-clarity. This is especially true if I only see the shadow of a bird. As if some great rattling penumbra were To steal me away. Soon. This one time my mother asked Me if I wanted An english muffin. My response- -To the question I perceived: "Of course I speak English woman!" And these are some of the things I used to think were real. But every once in awhile, I see a pigeon flying & my heart skips Just One Beat. : WIND ALSO IS OF THE PROCESS I need a fascist in my life so that I can remember how fascist I am [sarcasm] . but I would do well to put myself in the shoes of someone who believes we should be slaves to the state . if I was a fascist, which I am [durrr], well I first would mourn: if only I could have released Ezra Pound! hed have no drama to stoke him tho, hed still be unstifled, speaking the history of all things : his Chinese ancients blunt-spoken americans, the way Shakesperes citizens of Denmarkre well-spoken Englishmen; making his periplum for such a sad sakeeee of [and here is myself coming back in] an uh an elaborate condemnation of Usura . you backhanded antisemitic slut !! such a thing for your topic when you had loads of topics! so of the earth, so base, so -money- when he is saying much more -I perceive at times a use of similar rhythms- or ahh something the like of his thoughts on Whitman and of whom he is the brash child [Bloom] to which Id add : delightfully incoherent, but such is the periplum, the vicissitudes, the random mutation . asaith . the Pisan Cantos wouldnt have been as good as it was . and anyway, if I was a fascist, at the end of the day, my furious Nationalism and general oppression of everyfuckingbody wouldnt trump the need to raise a good work of art from the ashes of a death camp, given a typewriter he hummed as he typed, Pound, a healthily huge dose of desperation, alienation . shat in a bucket, great situation for writing, so great in fact that Ernest Hemingway, TS Eliot among others, would petition it receive the Bollingen Prize while Pound was in a mental hospital basically the same old crackpot he died in 72 or maybe when he was 72 and posers like Ginsberg were like lapdogs at the foot of this immortal, highly prejudiced person . which was the ship they got down to; an errand for life, or to leave port, or to point at green algae, or observe the moon in the yellow river and not drown oneself; or enter a pleached arbor like Shelley seeing his double in a garden in Naples or something? do you want to transcend the voices old man, or honor them? you do the second definitely, and maybe even by trying for the former . ITEM : : what observed cacophony could remove of understanding in observing that verily wreathed over the point -is brought back- like a vessel home, by pure experiences of confusions, lost; as lost at sea as the writer themself . how can magic lead us? what is the ultimate feeling? sickness? well, maybe. maybe one gets themselves clear by feeling otherwise awhile . such an ancient duality, but true either way . understanding the opposite of what at the moment is felt . so maybe all the drumming voices respect the readers blindness, Pound, ah, you were not much to make an argument, at the end of the day you dreamt of flowers to stick on the moon, ignoring all else . maybe I am too hasty but I think I am paying you a compliment by calling you an intellectual second, a poetic voice first . one strong enough to concretely detail your own askesis, curtail your voice wherein a massive respect for other voices bled through . I dont know . what is the ultimate feeling? sickness? maybe . but definitely something sore like that . something very unbelievable, planned as though from the start a fortuitous streak, the plan to fail, to fail grandly, greatly, leave yourself an empty fascist/man, waiting for Olga . yet people, people!, his remitted dream is not tragic . no more than ships could carry loads of magic, of hope, afflatus, human desire etc. and weightless w. fugue, indescribable; and most of all a tired witness of all of history. :NO NAME [REVISION] I love what is emancipated connections so loose yourself From drumming demons in perfidy alone with your island Just to connect again with planets and dreams of such And anyway to whom were you to them they cannot judge So nothing of that for you though this a gift I can only state And for you yourself to will to observe if only Just to again feel the earth under feet and with toes to grind In earth a yon unhurt niche a significant nest to nestle The pent goods, all joyous wings of birds call you As they beat the air from on high. Loose your island of self, And if you must feel fated feel fated to comfort only And possessing that in poise and do no longer beg But beat these nameless fiends with your furious mind Instead. For how they fucked with you will some god entail To damnation. What are probably more crimes than would open Heavens gates yes yes make them bleed deeper You owe nothing for your disadvantage and corrupted self And still you think you must justify corruption Of something like yourself by feeding the soulless More of their food, theyre broken as well, you are not, You will move on and they can go to hell. Your own unacceptance if anything let it be of the wager They let you receive and crumble unto bending a pair Of shoulders and in despair as if the personal stake On your life was already decidedly lost to you, Was still to come from the megrim of signs All these infinite intercessions a mere expression Of a fear of nonsense behind the loathing a senselessness You do not speak yon island disconnected from yourself But as clear as day you feel in front of these familiar traumas. You want some blank questionmark to lead you out Without a fight and too perplexed you are not getting What you want you lose it once given, nameless fiends They are and you choking on the barrel of a gun, In some warehouse, waiting for the music to end So you need not face it waiting for pills to chill you Out, about what ou do not face, you are held In the manacles by this concession to haplessness. So I stubbornly cover you with paint. We wait awhile, Then smother ourselves with colors like we did before You and I obsessed as with the other like ourselves And so then also obsessing in a way with pure me And you like as we were our own cherished selves And yet this weapon is a weapon is a weapon It cheats by feeding till valueless what destroyed us. We are children, so think of ideas and hopes and not omens Creeping, coming up behind : and they gag you, six of fiends And you wishing no open end was left of this which is to say: That you had been killed dead all along instead of living For that open end and canceling the trouble but you feed it With that absurd conceptual panacea an easy way For you understandably are very tired too tired to rid Yourself of what tires you. You think it will take it out Of yourself without you o panacea o panacea it is You have no need to stir enough at heart a rapid heart Each beat a pelt of stone against yon chest yon disembodied: To face a rapid pain what horror and though large, burgeoning Mutinously, suggesting you need be alone To be enveloped with infernal torments and woe Etc., and all of it an ancillary cross, just peripheral : To feel what is so grossly warped, grossly to you When nobody like yourself would not be the one to blame And that man you jumped into his car even. That was the crack talking. You deny space and furnish Cracks with meaning for the space I do the same And time too yet still you and only you wish to live Within those borders. Logical I suppose. But it is Illogical considering it is not your method you force Your method to change as if something crucial Spoke its pain each morning to you before wakening A way to see the sky at the end of nightmares a lucky Clue and wisdom your mind retains like a life itself Should. You are a memory hoarder you struggle With the news you despise the sporadic For lacking discipline you find inscrutable an atavism Especially for your lifes liking it would like To make sense of everything. Surprises as always Are issues flux bad and a carton Of smokes to ward off death with death. To prepare yourself For how unreal you already clearly feel about this Unbelievable Thing. Held so long, hate it and if not At least mask it to your freedom restore your youth From the foray you scramble into mind all hapless These digging apparitions on the face of yon mind There collected in your recollection and past poverties From those screamed words tripping all over the tongue I love the lugubrious freeform of losing the loss Vowels that feel in screamed deeps and guttural Their aspirations multiply though surely they are mistaken To think once made ghost such passion to exist In your mind would not only burn them up further Their rationale is do not go dead yet sleep awhile Let them get you again let them see the banshee then Let them Follow the ruined gourdsound let fantasy blow charges Let the feeling you grapple as if it were many And each a rapist in the front yard of your mind fold Finally and pelted with stones And grand as day as the first day you wake well As the sun itself a challenge and a specialty As all that is has woven itself about you has become And has as the closest space of mine Your salutatory wane of principles bleak and such things As finding yourself you you there yes You who hear the awful churchorgan live for its silence And repeat the cathedral for your bravery Accepting the scoff this memory lords over you Accepting the bad pay which being no pay at all Rails you against in a white van six of the soulless Tearing your heart out slow as the bluntest stake into vampires Making you to suck the blood off meth in the morning Drone back to rehab, maketh noose not But out of sheets thine self wants extinguishing They kick you out they do dont they The get a kick out of kicking you out They want to leave you with your sickness And nothing less than formless hate they leave you A thing you assign to life as it is too large to encompass Anything [ psyched out upon a drag too much the cigarette like a big flower the room bigger it didnt like the room in fact hated it despise th room i said to no one despise how fucking big it is i said make that your valiance as you commiserate w the windowsill about life and death and neither of you can understand irony yet but that man hears us he is writing about us he wants to kill our minds he wants to give speech to windows i want to make them and form them myself says the window i want to be in my being i do not want to be stationary the room is big and pushy fucking bully and a coward at once he lets the man ring his walls with music the room likes it when the man smokes a massive cigarette which being a thing that is a flower gets dizzy with purpose seeing beauty all over the place it doesn't care it is outside of the man that is i writing outside of the golf ball in my lungs it lives to sleep forever it wants to rid itself of all but tha butt it doesnt care if the man is documenting anything at all ]