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satanicdoctor

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Jul 7, 2012 at 1:49am

Last blog entries

smears, splotches. section one: DAMNABLE.

July 7, 2012 at 1:43am

. . . Heaven is black tonight.
the thunder against the black tolls
in a wicked light. Like as
a weapon rendered
of nature---violent calm,
cryptic---goes off, haranguing,
background. Silently-
-the huge light lasts trailing
like a batty thing out of hell; drums out
against blackness;
lasts, sharply in the danger-
-of a motive not
dismissed, and, yet,
still very much not
visible. Though in the faraway,
the light-
-looms brutal,,,
obvious, like some kinda-
-deafening. This day it
drowns like gutter-fodder in a crummy-
-flash. This day, it
lives in my heart like
an apocalypse, desperately
wanted by the sky,
denied---the feel is
there, though: this thinking
on the nature of
emotions' endgame . . .
nature's last thoughts,
regarding the storm of living and
reverie: deceit,
undoing, thin words spoken
at the back of the
mind about a peace, stolen:
again, a thwarted feeling,
transmuted-
-with a battered smear, panache to this,
the rapping metaphor,
this the storm's strum.


. . .


EPITHALAMION FOR PREDAWN.
Exceeding, for a moment, past
That sure prolepsis to the dawn, which-
-Day in, day out prepares to, but does not

Flood the scene with darkness-continuum: leaping with a hand
Of seeking flame---instead---to course
And breach as like inhabitants-

-Unwelcome, lost or shielded, foreign
Recesses, trenches deep, and caves, shielded-
-Awhile from colors, yes, of the whistling light unspent:

Gaining speed, nonetheless: to where the darkness doesn’t
Meet on equal terms with whatever argument light gives for the
Necessity of light, once glazed and bloodied full: beyond

Its own brainless apprehensiveness: the predawn sky
Confers to all fool beings---roused---to do their floating,
Drifting projects, shapeless-

-Or well shaped:
Projects, done to wrest each one, each man-
-From voids: the void within ‘em: wrest with plans,

Yes, to hush that humming out of ‘em: with that reliable arrest-
-Called consummate slumber, prone, dreamless in the cave,
Irrelevant, squatting in the psyche; or, as equally

Borne on the caught wind, mystic, yes---of some daft error previous:
Crashing now and then within: within an earnest
Heart, the other day: as like a causeless hate, or some

Oblique and alien inferential: as like
Some panic of the possible retaliation-
-Which is ought to come in by the first hint

Of hue: as like, the carnages of milky blood and cloud
Across the causeless, empty tomb
Of firmament which once awash

Past dusk to dark with dark as empty and as meddlesome-
-Will be an indication: for all kind of man
To dryly enter by the moody mark

Of that prolepsis into day again: to prove
That day can last and can be more
Than inklings for the nerves to flood with to-

-The point of banking, falling, like large drips from modest veins.
And they will leave their beds, sweep troubles in, so as
To handle frivol: persiflage: these gaudy personalities

One fellows with, and which come in and out
As like the dusk: as like the dark-
-Goes on till massive morning: skirting off the deign

Of night and proffering that glut
Of opportunity, as if it were some shine: of wares immaculate:
What’s gained and lost in life might balance out

Enough to feed a few enough for them to start to cherish, to esteem
Their dreams that tell of salience and redemption with-
-Umbilical, frank closeness: wakening from a numbness,

Likewise, awful traffics of the inner mind might and as apt condense
Such feelingly private, horrible confusions---into animus---
A fury that’s within blank hearts, bronze brains.

And, in those blank minds---blank, heartless---
It becomes as undeniably needful-
-For this the peoples’ catalyst to waken colors

Of some ponderous folly: of a passion that still chokes
In their horrendous bosoms, caged as a cancer’s inch-
-Across the psyche, violent as the churn

Of fools’ mistakes, worried deep
Into the hammered hole-
-Forever.

It will, as day comes, yes, it will, the muse-existential-
-It will be struck from them, promptly will then bloom
Within that very chasm frightened off, once-

-Churns again the friendly day past hell and harbored woe:
In one daring cinch of night corrupting those human
Hearts harangued by the encroachment and the ultimate

Subsume of utter night as this to char to black
The firmament, piecemeal, deliberate as the layers of men-
-And yet, no matter: in itself, diurnal lapses, these,

Stir both to both a sense of concrete doom, a graceless doom,
Yet neither feed the other. And I am left with sleepers, still-
-Dreaming: in a stillness of mistakes,

Born and killed each day, irrelevant
And throwaway: and all the while the void:
As like, a mother’s guard, life’s hintingness: its

Torture in the marriage of the grind of night-
-And day. Birth, the sense of many mothers’ anguishing,
And cruel, some pitiful bloom astride the grave.


CARELESS EXPOSURE.
I found the shadows of a love shading restless

Bodies bound. The-
-Restless restless nights
Of ghosts-in bed, chilling up chilling
Up. That duo: yur hand,
Crawling, towards-
-The groin of my junk: we were
Underneath-sheets
Were sheets. We together sweated up
The mattress-saturated with what had stunk
Our bodies: this obsession
Of skin, for skin: this
Shadow—her countenance

Count sentiments with step,
An ankle shuffles in terrific bone to-
-Crop the toes around her pointed
Target that rings becalmed-
-Phonetics round the rage of a vicious dot,
Emaciating that far gut of some particular-
-Risen thought-through feet-traversing
SOULs of reckoning between our soles
Of rough entanglement, all blessed,
All said through simple fluency of
Turning pads, upon her turning feet,

That still yet speak remarks that she may stead-
-In pinions rolled extremities of feet.

And-anger with an eyelid overdrawn,
And-her wagging needs and made of want,
Both-express-in brows: brows: lopsided
Brows, jaunted as
Dynamos, and, the mind,,,
Flagging Generating Want—

The sediment that trams her eyes
Expands from her expanding white—
In anger, sometimes, peaks and banks the
Stubbornness, the fucking flatlands
Of stubbornness. It is to hide
Emotion from value: fuck anyway,
Either way, just fuck: afterwards: quarreling,
Released—released a Bullet—from an
Unloaded gun. It pierced sharp-
-As Needles, needless, shit. Hurt looks

Expressed always by a silent SOUL
Who always speaks—because she
Always thinks, goddamit: not a single syllable
May dent air, but still
To those who know—

—The point is always there:

An offhand look from driver’s seat or
Hesitance in how she washes dishes or
Dejection in how her head may jerk, when-
-She closed the sliding doors, that time.

She drags the sport of mute enchanting
Cross her hips yet not her lips: speaking
Visions, without words, to consecrate
The verb she’s wanting: she speaks: ohh-

-She speaks: I hear her opus like a breath,
I stifle it and I do suffocate.
Her voice is cured in nature, without sense,
Her quiet sentences are new waves,
Breathing: new echoes go out into-
-Jaded, pepless words. She-she
R uns foxlike
From meaning-as from praise.
By that I mean she is ineffable.
Her memory and eye are equal voids to
Stuff with speech that might as well be beautiful

It does not bend the artwork of her look.
The encapsulated moments of touches
Described
In writing—sum up to toys,
The doddering of my pen, impassioned somewhat-
-Throws names, and names, and many other names.
They sing. They quickly
Spend the fluff, leave-
-The beauty: singing
Prim, rosy songs . . .
Before yes before
The gate of all her depth unlocks . . .

I write, I scratch cold stanzas on cold rocks.

I recollect the times—cast now to flatness,
The bold intuits of our past once present—

The jokes the gruff
Sarcasm the madness the face
The hand do by the clock relent
Because—smile—is not, no,

Not—no—not nearly as bold
When I can only pretend that
Happy thoughts, happy
Memories-
-Of her, can be
So furnished, so dimensional,
Those happy thoughts are paper things
The truth of you has hard time ending:


NUMB.
I know truth: I see it in her
Solitary glow—constant glow—constant,
Shifting, unplaced aura: as though
The sun—abashed—did hide
Behind her quality,
And, mingled with her: her guarded spirit:
It sheds out a warm and constant light that

As it shines benumbs the bush
And escalates the oaks—

And when she throws rays—on me,
I feel shrunken—bashful—tactless, as
A babbling child in arm. It is,
It is this light that trips/tags
About her complacent heels/eyes—
It is the Light in that blue Look of her,
By which I see the reason
For songs/spirits-utmosts
Of WORLDs-WORLDs are
Living in me now
Rather than outside
Of me—

The cynic comically entrenched
Beneath my skin the doubter pushing out
My weathered hope the quitter who is telling me
To quit does die quite off at something, something
Throwaway as laughs:
Her laugh is an ideal that bobs
As free and scattered and pretty as the indulgence
Of the sea, the land, the rock.
She measures out her prettiness
In secondglances. Her pale and also delicate wrist.
Her smooth dark unblemished perfect skin. Her
Touch, the touch of her-and-
-Most importantly her
Counted face, her look-each part of her is
A whole, in itself: the look of her—
One part—merely, amusing: a
Public, charming sonata-
-Witty, and light—and yet,
There is that-haunted-
-Melody, to her: that
Wafting bloom of mourning beauty, youth:
I hear the extra brass, the gusty viola,
The palpitations of-
-Drums, cymbals
Grumbling as her sound gains—

And all of it—picks out a harmony. The harmony
Is air that moves, leaking small from the
EARTHLY corners of aesthetic: crevices, for us
To place within their rut the soft eccentricities-
-Of pretty language: to shapen symphony
From the weightless tunes of looks.
They beat
A chord for her. It falls—before it is heard,
But hums always beneath her skin

And, gives a rising and a
Rising proof of goodness

That, still, perhaps-
-Squats somewheres on

EARTH. The great-and
Little-things of her
Are so braced in her, yet—subtle—loosed
In beauty-the closer one gets,

The more beautiful the-
-Beauty becomes.

She senses the warmth and comfort of your presence,
She senses your humor in all things
She looks at you with quiet, remarkable eyes.

She
Looks, she pierces you with secondglances—
And looks from under the gentle gaggle
Of her bold, her bold-

-Her aubernescent hair,
Which grows of course in restless waves
That spread in strings across the eternity
Of her kind features

And when she looks—her splendor is a flood,
That roils out my heart, until my heart
Can take no more: it rolls, dives back-
-Into my body, without my body choosing.
Once it went from me, I had felt as though
My heart, and all that made me natural, was staged-
-Instead, within the chasm of some
Malevolent stillness, left to thrust for nothing.
Too long enduring that subtle place, it
Then rolled and dove back into me. This place was
A place, a desert of rejected hearts. Left alone, they
Beat loudly for themselves, themselves aborted
`From the people whom once thrust for them;
Abrasive, they beat to mute a louder stillness.
They beat, and beat, without a vessel,
Before being consumed by this strange WORLD.
My heart was beating there. Beating, beating, beating,
Hoping not to be consumed . . . without a heart, I relished
The freedom of an empty chest, a passionate emptiness
That needed no ambition, couched in purgatory,
And yet stirred still by the things of life, because there-
-Was no longer any chugging on, life was there, and
I was content to watch her with no heart. And I knew that
Each one of these that everybody has, once gone from
Heartless selves—selves such as myself, perhaps,
Transfixed, yes, by that dark aura of some sentiment, or
Girl, or her mere look, speaking vastness with her eyes—
Well, I knew each thud of hearts as more and more
Irrelevant, benign: I saw my own now as-
-A translation of the reflex I might drown,
Given time to live as heartless. I viewed
My own lost heart as alien and feeble,
A translating of the peace I would have screamed-
-To have, to have as what it was, were not this heart
Too weak to entertain a sense more than itself;
A deciduous thing no longer to be used, once it-
-Wavered more than I myself would waver. I would
Rather arrest the contraption and know myself more
Fully in the stillness my own heart hates, for
That stillness would be peace to me. This heart that
I am given is no purity, unchanging; rather, each
Beat is a denial of the stillness I crave, the peace I-
-Crave, and this craving makes it beat the faster,
Faster and away, going rapidly from this funny
Sort of peace—though death will
Knock the muscle out for good. Before I could
Understand this truly—and see her looking self
As a place to be taken to from my natural state,
Away from this wretched muscle and its uses—
It wretchedly commenced again,
As though the stopping of my heart
Had stopped time, all this time, and now
It had resumed, and so time did resume-
-To beat me on towards death: that human
Scheme of human beating
Made itself clear once more, and
Made clear my humanness, as she turned away,
And, my heart was held again within my chest,
And beat again to prove my chest-
-As needing such a thing to move, not her. And so,

She became the translation, and the peace
I would have known became abstraction. Though—
I know without this girl I would be dead,
Dead of life though living, while the beats
Keep beating proof of some more lucid, fiber-like
Infatuation. If I am not my heart, which
I am not, I would know no proof myself,
But feel it, instead, without a place of stillness,
Of stillness, to make sense out of the chase:


WOODLANDS.
And there are
Acres of meaning in her
Forestry of brush against my skin,
And the timber rooting want and need in
Ochre anchored anger/passion down, to sleep-
-Its roots in memory: still, I have that parted
Phase of beautiful
Life—yes—once a moment lived, now gone
To retrospective torpor: now
Held in memory as such a time that-
-Could have been a wholeness: indeed, my memory of it
Was and is and has been nonetheless a—
Mere and lonely part of our connectedness:

All located, once,
In the same brown
Stance of oak, and
Gilded brown and lucrative bark.

Limber lessons found in vines betwixt
The tender vowels locked in drones betwixt
The Greeny twining of lips, like leaves together
Cloaked in vines, cleansed by
Yet-
-An educated kiss.

And a pair of us, manipulating:
Linked in something stale . . .
We wile in heat, we-
-Smartly play the kiss in chords that hum
Chords, behind peonies—and
Leave. And so, the sneak of
Laden hums: it is no longer
There, as like a perfume---oddly
Fleeting olfactory past
Empty faces in the empty trees.

These limber lessons they
Are learned just once, and then
Displaced—
By the fury of a—
Mind of twiggy things, attached
To thicker branches of—
Romance
In haughty thickets.

She is my teacher of no subjects,
But those of splendidly wasted moments—
Moments between two slighted minds and
Tricking down two wasted spines to
Teach us more in wasted time

Than could be learned from largest libraries . . .
And, purpose—more—than what could be seen
Acutest in words, sight as a speech for the eye(?)


WHITE BLACKBIRDS.
At least---and should he not count himself
twice-blessed for this let him change his
religion---he can see, with his oblong head,

out the corner of both eyes, the whiteness
of his very wings, yes, can know himself
different and take pride in that; moreover,

can feel as though the reason he is by the
rest of the birds ostracized---made a scandal
of the flock---the peerless wrong of his

peers---has less to do with an immanent flaw, is
rather what comes out the repercussions of a chance
variety: a cosmetic irregularity, really: a fluke

of the cosmos: whatever sort of smashing of stars
into mistaken creation: and he, launched into
a WORLD still to fully bear his breathing: the

others of his flock peck at him with a dull
fear, stupidly, as though this shitty outcast
were breaking the law of the blackbirds and

were shamelessly dismantling the very ideals of
honor all his kin shared---what it meant to be
a 'real' blackbird---simply in his being alive,

alive and there: this fact of an anomaly amongst
their own ranks gently prodded and picked at,
knotted like a curse the small consciousnesses

of the rest of his sadistic family: the white
blackbird, he was delusional: or was he: was,
to all his fellow blackbirds a blemish unable

to be removed: always trouble: he was just as
vapidly birdlike in understanding, reflecting on
his own exclusion, however: his birdie friends,

they always cackled at him as though he were a
threat: well: it's sad, but most animals of the
avian type tend to pigeon-hole: in pea-brained

birds there is little room for acceptance. At
least his deviation is able to be seen by him,
at least; at least he can admire his white wings,

alone, treading the ground of some forgone alley
way, strewn with anonymous trash, alone, a prisoner,
and held by the chains of his own uniquity.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Imagine, if you will, however, that the white
blackbird goes blind; his vision becomes
a sea of whiteness, same as the sheen

of his very wings. This happens one day,
as the white blackbird treads down a wetly
dank side-street near a curb. All he can

see is that which made him different; all he
can know is what he can see, as it is his
memory holds not much: what he sees in

front of him at the moment is what his pea-
brained reality eternally consists of. So then,
the blind bird stumbles, hits his head against

the metal base of an enormous streetlight:
a young child, maybe five or six, for a
moment unsupervised, sees the bird

stagger drunkenly: he, she peers with fascination
at this white blackbird---throughout, moving
closer, with a sort of silent, infantile caution:

since the animal is blind, it does not notice this
child of, uhm, indecipherable sex; continues bumbling
forth, until, that is, the thing feels itself in

the tight grip, suddenly, of the child---some
other, mysterious, terrifying creature: fearing
death, the white blackbird attempts to open

its wings to fly off: there's a struggle, but,
at lightening-speed, the whole thing's over
with, and, luckily, the white blackbird finds

himself free once again---and, in the process
of wriggling out of the child's fat hands, ends
up wounding the child, badly, with his talons:

he realizes, he is unable to navigate himself
through the air---being blind---and panics:
swerves sharply to the right and into the

window of a loft, three stories up: the window
cracks . . . the white blackbird crushes his
skull and dies instantly, falling to the ground:

meanwhile, the five or six year old child,
androgynous, as most children are at that age
to be fair, is bellowing sobs; his, her hands,

scratched up pretty bad, the wound merely
a wound but still deep enough to get infected:
the child's mother or caretaker turns her

head abruptly in the direction of the cries, her
bright eyes playing dreamily in the soft light's
aim---hair, raven, curly---she runs over from

the theoretical light-years of infinite space
that stretch down to time---and time at the
end of the street---and the child's bleeding

in a flow of rich, silky scarlet, which the
caretaker, mother sucks from the child's
fat hands like venom out a wound or like

as though she were some wan vampire---and
the child the victim---filled with the very
nectar to sustain her parasitic existence:

of course, all of this is watched by a painter,
standing at her third story loft window: she
had been first attracted to the big sound of

the white blackbird smashing into her window:
like something to provoke her to live more,
live more and more, always more, and, the

white blackbird---at this point fallen to a
disorder---that is, into the disorder, the
comfort of an abyss out of context, fallen,

and---with time at the end of the street---
well---to say this reality is a comfort is
quite the quandary: questions, yes: I got

questions about the names of poems, novels,
paintings, music, and the like: questions,
yeah: most of all as to what the meaning

of a dumbly obligatory abyss is, in this poem
of mine: well: maybe it’s the absence of a name:
the painter had been in the middle of painting

a canvas: putting her mind on the canvas: she
wanted to paint something lasting, or at least
truthful, honest in its simplicity, restraint:

it was a thing she had seen as beautiful but
not necessarily imaged before, at least by
her: she had dreamt of the image much,

as though it were an obsession of an
awareness too chillingly, absurdly deep
to find control over: the most she could

do was paint it: it was of something that
as she looked out on the scene playing out,
between the caretaker, mother returning

from infinity, the sexless child in his, her
intrusive shouts most high seeming to break
time in half, as if it were a spine---most

of all, in the white blackbird, lying quietly
on the ground, outside of the context for this
poem and deep on the floor of the abyss of the

wetly dank side-street . . . it was of something
so meaningful to her that she could not figure
out what to call it, the painting: what she

had just then finished, in a slow, slow
process---an obsessive carefulness---of
brush-strokes. That is, until the moment

she looked down into the abyss of her odd
SOUL, and decided, then and there, whilst
playing her hand along the branches of

cracked glass along her huge loft window,
retro-kitsch, stylish, yeah, but humble,
bare, verisimilarly, yeah---decided, then

and there, on a name for her latest work.
By then the child and caretaker, mother
had gone: they soon became irrelevant,

as would an image for the nameless, the
vessel for a point: only needed for the
locomotion a vessel can have, to move

forth the strength of a thing ephemeral
as the point, abyss. The name for this poem.
The loft is empty: she went to go get

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

groceries: the canvas stands in the empty
centre of a large space---modern, wooden
tiles---a steel refrigerator at the side.

As she is picking out grapefruits at the local
grocer she hears the screams of children, and
her hair stands on end, and her blood, well,

it flows, just for the vampires, those
damnable vampires that mouth out the very
words on the bottom right-hand corner

of her painting of infinity: "Perishing Dove".


RIPPING THE SOUL IN HALF.
It has been a few days now since I've written anything.
But: the need is there, flailing like a goddamn banshee:

or it is like some torso of another elastic subject or
figuration I’ll not get to in this piece here but that

wants attention; so, I conjure a few extremities, some
digits for the extremities---to be appropriated by this

complicated mutant, and---promptly!---abandon it; leave-
-the torso unfinished; jabber on about a new thing. Ha!

Well, life is odd---about when it’s even---fickle about
when things go right. It’s a rite of passage for those alive,

at present, and should be seen as a way to determine, at
least to a degree, seemingly chaotic instances of errata

as---somewhat---predeterminations of path, whether in a
small scheme or large one. Well, how’s that for a subject?

Perhaps I sound a bit too devoted to hope yet for chaos,
but was I able to keep your attention? It’s hard not to be

optimistic about failure when it’s all the beans you got
to make a hill out of. Golly, gee, maybe I should indulge

asceticism and quit the Dionysian for the Apollonian. I
mean, there's this or that I could speak of, but, really,

not much, anymore, not much besides entropy, chaos,
torsos; besides a half-smile to be mentioned later;

besides processing thoughts via images, aborting
whatever credence might be given to what rages

in that mysterious hollow spot between the office
walls, where the insulation’s missing. Oh, this,

Oh, this mental paucity is outrageous. It's huge as
the sky; however, does not waiver, however much the

stuff of my bleeding is; however much a weight it is to-
-carry thoughts whirring this way, that: oh, to collect

those damn things---with or without virtue, besides what
one might spoon out of a clutter of gas---into a blind lump

of significance massed ugly as the gruel of being---and, then,
to carry all that frivol, nastiness past the very last galaxy,

the last clusterfuck of uninhabited planets---beautiful units---
as like what minutiae might---with a half-smile---be observed,

between persons coy in love, before love’s massacre---or at the
least, persons known a little---but, on a larger scale, from the

good lord’s penthouse view of all that is such things are rather
with a smallest meaning given magnified way beyond the truth

of their stature, measurement, to proportions biblically frenetic,
even for a creator without bias or sexual orientation---epicene,

pure---well---that multi-varied enigma of weird omnipotence might
more ably view with a massive expression of reflection, the quirks

of a quark---made significant---because seen rightly for its
purpose: to beautify the universe, via the infinite-various;

moreover, via a supreme extremity of careful arranging by the very
ignorant machinations of entropic circumstance!---that is---as such

things might ruffle on one plane, in turn they might on a bigger,
macrocosmic level make more sense: and then, suddenly wowed,

everybody looks up to behold the magnificence of this goddamned
atomic fact, itself only possible via the mistakes of cosmic errata:

dismemberments of length and width for want of a more elaborate
breadth, that is, the breadth of stars: stars either blowing up their

gigantic danger into the warpath of a supernova or intelligent life
screwing itself over somewhere else, blowing up its own populous

WORLD with nukes. Well, here's the conundrum: is this jabber just
mental masturbation: or will I fly like a saint all the way out of

anguishing; fly out of the mud, this interpreted lagoon, this WORLD
of spite hinging on a next line---yes, a new idea---soon to be

trashed, however good an idea it was, or might have been? I tease,
knead, boast. I think I know what I am talking about; must remember,

whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent. That’s why
I’m never sure beyond the process, perhaps making a seething poetry

of the incarnate now but most likely all this is is a dull promise
of more fodder for processing: which, really, is the process itself:

how then can it seem like a poet is saying something, anything at
all, if his/her subject-matter is invisible? Well, I think in the case

of this particular writer it amounts to more than that. I am, yeah,
I am trying to find clarity, trying to process the scary, scary

substances, emissions of dreams: and the local meaning thus gets
lost in a meaning for all the redundant WORLD, found---for

the most part---in infinite music: inherent in such a wonder-
-of nonentity, abstraction, symbol: I’m trying to rip my soul

in half; that is, just for the sake of knowing a soul there.
Just for the sake of giving the lagoon some air: to feed the

gas from out the bizarre depths of its troubled water: green
and sick with stagnation: I’m ripping like a wizard till

the end of my goings with a hurtling music like a large
asteroid of proportions bizarre: hurtling parataxis, chaos,

havoc: the wrath of a process---towards emotive catharsis,
not necessarily through words, gotten through words, as-

-through the ecstasy of commensurate sound to belt the
girth of my silly skill round: to assuage my anxious

need to create and bless the libido: and the spleening-
-courage to pass all things by in these desultory damn

free-form couplets: thanatos, self-hate, projection: to
be real, I do this for the sake of fulfilling a desire

I forewent, long ago, in dooming myself to process
---somewhat---what it is that all thoughts make us

mad with, wherein I am mad, am made, with utterance.
Is this the same, with differences about? This poem

is like this: snatching something totally fucking

destructive, wanting to snatch it, for the snake of it;
wanting to destroy what I create out of creating it.

Ah: so there's the kernel of the matter: that I cannot
write without emphatic expostulations on or negations

regarding making the point: about a subject, the-
-suggestive subject of destruction's warpath: this

is me being honest with myself: I mean, anything I
could say about the process would itself be a thought

once written, so then, expression in general is static;
whatever comes to mind is as real as destruction:

. . . . . . . . . . . .

The editing process to me was and is still sacred. The true shape is found; the old, attempted shape is cast off. And yet, as regards what the poem had wanted to be in its beginning stages: well, that urge, the urge a poem has to return again to the energy behind its original motive, encapsulate what inspired it in the first place---that is, be what it had initially started as being---pervades nonetheless throughout the new work; and the spats of that urgency ripple forth still further into the really new work.

It is this wedge---this residual-rippling forth---that creates discontinuity. That is, the content of what is written is very much unlike the style. What I want to say, struggling, at war with, almost, how I ultimately say it. One tries, in the first drafts, to match the two; one finds out later that something of either/or must be sacrificed in order to make a good poem. That is, content, style: one has to choose. At least, to a point.

Pascal maintained that eloquence should fluctuate and that excessive or 'continuous' eloquence---in speech or written down---sadly, inevitably, wearies those listening, looking, reading. The speaker as such in his or her failure to keep the attention of his or her audience is in the eyes of that audience all but completely denuded, laid bare, stripped to the ghastly truth of their own intellectual limitations. A life’s knowledge, to be forever cultivated---yes---on the periphery. How terrifying! The man seems to have in mind an audience whom together are to be swept off with you or dragged along. But, nonetheless: "grandeur must be abandoned to be appreciated."

Hmm. I suppose I take this to mean that excessive eloquence most likely reflects an idea as tiresome and as long-winded as its description; that variations in writing, even from clear to unclear, provide to freshen up one’s thoughts, regarding the perspective of those listening, looking, reading. A continuous eloquence seems to me detrimental, of course, if one in absorbing what is said is left to eddy with the speaker down a continuum of an endless, monotonous, near-hermetic balance between the idea presented and whatever stylistic ideal it conforms to. So then, a fugue in writing, or rather a point of aporia, is quite necessary if the writer, especially one like me, is to truly get his or her point across.

This is highly ironic, yes, but also quite wonderful. It is true, good English is a must, as is thought-provoking subject matter; however, at least in my mind, these two things at times are very much irreconcilable, even in violent conflict. The thoughts of people are not so bare as to require a flounce and yet a sort of cognitive music regarding whatever piece of writing one might speak of has the possibility to better canvas a feeling, yes, the feeling of speechlessness---the wordless, pictorial, though ultimately fragmented splendor of life---the sides of the divine, that is---what it is that rages around the beauty---with words, words that by their own immanent limits could not explain splendor as this without sacrificing something of either comprehensibility or tone. I am speaking mainly of words that in a literal sense do not say much specifically but rather cascade, flee, circle round the core with a curiosity whelming like a buoy.

In a broad sense words, words of this nature, convey something of what is sublime---of what is, indeed, evermore about to be. Via a pattern of thoughts that repeat themselves endlessly, something strange begins to happen. That is, a voice arises, shadowy---speaking for what the words themselves fail to say, over and over again. This perpetual failing says more however than what could have been made significant and clear if stated once. In an inverted, paradoxical way---I guess I want to make eloquence dithyrambic---say a point beyond words, with words that speak for the beyond, in attempting, forever, forever attempting, and falling short. In this way, perhaps, the beyond is reached, but reached in reaching, and is then not really a beyond at all; rather, ends up amounting to hopelessly manufactured, ersatz-eternities. A replication of how the infinite feels rather than a description of what it is. But, perhaps I fail at this, as well,

and so then, most of what I speak of is garbage; the nothingness of psychic trash.

But confusion is O.K. because it helps us go on; it helps us prize ourselves when whatever caused it is sufficiently deciphered and rectified, by us. In such a way perhaps I say more about sense in the continual expiation of sense by that which, at first, I (lets be honest, who else could these words defend?) failed to explain---make a meaning out of---a sense that is, indeed, redeemed infinitely, expiated, through varying contexts wherein the image, even the word, in question, might find significance. Like Donne, mine is an attempt---daft, foolish, hopeless---to describe the invisible: a hopelessly, beautifully futile undertaking.

Regarding my way of writing you could say that I freely converse with myself through descant and---at times, subsequently following a poem expressed in one particular vein---palinode, or a recantation of something worked through in that previous poem---descant being kind of similar, but applied to the whole of one piece, rather; to put it simply in the words of Stevens, "an and yet, and yet, and yet". Each poem is a conversation, a conversation I am having with myself, really; vacillating between point and counter-point and most of all never really sure besides what I learn from how sense might fail me and thus in failing reinforce a skepticism already merciless to the point of absolute nihilism, destruction, aporia,---literally, 'beyond words' or not knowing truly 'where to begin' as regards the argument at hand.

I do this, at times to the point of mental exhaustion; and then I give up. This intellectual poverty---somewhat akin to Stevens---usually ends with me hurling out, throwing in negations---almost a white flag---saying I do not, will not, cannot. I believe it has poetic value but also contains some very true stuff. I mean, in terms of sense, logic, as these things might relate to reality: well, the only way I can see an elliptical, informal logic as this as what it is, I must see it---as an outsider---as a concept, which negates the very in-itselfness of what I am conceiving, perceiving. That is, if I must, must observe logic as such in order to give it meaning. So, then, it cannot exist in itself. I mean,

the only way to find truth, really, is to lose control, live for awhile in the fugue; and when you do, you'll discover that whatever control you had was needed in order to make what you find comprehensible, in order to give it that value. It's a roundabout way of saying that the reality we cannot see is realer than the reality we can see, and, yet, tragically, we cannot see it without losing a sense of control, we cannot see it at all. This very fact makes the reality we perceive more fathomable, realer than that realer reality it is impossible to decipher. Because it's all we see, it might not mean it's all there is, but at least in our mind's veritable eye we can understand it. This may sound convoluted, but negations often are.

Since we are on the topic of reality it seems suitable to mention how perceptions of it as this relate to art, which, to me---speaking generally, anyway---is reality. Reality, with meaning. But the nature of this meaning is at least partly disparate from whatever it expresses. It relents to fix towards a mystery of---impossible, unwieldy strangeness---ultimately, as much an affectation as the will or rather perpetual drive to perpetually grasp. In this way the strangeness of art seems different from reality because the meaning behind a piece of art ends up being more important than the reality it depicts, or lack thereof. In reality, the only thing that is important is reality, because it is not lacking; art is lacking, because it is not reality---it is an imitation, and so then must convey something beyond itself. Equivocalness is needed in order for one to rightly portray, in art, a reality that is not equivocal.

In other words, meaning is a necessary angel. A brightness of the sun we cannot look at straight; a distortion that, paradoxically, clarifies. Meaning itself, especially in art, is a symbol, as it is an expression; without symbols, art is seen to us as something manufactured and ersatz and unnatural and---ultimately, nonsensical.

No artistic expression yet has held enough weight to be meaningless---nor is it possible for expression as such to be meaningless---as it is that the sense of our minds---though skewed, when mapped out, expressed, in a painting or poem---will always, with enough time and patience, be deciphered in the corners of that painting or poem. Even if the expression is merely a symbol for meaninglessness.

That in its way is a meaning, a distortion.

Just as reality itself is strong enough in our minds to not need a reason for existence---is represented by that crucial, simple, atomic fact---our being-in-the-WORLD---is evidence of our existence simply because we exist in it---art, then, is too weak a force to go on, for very long, without symbols. Nothing lives in fiction besides the observed symbol, and characters sprouted from the mind rather than the womb. Sad, that we are unable to reconcile meaning with reality---as it is that, perhaps, they are unified, the same things---in the same way we cannot have meaning and reality exist as the same thing in a piece of art without the piece losing something valuable. They must be separate, in order to be meaningful. In simple terms, art is not reality---is, indeed, a defect of the imagination, an obscure bubbling in the swamp. The fact of this is depressing as hell---and yet, in keeping with the good graces of absurdity, I remain hopeful. But to what purpose?

Good logic is no sort of human concept. T.S. Eliot talked of a "substitute for sense", but to me if there is a possibility for no sense, there is no possibility for true sense, besides in what we are able to garner from context and an appropriation of norms to suit our measureless imagination. My work is the process of a moving forth from one axis to another, and back; an exhaling and inhaling; the duality of good and bad. As such, there comes time and time again over the course of a poem when the subject seems hurtling on the stride of its own, blank inertia; in order to truly escape one axis and be drawn into another, there must be times of nonsense and absurdity, times between subjects as between stations on a radio---late at night---yawling fuzz-bits and guttural mentioning into the dark of the night. Such is a poem of the night;

as puzzling and oblique and, ultimately, merciful. And this concept of a dispositional axis is a concept of life as much as of literature. Forever will we move on and gain speed, and yet we know not towards what, or for what reason; will know only the rapture of the escape from the gravity of an object bigger than our subjects could allow for description. Out of a hunger for that feeling of rebirth and eventual slavery by yet another object too big to be settled in a succinct and fitting order.

I must, as a result of all this, to say it---finally---clearly, find out which element is more applicable, regarding making a contiguous, linear shape out of what I have just spent time typing out or scribbling down. In other words, I must ask the question: style, content: what's, ultimately, easier for me to disregard, in order to rise the other out of obscure, troubling depths; in order to manufacture grace? Words themselves are creations, manufactured; so then one has no choice but to beautify from an origin quite far from a wordless, senseless reality---beyond sense, beyond words---an origin that is in this case to be reflected on but obviously not grasped. The poet must choose the easier path towards a shape; it is why good poets write with ease. It is why a good poem is graceful, graceful with ease, captivating in the very fluid way it presents, processes, destroys or transcends itself.

If one forces a shape, the shape feels forced. If one, a poet, that is, writes something and adheres, struggles to adhere, to what was contiguous and linear about a poem in its beginning stages---well---that poet will find himself deeper into abstruseness. Obscurity.

The poet, after all, is as obscure as his words---he goes off all errant---he bogs in the moil of an elliptical, damnable curse---logic’s darkest parts---a way of the WORLD that wants too much to make sense of what is no longer sensible. This, I believe, is why discontinuity is so important. Even great poets have ended up talking about something else: Milton's Lycidas darkly speculates on its author's own premature fate; at first it is an elegy for the early death of an esoteric Latinate scholar named Edward King. Lines Written in a Country Churchyard at its start focuses more on imagery and the sensory things of the countryside which a retired Thomas Gray saw sweep out before him; by the end of the poem he speaks more on the nature of poetic immortality---the image turning, suddenly, towards gravestones---and the poem, being high Romantic, loses focus and is redeemed by that very hesitance on the brink of naming oneself immortal. This hesitance is a strength. It's a phenomenon in poetry that recurs, again and again.


It's fascinating: : : :


THE DACHSHUND AT THE STEINWAY.
Madame sits at the STEINWAY talking
Quietly to it as her fingers run across
The keys with a gentle tinkling grace.

It’s the grace of one who exiles happiness
There upon sitting so as to fit more room
In for her music: notes for meandering minds,

Yes, but meandering too much, beyond minds:
And, at last she puts her latest musical
Phrase outside to die with the retentive

Dachshund, yapping his own little
Notes from patio, paws against the
Sliding door. Forever the child

Of her passions, lady X with a shaking
Of her cuffs in falbalas stretches and
Gets up, goes out of sight. We hear

Strange noises, a coughing out of
Angst. We float to a spot where the
Woman can be viewed, observed, rather,

And find she has spilled her drink
On the weathered white shag next to
A wooden cabinet with deckings, arty

Frieze; a gift from uncle, Andrew Jackson
Something. She takes a brief gander
At the spot of wine as it soaks into

The rug. She is half who made her,---
Half of uncle; her other half, some
Devil of music. Tinkling notes and

Yaps yapping. Insipid canine, she
Thinks, always a distraction, she
Thinks---taking a finger running

Across the enamel of her teeth to
Wipe off residuum from brunch,
Alone, about ten minutes ago.

SLOPPY JOE on BUN, it was; and,---
SWEET POTATO FRIES, with MAYO
For dipping. So, she looks at the

Cabinet only to find that it has
Turned into a spacious, liminal,
Uncharted span of heaven, filled

With uncles, filled with uncles
Offering her wine but wine which never
Grew within the belly of a grape. Come,

Bacchus!, she murmurs, trailing a finger
Across the glued wainscoting, as she walks
Into her small retro-kitsch kitchen. Some

Of her time for the rest of the day is
Spent forgetting about heaven, all of heaven;
About good, and evil---even beyond what either

Is. She is half who made her, evil in the
Eyes of those who made her. The spot of wine
Grows up, becomes a figure, drawls in tinklings

On the STEINWAY, waiting, waiting, waiting,
Yes, for her to coo into the night badly,
Then yell, anticipating beforehand, then

Yell into the heavens fraught with
Nightfall---before lady X can think to
Anticipate anything at all---instead,

Opting to be, to be in the night, just
Be; to domesticate her universe, become
The furniture she desires to have, be in

The OLYMPUS of her hated happiness, whilst
In her notes’ death’s meantime, the dachshund---
Blessed with human hands a sudden---pushes open

With might the sliding doors, tells her to quit
Yapping, takes her place on the piano-bench to
Thunk the WORLD out of a STEINWAY, the STEINWAY,

Made humanely in the image of music, all
Music: the music of lady X is stained
With wine. The stain becomes a dog:

Soon attenuated, gone for days without
Brunch, running his fingers of a mutant-
metaphor far across terrific glass, and we

Are left to grieve in light of a thing no
Longer to be observed, a figure of wine
No longer to be observed, digested,

Hit with swirls and made like Hermes
From the genius of one mortal, one
Comrade of a tinkling thunk in the night,

One night: one night, logic will stain
No such gifts: of music: and no such furniture
Will be for the taking by some constipated

Heaven: no gifts: for example, cabinets,
Cabinets that make all happiness an exile
For this Lady X, this madame who fears the

Phrases of a thinking gone unsaid, lost:
And for the occult to sway forth with stains
With of done OLYMPUS and of STEINWAYS

And of dachshunds plagued with
Yapping hands, the hands of summoning
Happiness out of exile, gone unheard.


MAN CARRYING THING.
So here is a man carrying thing. He
Wanders through snow for miles. He
Is a new type of man; however, not

Necessarily good, a good man. He is of
A thing in itself carrying him; yes, a
Prompt provider blessed with a meaning

For the design. He is a prompt maker, true
To his word, but thinking a priori to the point
Of pride unconscionable. Nathless, he carries

Him, this new man, this man of unlucky telling
Of himself to know the thing he carries good,
As a good. This man who carries, heartless,

Telling only---and only of himself---a burden,
Yet no voice, no, for the clairvoyant sages,
Blind and beardy. Carrying a thing across

The snow, for miles. Must he be the
Elected for an image of desertion and
Paucity: and must that which provides

Give him only him, be not so descript,
Flourish nothing, merely charge the
Doughty drama of his going on with

Troubled, bubbling musics of desertion:
The desertion of a snow and the evils of
A thing that is a man who carries it.

So then they work hand in hand: they
Do not perjure one another openly,
Answering scoffs with scoffs, and yet

There is some beef between, some straining as
Though each were handling a sleight: a striking
Of the chords of ludicrous music---here---in a

Place we know not of but that it is for miles,
Is communicative of some distance, abstruse,
Steeped in carnal death to prompt a séance

For the sages to scratch out. We know not
What he carries, the man, this man for the
Sages, and yet himself a clown, funny with

Turbulence, wagging argument out from nothing;
Made of nothing, strung out from nothing, more.
Whatever it is is carried, entertained like a

Bad guest, as the narrative goes on through snow,
Begrudging death and more the death of life than truly
Death, a true-but-impure death of music and thus burden.

He, who is walking somewheres in the snow . . .
No, we know not what he carries but it
Comes from the sun, the music of the sun,

An insane, quiet, desperate sun of a gross,
Lighted cascade, shoved into the man’s pocket
As what all of his kind might carry, might not:

The sun is what he speaks to defend, for the
Very provider of him, via a ludicrous desertion
Of snow, snow, yes, beautiful, beautiful

Snow, for miles and miles, and this man
A symbol for the symbol, the leftovers
Of drab dreams. An endlessness

Of ecstasy; wait, no, vice versa. Wait,
No, not anything but a paucity: a hulk or
Form far off in the flatness of a big

Place, a WORLD consisting of snow, snow
And things, things to be carried and felt
And not known ever, also. Burdens of a

Seeming of a man, descript as a life seen
As being comprised of three or four hills
And a cloud. Only through a lens of dire

Distance could death drum, honeyed, a demented,
Thunderous clack; only through the persistence,
Yes, persistence of a lens, through which the

Scope of many musics see, couldst confusion see---
Carried out with panache and delicateness---and so
Arrest the songs of the death of meaning. Only

Through the beating of boards couldst the last
Throes die out there, the meaning die out out there.---
Music of a man and his thing, and him the chief and

Also obsequious chimer, plebe, hungering for
Approval from himself, the chief, way out in a
Place of chords from nothing---obscene with

Plateau, in gathered flatness, haunted wide
With snow. Figures in the snow; figures, forms
In a daydream, slowly melting in the sun.


PARATAXIS. Or, Life as Other

I am no human for the saints
And yet I dare to wipe him off as caul
So that he can dry out his shaking self
And say to me you are left anew now
To die forever and ever
Now that I have fully come out of my dreaming
You are left as a new but different man he might say
And to die a new but different death

But still you remain steadfast
You refuse out of ignorance to pluck
What fruits there are from the seed
Of my own rising self he might say

And yet strangely I am the part of you
That is the wisest

If only you could breathe and savor life as it is
If only you rid of yourself
This disease of a placelessness
You might die a good death

And perhaps I think to reply that he
Is a brute-force foil to spur forth
An evil brutish life

And I the one now free of you am left
To be blessed and for your sake goodbye he says
I am no longer to be tortured by you your words
Wreaking a life of disease and paralysis
And yet you he says you in turn will be cursed
With a silence grand as death and as at peace

And perhaps I myself do dream of entering this
The galley of the saints and mythy martyrs
And of built greatnesses however built yes
Yes from no sort of foundation
Rather from bookish rumors that go round
And round and round and round and round and

Finagled like a tampering with of how it went
Thereby extreme fantasy
Is made alive out of a darkness
For the wonderful imagination to feed on
And for the people in want of a saint to feed on

Perhaps I myself dream this
And in my dreams enter that plane

But you are still underground he might say
This other different from myself
And most wise and yet to myself blurred
By some too salacious reckoning of him

And that shakily as I myself shivering
In the dripping brine frozen
Comprehend majesty adroit and unyielding

And so then not the majesty of saints
And so then in being in the brine
I am the saint of the brine

The myth is made and is a sphere

Spinning errant with muttered dithyramb and and
And poor diction and so then hiving
Within a straight nucleus

Or grand heavy bosom of blessings
For this other hop o my thumb to inflate
With the breathing out of a greatness
Is an awakening finally
A rebirth of senses

And yet with an inhaling
Of the cancer of a mind
Unable to breach spheres

Well yeah well with that cancer comes the utter crock
Of differences different men in me
Parroting out the same image
Woven to disarm all the saints reborn
With wires of a hopelessly paratactic thing

Yeah a thing or a device
For the english language
To tamper with to fit
This damned spinny dingus of a pome
This my spinny fuckin dingus
Of a depression vested in the rebirth
Of that other and his words to me now
Are as futile devices
That merely change a darkness
To the ruin of light

And they are to me myself as sewage

Negations abrupt wordplay abruptly
Strewn blindly about

Fluttering like confetti or
Circling like as a wheel in the mud

But no no this is
A weakest caesura for gerontion
A pause for the greatness
To collect like a breath breathed
In and out as such to make bold
The frozen self in the brine
Unable to penetrate that
That that damned nucleus

And in recognizing this
I know he is blessed by me my words yes
He knows he is a saint to be defiled
In rude awakenings like bold breaths
That each and every second awaken him
To one of the sides of duality
Without telling him of his place

And in a godless sort of way
He crushes either side
Once reborn there

Thinking it a poison
Crushes the beauty
Only to remain incurably bright
Amongst a juxtaposed darkness

Not knowing that he knows
Yet knowing I do
And not knowing
That I think him myself this other
Of differences and polarities
That make a garbage
Out of such an anguishing
As doubt provides

But to be ambivalent
Is necessary is a necessary poison
And is a necessary heaven the other might say
He says to me that is for
The mortals in the gutsy fray to deify
With nonsense and with the raging
Of confusion

And all for ELIOT and his gerontion

And I I I a being in dry month
Waiting for beauty and
Stuck in breathing anew

I who sloughing it off normally
Not knowing what I trash as not trash
But growing up anyways all stubborn
And doomed to be pissed off forever
At having arrived too late
At wonder-wounding choosing instead
To buckle and grow from brokenness
A flower for coughing goats
Stuck raging in the words like a metaphor

I blessed
To be in a hovel of brine know
In a palace of ruin bent backwards
Towards a seeking of of
Of naught but my own place in myth know
My own saintly destruction
Of a self is of my own hellish design.


BLOOD, BONE, MARROW, PASSION, FEELING.

"I would to heaven that I were so much clay,
As I am blood, bone, marrow, passion, feeling---
Because at least the past were passed away---
And for the future---(but I write this reeling,
Having got drunk exceedingly today,
So that I seem to stand upon the ceiling)
I say---the future is a serious matter---
And so---for God's sake---hock and soda water!"

---GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON

If I were to heaven so much clay unformed---
And not a man held to the duty of receiving passions himself
And if I were as all condemned to live forever beneath the universe

And to look at the stars unfeeling and not marvel---
Nor understand I am mere yet beautifully strange
Because I can breathe and simply due to this am beautiful

And if to the luminous I and all were dim and blank---
And if none who trod a length of this small WORLD were bigger than it
Nor were salient in themselves enough to reflect and find principle in being

And though in a place as here one might endeavor they endeavor---
To feed not a collective nor individual knowledge but work
As kelson or cog to support and drone on for what is not more

Than some bad abstraction in the aether never processed---
Well if this were so this land would be to heaven a land of clay extant to feed
That heaven only and I and we unformed should want a form divine from it

From heaven but not harnessed by all by me although we work to or
perhaps---
We have by this point harnessed that divine however nameless it might be
And it is unsupported once in the hands of the minds of I and all

Who are the recipients after all of what whatever beyond---
Chucks back to us in hopes we use it to shape in our own way ourselves
Rather than just for hands to get from up in the aether somewheres

And to happily shape something else happily in a compliance akin to helplessness---
With the base urges as a directive but not catalyst to swerve
And so revolt as clay from heaven and so as to be more than the WORLD

But if the rotten WORLD were mine---
And mine for me to paw forth on and mine to direct
Towards sanctity were my own understanding clods

Then passions as I would have had without realizing---
Instead of quickly wasted in addressing a beyond more furious
Only to be chucked back to me as guerdon for the toils of all

Would if encountered by what is beyond---
Have their riddance from me and all anyway in appearing different
And so then to the questioner whether me or other no such prize

That is once touched by heaven though only touched---
This my little clod of symbols might appear different
Though it is the same clod the same asked question

And in being the same clod would appear unchanged---
Though it has been to heaven and has been rejected by heaven
So that though it has seen well what I have not this my dirt for all

To examine is examined and thought of as nothing special---
And even if comprising the WORLD in me if as human
Might as well be unenlightened and as useful as figments

Of reality to reality as it is though they share in the same shade---
Though I am no shape for heaven nor in a shape to receive a beyond
If a beyond of negatives and wreathed in ignorance and poor planning

And yet all these words are all for heaven---
And all to still the tremors in my hands
Each to each that know of man that he is not enough

But this should instead be for the dignity of broken men---
Others vile others who live just to declaim to vile blackness
So they might hear an echo dumbly back to them

And thus feel not so much vacant and perturbed---
As like a discontented void a dark nothingness materialized
Made a visage to look at from out of clay heavens

Perhaps this yelling it will pass in stillness---
And I and we all will remain incurious and jaded
As to whatever identity or face of passion

That might have come out of infinite speech or symbol---
And all this well it is just to confer the dignity of being
More than myself oneself to that which has a name in us

And yet like fools we all and I wish to keep our faces---
So that I and all men broken then might be fixed
To some daft GOD of the WORLD

But all of us we will remain broken---
Nonetheless will remain as the chaff disjecta
Of an honest void beyond heaven already

More much more dignified than words allow for---
And by frank avowals made divine in me and all
And still sounding vague with stillness but strong

So then I am the clay we are the clay of an unreachable strength---
And in recognition though born jagged I now am of a grace
Both haunting and inconsiderate

For I am we are the echo---
I am the dull echo
For the void to face finally

And the void will with my voice make of me a clay---
Answering my answers to the answers
But not so limitless as I imagined

Not so limitless as to shape questions forever out of fact---
I and all men anyway only know the fact of our passions
And we out of a dignity get a grip and shoo them off

And so am I in being the yelling void---
Left a WORLD of dull and frivolous answers
Belched occasionally from nothing

Sometimes however serendipity occurs---
And myself and we all waken from the moil
An afflatus for so long in turbulent slumber turbulent

Though somehow for a moment we arrange with discretion---
A few base fits for the base work of passions to justify
With an identity fleeting as shade

But then tragically we are deserted---
And with the dark masculine of an utterance the void returns
Clutching the dignity of my name and the name of everybody

For we all are too devoted to fact---
And not enough to the shape of symbols
Ill-formed and fraught with unbelievable shade

And we all are of the shade of suffering out---
A wealth of answers suffering out
A meddling with some aching bareness

And brokenness as a bough wrested by high winds---
From the tree of knowledge now as but an abstraction
A weird gas filled to blooming with the brokenness

Of a shape for a moment to loosen and redact---
And so the hour of dignity made manifest yet again
Shows all of man the heaven in themselves for a little

Made manifest out a nothingness of their own typified clay---
And as such this damnable afflatus stripped to the nakedest symbol
Or question becomes of a quality and fabric more divine

Than any answer could have declaimed brutally---
By men to men and by me to me asked
And all for the rotten pleasure of suffering

And all---
To flip a thing on its head and all to groan
Not so much under the dull weight of a void

But so as almost to release the moment quickly by a breath---
Of my own conviction stitched as fabric
Like the loose WORLD tight we all and myself let go dignity

And as for my passions they are naught---
They are as utterances of a disembodied head
Jabbering to groin out of nothing

The idea of a sum of symbols and codes---
And to feel less alone
In the dark psyche of a WORLD made

For all of a passionate though incurious humanity---
Stitched out of a fabric-stillness breathing in and out
And made scrupulously just for me to shout for

So that all and all might chance answer the clay of ourselves---
Without a question without a reason or source
So as to chafe the stillness of a loud and crude infinity

And leave me and all of course robbed of the fabric of odd life---
And the beginnings of thought left without any ends of a thought
And this done by sapping the drama and strangeness of names

For what would have been an unbelievable understanding---
Between earthly and divine things that live quietly in coeval
Without questions or the pomp of answers

And satisfied as being an approbation of the pith of flesh---
As would a wayward dog a lost mind wishes to stick to
Might know and realer his own frank intelligence and dogged

Might in his shade hear the howl of all the incurious WORLD
And know that each walking clod of clay sicklied over with a pale cast of dignity
Is ridden once ridden of that nothing nothing


BEYOND THE GRAVE.
Pastor always said something about finding JESUS,
always sure he would come by next week: well,

Sunday rolls around again and no JESUS, just us,
sitting in the pews, waiting for the guy to explain:

how is it possible: for a religion to keep up steam for so
long: possible to keep people hoping for nothing: hoping for

all of it, all that what graves tell us anyway is the end:
but which a well-meaning CHRISTIAN might surmise is as but

a symbol to keep EARTH's CHRISTIAN inhabitants from fearing
that whatever VOID they sense while alive, if you are good,

won't be as palpable, or, present at all, once interment
comes to pass: but, what is death: death, JESUS, hopefulness:

what is it to remain with hope, in spite of death:
of JESUS and his absence: well, perhaps the arc of life

ain't no arc at all, arc used in this case to mean pattern,
rather than a parabolic structure of improvement, or

merely change: I wanted to ask GOD if it was the VOID,
if when I felt the desperate emptiness of missteps or was

wallowing, sedentary, in all the bull of the past it was not
just a mind filled with existential waste letting ope the

floodgates but was in fact a metaphysical premonition of
sorts: that is, perhaps, emptiness was GODLY, was

of GOD, whatever it is; creator, sustainer, what have you.
And maybe it's a GODless WORLD, maybe; a structureless

structure of a WORLD. A gaff on us all, and for us all to
give dignity to, fathom as not so much nothingness as

much as self-created angst, wallowing; bright and wonderful
despite a suspicion that the will of a VOID, if what we

sense is the truth---and beyond a personal solipsism nothing
is all that exists---is something without an ability to be fathomed

with nods or declarations but rather a frightening indifference:
or, rather, a running poverty all the way to the other side of

hopefulness: but: the pastor he would say almost to defend
himself that JESUS would find it hard to enter into a WORLD so

nihilistic as to think him merely a homeless degenerate: he
said we were all batty with troubles and grief: the makeup,

being our own lack of faith: he said he would be first in line
to miss out on the rapture next week, when JESUS was sure

to come, either way: into a WORLD of damnable patterns of
undefined anguish, which upon his arrival would quake the

EARTH with misery no longer: at least, if JESUS had anything
to do with it: I guess he, the pastor, thought any crazy person

claiming himself to be the second coming would be a JESUS
enough, but I think what he meant is that anything amazing

ain't so amazing nowadays: any outstanding achievement gets
soon lost in a sea of a grim nothingness so very quickly:

all that we hope for is not so much expected to come but
rather hoped, perennially, to come, for the sake of being

disappointed, so that at least we all, on this planet, might
somewhat prove that the premonition of nothingness is

correct: that the VOID in us is really a void for all time, but
received in segments; that is, until we die, and realize, of

course, that we were all wrong, that everybody was wrong,
and that we are not even granted the dignity of having, at

least, at times, a hunch about the universe: well, we are wrong
about being wrong, wrong about being right, really: in that,

indeed, perhaps indifference, the indifference of all that is,
towards itself, is key: in the mix: but understanding that

indifference via experience is as key, and we cannot do that,
we cannot account for the vastness of this variable until we

are interred, dead, and realize that maybe we’re the only
things that can turn to look on themselves; that maybe

afterwards we’ll be no more able to scrutinize as breathe;
that, perhaps, an eternity of sweet, silent absence beyond

absence is what awaits each, every one of us afterwards,
and that---perhaps, perhaps---the gravestones were right.


TRIPLE-SOUNDS.
So I am left as gross a man as ever
As from the bed I sit upright at once to look at her

Observing the slouching slimness of her body
And visibly nonplussed I stare and stare
And wait for her to notice my eyes

Though she appears more fascinated
With some measly thing
Elsewhere
On the street
Or some trivia in her head regarded at will
For when a need arose
To address anything but the conversation

And so I remember I responded as an outsider but responded
So as to prove myself as more to her than just an obliging worm
So as to free myself almost from the usual deference
And I wondered
How her fury would be expressed this time around
In answering to such a stupid thing as passive
As that triple-sounded coronal

Or will she ignore the admonishment completely I thought
And communicate that which I would dread to hear despite
And in her silence say she sees my wickedness plain at last

She will ignore it I think
As if it were a moment
Of a windy drifting
Across her very cheek
Somewhat making an impression
And so then sensed
However soft and fleet

But she stands and stands
In the windy silence of passionate ström
By the window in her sunny dress for the folks
And she raises a blithe hand to stroke the blinds

And it is this image of insignificant beauty
Out of all things
That I remember still as clear

Looking towards the cheap secondhand clock
Instead of me she is averting her eyes
From mine I thought horrified

Waiting for that time to come
When we see no more of each other
So I tsk and tsk and tsk

This is an image and as much a feeling
Disquieting now as I tenderly recall the one mistake
Of a passive and angry man

I remember and know this feeling as as much an image
To torture to life from out of the whirligig
And it crying for pistol and ball to crush grossness
Out of these poor and overworked renderings
Once wakened like a mutant of a child

And it crying with his mutant-tears
For the destruction of these gross things

These words to describe a hurt that still is in me
And me by now sharpened to the nub
An emotional dullard

This as I rave bogs more in the banks of memory
And as I now know is as permanent a fixture
As any lurking pain would be
To a mind tending to lacerate itself

So then I speak no further on a matter of hurt
But anyways feel it splinter there
In my mind that preys upon such breakable feelings

Such fragility made crass and dumb
By the need to speak it plain
Speak it at all

I speak now just as harbinger for this image of mine for me
And though a representative of the things of the past
Am not one so fragile as my memories are.---

I am callous, callous

And struck by tenderness not much anymore
Less than a block would be
With his block-headed mutant-feelings

Now I am callous, callous as any judge would be
Looking into the face
Of a murderer of myself

I am one as to be shattered with looking
And for this to be the image I use
For this poem

This image of a peering through blinds
Well it is not so made of power as I thought
Because I forget whether she looked back
To suffer a sidelong gaze at me

Or whether she said her ride was here
And left without bothering
To look at me

This is me recognizing
That I am going on in life not blessed
For if my nonsense is to drool eternally
Onto the page as eternally blank

Well then
I must not find out anything at all
I must remain as faithless and benign as she
Of what could change with three clicks of the tongue

For we have still not spoken finally of it
And now I am left without her face to see
Through the clutter of analysis
That is really altogether a crude elegy
For something I had once
That cannot die
Because it should have long ago.---


DRIZZLE.
The rain began halfway through
Autumn: like a visitor persuaded
To come, then ignored by those

Whom he visits. So the rain came-
-Like a mystery. It fully drowned

All of this. It left nothing dry, besides
These, these: dull thoughts
Of a dry,

Dry brain: a brain that just so you know had

Caused the coming downpour, like a bully
In ignorance, knowing power to
Be only for him to have,
Not expecting-

-Retaliations, rather,

A mere drizzle. Something-
-Dark was there,

Something . . . doomed to regress-

-And crinkle up: like paper smashed
And thrown away: like a little basketball

Made of bullshit,
Through the tiny, novelty hoop, into

A trashcan. I felt the grossness
Of rain's visit. I came to agree with

Rain; began to follow its sensory moisture,
Began to give it meaning. But, the thing is,

It didn't want the meaning I gave
It. The rain wanted to be ignored;
It wanted to feel as though it had

Been duped: wanted to patter on

And on, and stay: and, feel indignant
About being beckoned, only to fail
At maintaining the interest of those
Whom it dropped upon. Rain always

Considers itself, more than anything
Else. It is feigning, it is feeling, it is
Feigning feeling: bold and tireless

In its concealing of a straight up-
-Aliveness. But, come now, DAN,
What do I speak of? What am I-

-Always speaking of: at the end
Of the day, I am mostly

Unsure about my place in-

-This WORLD; unsure, yes, about
The WORLD somewheres in
My SOUL, and its

Place in forgetting. Will history
Invite me---like rain---to come into
It, be a part of it; however, will it

Then, promptly, forget

I came, forget-
-My shaking babbling;

Quivering, my pitter, my patter
On some roof??????? All I know
Is that my words are gentle as

That pitter, that patter, in
Patterns. They

Consider themselves,
And are indignant: they force

Meaning out: they live in a trance,
Disgraced: and, they exist only in
Spots, like rain: more, these words

Are drizzle, I think: occurring more often

In more places, but only because they
Are smaller, are particles of a wetness,
A film, profundity's veil,

Are barely there and so then need
More of themselves to fill up space:

But what of rain: big, globular drops,
That is: am I that, rather? Or was I?

Are they better? Are they
More of the precipitation that should
Be? Or is it good to be drizzle: is it

Alright to gently fall, rather than hurtle
Down to the WORLD, and splash like
Something needing to be noticed,
Expecting not to be: how roundabout,

How passive aggressive of rain: modern
Poetry is passive aggressive: it makes a-
-WORLD, a mythology of itself, but one
That expects not to be acknowledged, or

Understood, this being the reason it, usually,
Is so powerful: what it means is, usually, not
What I mean, as it is I am talking about-

-Myself, always, always about myself: how

Egocentric, to think this enough to produce
Rapturous attention, when, like rain, like
Big, fat drops, the words I scribble down
Force themselves into being not noticed,

All the while indignant for being invited by-
-The WORLD of the idols of mind: So then,

I guess, I am, was, like rain, big rain: I should
Be drizzle, instead: I should live frequently,
Be delicate, be pleasant, and have less of-

-Myself cover a wider arena: small things
Well, big things badly: a wallow is a wallow:
Who knows: what have I else to say besides
The same prayer, on my way to the place

Of the WORLD's eternal invitation:

What season is it? Drizzle's always around;
It doesn't depend on the season, it's so light,
People barely understand its being there: that's
What I'd like: I'd like to be invisible, sort of,

But present: don't be like big rain, DAN: be-
-Like something vague: express the transience
Of the expression: derive pleasure from the
Determination to be minor: askesis: a curtailing,

A general acceptance of limits: know who you
Are: give yourself credit, be proud: proudly
Prove that, one day, you can be rain,
Big rain, some

Day: live with being pissed, for now: DAN,

It's alright: you might still be---pissed---at being
Unacknowledged after so large an undertaking-
-As that of expressing the SOUL of your WORLD,
But know, you expected to be ignored, shaken

Off the umbrella like many drops: at least you accept
This, are making the point sure with a littler seeming:
Like drizzle, less roundabout, in barely

Making a splash.


TREMOLO.

“An anti-master man, floribund ascetic.”

---WALLACE STEVENS


Myself the great anti-master who meets, one day
a life---in anti-questions---as weak-
-as his own, decides---yes, yes,

yes, that he is, verisimilarly, the answer to what
makes a life from things, as this,---
a life: of sad phantoms: for

him to dissect no longer,---despite that it is, quite
so, the right time to dissect; make
lives from limits. In

living some self out. In blooming out the clash---or,
conflict---a myself-as-answer becomes
a myself-as-catalyst for

the quest to gag a dry throat with: welling words,
corrupt in their very cycled trying for
what is beyond parturiency,

never asking for the master of cycles to dignify
a word or two---if even in jest---for an-
-honorable sublimeness’s sake

and, understated, a vague and weary whistling, just
to hear the whistling: of mad music---and,
woven trends: and, ostensibly,

to still sportive blood: chunked somewheres in my dark,
pressing brain: well: collect the chalky,
bulky planets’ hulk backwards,

says the anti-question, one of many, saying a thing, at
times, with a sort of mercurial rage
in the havoc of dull keys

tapped, banged on bright pianos and with violence: and:
in the confusion of a damasking,
in frilly picot,

the master-key might emerge like a fringed guess and,
finally, lose the style and
portend a content

so important as to address the bright WORLD in-
-gaming for the questions
unanswerable; so, then,

a bit tired of their shaky lot, though far
removed from, incessant, the
wither of keys that sing

an anti-master’s own ambivalence in seeking-
-for life’s lifting off into reality.
The realness of a deep and

profuse cotton-content: and still as vast, as fast:
no, no, no: vaster; faster in its quality,
expansive seeing-

-even, than myself. And all stacks a broad layer, yes,
yeah: of some truth, dissembled, perturbed:
still as lucid, not-

-as close: hopping off into the solar system. Some old,
big, big question braces for the dramatic-
-shift and swivels

like a head on a stick and not at all like a master's-
-anti-being. He's in me, apart and in,
shadowed by a crude

schism: but: all these damned elements go forth.
They chase the product, the final,---a
union of a trembling

mystic's fault, yes, and not on me; it is not
on me to take the damn blame. To wring
the fierceness at first

staggering dry: dry, with desperate planets
in jeopardy of losing truth's dusty
doggedness, paused, going,

and at last interposed there as would a fly:
in the room: I think of a gigantic-
-yawn of power in that small

fry: that noticed presence: pleasant, somewhat,
though a symbol: for death’s portal:
All things endure: this will,

will endure and feed the pangs. And yet, the pangs
derive: from a strange and childish
haranguing: of this temple-

piece. This temple of a cotton-tweed anti-master man,
humbling in his fluid floundering;
his wishy-washy maculateness,

weltering well, runs a strait of conference across.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Planets enduring: held together, jankily, with
A kinda wowed silence: propitiated-
-by preachers:

perspiring, once done with evil, brimstone:
this, this is in-between saying,
but saying-

-despite; so then, making the reader work to
explain, with innuendo. And,
of course,

revel: in busted minutes of bafflement, as like
a surprise of consciousness;
even though,

truly, whatever pace kept, if the judge be too
optimistic, suffocates and goes
out,---which,

really, is the point. Myself really wants to
make readers O.K. with the fugue:
wowed silence,

after the sketchy speech: throat-spasms-
-for that ultimate politician to
build buildings

for, buildings of quandary and mouthed like
vague utterance: window to some
innuendo: made of

great knowledge, dignity, faith: some apeshit
soul out there must know the
goddamned location;

must see his nothing and all. And all the vast
questions: all the answers
are made, yeah, out-

-of naught, but spirals: shitty ellipses: but,
I am starting, slowly: to go at
a different velocity;

indeed, to speak before spoken to, send askew
messages at first quite sensible;
abort no longer,

but, see that I live out endless death,
implode the first death more
into a stillness:

small, crushed, wadded: what of common
threads of thought, eh?
Something, barely

unearthed and found to be uninteresting,
even though, for so long,
hidden, shrouded

in some alleged mystery until I knew and
finally that that mystery
was the focus and

source of the intrigue, and, though-
-crudely it sent forth odd
messages could

not translate well, could not be
captivating, was left as
some labyrinth

of bullshit overcome very long
ago,---now, resurfacing:
however out

of place the situation then was
in terms of its popping
up out of

nowheres: giving pain a chance to
not be anticipated,---thus,
manufactured: :


POSTCARD FROM THE VOLCANO.
There's a whole WORLD in this room that goes
and goes. I receive colors from a small and-
-chipped heaven and I think sadly on this,

the reasons for my floundering, and make
sense this shapely argument; this misery
of and yet. Or from some hell some letters

to be thrown away, as bills. But: the way it
goes is how it is received,---the room that is
in my rheumy brain, a rubbled clutter; it is-

-received, my thoughts are, as though eaten
and regurgitated. The result of contraband:
meanings' contraband: revealed in colors of

a florid psyche's chance: at half-grace, at
a shade made whole,---synecdoche of pith
and charged with utterance: colors of the

cosmos,---of the dark macho down the street,
coming, coming up to give it heaven,---give
the muse in the room my heaven and my hell

and still to send me letters from its grave;
indecipherable grave, scrawled with omens.
Chip heaven more, the colossal illusion

says. Chip the fine print of a dumb letter-
-from off volcanic expostulations of urgency:
the letter from her ghost, the ghost of-

-who she was: the girl once in my hell: dark
girl, arms at present rung round her macho;
round that culled heaven, whispered back

to me as grace; that passage of a sailing
sight. That shining of the croaked life out---:
that why, that ultimate, colossal why,

that letter of pain, of pain: a charnel-house:
filled with hell, the hell of sweat: and: rosy
hookers hanging on the door: and the door-

-plastered in big letters, gives me greetings:
it gives me colors, shades: chipped shades
of heaven: the heaven I really, really don't

ever wanna learn from, just make a voice out
of, by the time I can't reason rhyme out-
-of reason: can just leave reason as reason

itself, half-created: a macho of a point: with her,
now: he, who grasps the street with his hands
and crumples it; he who is with her, this girl

of a heaven, once learned, once known, now
never to be known again. Again. So it goes on:
the fire's fueled up: the old memory crumples

in the hands of some farcical GOD, not of my
design, not of my shade: gnarled angel; she who
swears to hell. Not while I'm alive could she reason

rhythms stalking in a meter: absurd, dangerous
as whores on the stoop, stooped: or could she
satisfy the yet of yet, give meaning disallowed

a rhythm that could go off into some port in air:
but rather the muse goes, goes on, and on, until
I stop, and thus she dies in heaven---dies for all

of heaven: for all of a falling innocence: and all
the repetitions, lights, forgotten elements,---
chaotic shit, burnt fuckin elements; burning.

Chip it off the shoulder, you, you form of a
damnable confusion's going on: you utter,
utter malignancy, utter majesty of my tender,

living guts; give you up, go walk down the
street, dammit; leave me behind, holding,
cradling my heavens that bite hostilely at

my elbow---wanting out---out of going,
left then in beautiful and delicate stasis.
As colors, given for the sake of shades; given,

chipped, my heaven of analysis. What comes after
the feeling, unanticipated---but, nobly, goes on,
gone out of this WORLD in this room I look out-

-onto the street from, seeing her---seeing macho---
seeing the street crumple and disperse at the hands
of a dark character, a needed malignant spook,

snickering in my ears: the music of a hapless
heaven's drought upon the finding out of this,
the port in air as no such port but rather chaos:

it is a chaos, chaos, falling short, yes, of the
seeming: not seeming enough, critical, nonsensical,
a withered reaction to the macho of and yet:

outside of this my head's WORLD, the WORLD of
my bad head in the room, making synchronicity
out of horror, horror, horror, horror, horror.


KAFKA'S DAGGER.
Let me bleed into you,
let us grow and learn from one another,
let life not tell us otherwise,
tell us that we cannot learn,
cannot have faith,
yes,
In ourselves;
nor if we manage ourselves together break us open.
Again I am broken open,
bound to nervous,
clicking energy;
the energy of a freezing void.
Again I am bled out into another kind of source,
a source of evil and unkind,
again;
yeah. Again to take what we have taken from ourselves for itself,
and that for still unknown reasons,
unknown,
never known,
not even beyond death to be known;
not ever. And if we cannot blend,
cannot reside in the one sphere,
perhaps,
what is salvaged from the apocalypse,
the death of the brains we both have,
being more than what we know,
being the dagger in me that you turn for me,,,
will make me bleed. Will you drink the blood that drops from my wound?
Will you eat this reflection of myself,
this isolated image of,
merciless,
the driving force that you have sucked from me,
this the grandeur of my sourceless pain,
my own pain,
the pain you twist deeper in with dagger to cause,
to cause so that I can see my own blood,
see the blood of my work,
see it kill me?

And thus you remember,
we have tried to be one,
or were one once were together in the struggle,
the struggle to be one,
to reside in the damnable sphere,
the sphere of a blood's dropping.


HERO’S MARBLE.
Just so. The blessing in this gentle breeze-
-offers no concession in the end: and, as this
righteous sense regards itself confused, so do-

-breezes blow: like a cruelty: an abuse: just as
thoughts which out of fright, nudged to broaden
out the arms of primitive dark, make a mess once

exposed: thrown beams of day upon those thoughts:
plausible, somewhat: yes, as plausible as bleakest
eidolons: proffering notions of existence, ideals

of their own---sans an experience of existence;
sans that such things’re the penumbra following
life, never there in the life preceding/proximate.

An eidolon’s got naught besides the timelessness:
memory freed of segments, shadow freed of whatever
perpendicular vessel, sense freed of logic: and no

insight beyond what a statue knows, what a thing
not of a sentience can muster: to manipulate those
things that think and breathe: its own insight but

dullard portals into damnable, bleak mirage: it-
-pushes to explain the windy sphinx, gets beyond
carnivorous repetition(?): that point of sense---

gleaming despite---: sculpted of wind by this hero
of the past, of a foremost place: so: the peeping
sun beats rays on the concrete of the big park,

bleaching it: and the breeze: fanning a poet’s
cheek: it checks itself, before blowing fully:
and passerby grumbling in the cold: together,

breeze and sun making thems folks squint and
batten their jackets of down down. The cold
wind wearies thems, makes the sun a perfidy

to thems, makes the statue’s stature, marble,
in the park, seem not so benevolent; more
like, the prettily dappled leaves with light

are; are to skittish passerby the coronation
of a more kindred giving. Yeah, the leaves
in light are like this: the statue, not:

frightening, almost: the rank of a ghost, to
be read on the placard below his large feet:
etched in frigid stone: the blessings of this

man upon the WORLD: and yet whatever significance
the man had upon the kind is secondary---sad---to
what heat the name now brings to harrowing flame:

a known man, yes, once known, now at the corners
of rooms---a figure jabbering out his christening:
pictured as like the veritable curve of a large,

toothy signature: artistically maimed: haphazard
with a smooth yet reeling finesse: what’s in a-
-moniker, anyways: aesthetic: it is as though

the man wants to approach the stars, had wanted to
approach the stars; is now dead and yet not much
mourned. So then, all this harping is but harping:

a showy degenerate, once a pivotal human: once of-
-true viscera: once truly of the stone that wreaks
his presence: now, in a statue without meaning and

ignored: but: a name: scratched on the scroll of
a document of some levity---probably---in ill ink:
or perhaps he is not a man but an aspect of all

the kind: humanity’s wings: laurels: his sightless
gaze far off not blessed nor very human: but: the
breeze is not a breeze, as sleet is not rain: and

is not gentle, as far as gentle goes in terms of-
-blowing zephyrs shaking trash. These lines are
lines that betray senses’ fairness, beatitude;

they live like a man in the corner of the room,
of the phrase; praise naught but their own
illogical ranting. They betray and are no

help; and all this makes me no less sure of-
-my place as a visitor in words, these words.
But there are things from which the sublime

might shrink---such nameless perennials, by
chance forgotten, untoward: by history a-
-merest muttering, a wind’s reproach of

passerby and yet invisible commerce with
itself: flexibility and peace at the core
of meaning, chaos and scrutiny at the outset

what is coldest to blow from SHELLEY’s west:
wind crosses: manipulates the trash of ages-
-hovering in a twirl round a hero’s marbled

image: the hero is no longer to be observed by
haters, shaken: with hate: the invisible wind-
-a balm to soothe cracked, formless relevance,

no longer patent: his heyday, past. He bothers
no other any longer, not even the silent winds,
to unwillingly receive what mutters him; what-

-it is trailing down the street, agate as smoke.
He does not any longer care to express the very
nothingness of heroism: yeah: noble tarnishing,

broken expanse: does not mind the mindlessness of
spaces: spaces, on the street: an empty street of
the wind and, most of all---honorable---the search

for some place, a foremost place---together---lend
no meaning at all to an end of bravery and yet they
in their seeming airs null the hero: or will usurp

the man the grace of his ideal, never to be played
out? Well, perhaps all this is too much to ask,
to receive: but, by winds’ payless work to work

. . . . . . . .

the trash underneath some benches is he thus redeemed:
haters disperse, the passerby leave the figure to his
windy games: and: the wind, like a knowing, gifted-

-janitor sweeps dust from off his face: to beneath
benches, the benches where once haters, heckling,
watched from: gaped at with gawks this tired ruin

of themselves, in some sorta ruined statue. Benches,
gathered like blank pilgrims round their idol. Is
this wind the artless waver of a muse, gone of sense

awhile; are the words---though noble, heroic, still
insubstantial? One must have a mind to know the-
-mindlessness: be the mind of winter, caged in

crouched being---yes, a squirm in the cold---in order
to know the thing said as the very dripping of this
WORLD we’re told we’re in’s miasma: yeah: a creeping

dialectic for the frauds to chase and the wise to
dismiss as no more than nitwits’ visitant-gusts,
a brief fanning of some cheek: and thus these very

words are brief: they are gone way out into stiff
realms of order’s disorder---disorder’s order
called off, because too complex: there is, after

all, wiggle room for holes, voids, in a disorder
interpreted all straight and clean: if a disorder
at its base it must be so that at its base it is

a trouble, a troubling void: logic’s malcontents:
and yet such things pursued straightly are oft
insincere: thus, not so clean as to seem of a-

-truth: half-created thoughts require half the
form, to be sure: a form like as a void, a dumb
terror of imbalance and yet serenity: in its keep-

-of the balance, despite: yeah, yeah, the straight
stratagems as this’re unkind towards the waver
of logic, how it can waver: how it can pick

apart itself to form’s corners: indeed, it is
a vagueness, the core of an aura I speak of, an
invisibility too invisible: an image, too random

in the ink: a lacking, a disconnect concealed
out of pride, struggling to be consummate, to-
-be more than half itself: and yet it is without

a content to grow poetical shapes from: and so
then I give it here as a thing: or, rather,
will give it, will give to it a name. As such,

it will be too pent in being. It will be a-
-thing too nakedly, nimbly evasive to be at the
core of it: an order: yet not viscous as the shade

of one: a figure in the corner of the darkened room,
not so loveless as to exist, not loved enough to die---:
that is, if one plans to ruin oneself, or plans to be

frailly, frailly mere---a statue in the park---well,
what should one do with that life wasted, surrounded
by waste? Why, then, should one care to be the loved,

to be a hero in the corner of rooms? erhm, just so.


ELLIPTICAL LOVING.
I was talking to one of you one night for you
were curiously divided: between two folks: all
blinking together sanctified like a tail-light’s

faith of flow and stop and flow: these, these are
odd decorations, in depictions---verbal---specked with
the foils and wrappings of tinny music, rapping:

a chaotic music of a fixedness of argument as to
the welfare of you, her, the one within the vagary
of identification: that is, once we hug and the sparks,

sly, fly, once again: fixed motion, like a body within
a soul’s motion---the fixed body seen as a weltered
soul angering for life beyond a stasis seen as not,

externally, and so then the things in her receive what
they deny: it is like this, yes, is like this, this is her
life of negatives, prophetic: her dual-figurative like holy

jewels in the wind chimed in the fuzzy feed of wires,
all electric, cracking with a lighted though miserable-
-confusion: her colorful animus: to her but ultimatum

for the soul, hers, yours, to clash with: but who am I
speaking to and why: well, fuck it: there was something
sparky going on---between, I think, who you were all

that time ago and who you were once seen after a
good long while of years, wild years for the both
of us: eventually you became comfortable with

the animus-clash and found yourself housed, though
at first in who you were a-many years ago, in who
you wanted to be and---good on ya---who, yes, who

you eventually had become---had flourished as,
into---mostly due to my lack of knowledge
about it and thus inability to influence and

taint your progress; even the possible tainting,
in your mind, I believe, would be enough to corrupt
you, leave you tangled in spaces of recourse

and motivated belligerence by the thing wrong
with me, the one thing of me you hate and do not
want to fix, surgical though her phrases had been

in giving me the route out. This is an argument
about vague things, the duplicity of vagueness,
the comic paramour that duality is, and, why

not, how you seemed to me once---how that
seeming persists, still, and explodes me silly
into profound and stark ravings of incurable

content, outrageousness, true dangers of a passion
felt in you, now not in you but still in me. When
we met again on some busy street (it had been

awhile) we embraced a little and fought back tears---
well---I fought back tears and you fought back
tearful pity: and as a result you probably

had to fight an urge to slap me across the face:
not out of any sort of maliciousness but rather
because you were kind of angry that there

remained pity to be felt for my sad-sack, even after
all this goddamn time: it was more this that fueled
the truth of/in things: our jarring congress, once:

and, so, then, pity fueled that anger in you, preternatural
as dinosaurs to a WORLD’s first life in the larger,
abstract scheme of what a thing’s born with. You

were like the Jurassic age of my crucial experience,
I guess; you were so long ago you might as well
be a goddamn reptile. Well. This more than my own

infinite sorrow, ghastly, hypocritical---I’d guess---would’ve
got you crying more than anything: that is, me, I the dunce
and my pitiful self, at that point long ago when I was divided-

-in my own way: a rift through the darksome belly of me:
me, out the womb and into the fuzzy bourn of consequence,
error. That’s what it was like for me, that heartless punk;

I mean, imagine brutally wounding someone emotionally for
the first time in your life! It’s like you’re a child again.
It’s like, I mean, you realize you exist by that exacting of-

-your influence upon the other: as children, we learn, first,
dismayed, the surety of being, and that it is mortal; thus, we
cut as though by knife through what courage we can to inflict

pain or pleasure upon those around us so as to negotiate in our
own heads the reality of a soul’s behavior. And all this for the
first time, again, but this time the evidence gotten solely via

unmanageable pain and strife unearthly and a monstrously-
-complex deliberateness of scheme: sabotage: well, at least I
ain’t a ghost, saith the ghost, the ghost in me that I am wholly:

but it was by the pain of another I became ghostly: and now
I know that immorality somewheres lieth in myself: somewheres
uglily and vague with ruin: deserted by the barking light of-

-a soul in us that tells us, me, tells me I am good: that I
am of gold, am golden, am the name I give myself and by such
am neither good nor bad anyways. We the both of us

were sad about it all for awhile. The first few months we
talked on the phone frequently, but that began to ebb
the more desperate I got to win her back: at present,

somehow, we made it back to my hood, and sat
together on a stoop to smoke, and the moonlight-
-struck things well. I asked how it was with

you: you said things were fine so I didn’t bother
to wheedle further even though you probably
wanted me to do that. But: it was on my mind

even after you left: why, why hadn’t it occurred
to her to stay the night: was she so very eager to be
rid of me once more, and for all time: to think on how

things had turned out that way---that wasteful anguishing
way---would be as fruitful as any vagary could prove to
magnify: a lone significance: example: the significance of her

call she gets on her way from my apartment and as to who-
-she speaks to I know not, will never know, will not know:
it knots my guts, I guess: in implying so much: and still

with the yadda yadda yadda: a deconstructionist attitude,
yes, of one prone to analysis---o crude aporia---even though
analysis in itself can be a headache---aggravates, of course,

these general feelings about her and I, massed brute in a
lump-emotional-sum of a self I daily begot over the years: so
yeah: I begot as claimant to preserve my uneasy frustrations

a new, ugly DAN, a DAN without

faith: you, she was, were a vague brand of feeling that---once
felt---multiplies/d into doubts mingled furious with passion---
and---leading back to no source but the beginning of time, can’t

be destroyed: rather, flattens out, buds what buds from it:
you were this universe in me, this ill gain that I made into-
-WORLDS of content, all relating back to myself, all eating

myself: and each with an equivalent gravity to its argument,
implication: and, all shouting like whispers in this head of
mine that rolls on shallow shoulders: o o o the scrutiny of-

-years passed in hell, catatonia: you were the mass of repetitions,
you are; you are the feeling I get, it seems, when I want to
say one thing and end up saying something else not so lucent,

vibrant, sparky; less constructive. A vague turn of the head,
a searching in your listless, detached expression: you are more
than any variable meaning could dissuade, dilute: the final judgment:

well: as for this identity, the one I hold fast to: it is just to have
an ability to regard myself---as I die---by this vulgar broadness,
this general mangling of upturned phrase---like me in a hot bed

with sheets, thinking whilst asleep, waking up, again---
to judge myself---to cock the gun but not blow brains out in
a sheer test of how the shambles could cook up some new force

to fuck me over with. After all this time, all these
years, these long years, why had you decided to talk to
me, why, after all; the inevitable sadness of days,

the misery of passing time got me no longer to think of you,
or else enter some metaphysic of misery beyond a single dropping
tone of time;---between a squeezed millisecond’s reckoning.

I think of that single spot: in time: it was, and was,
until now, no longer to come around to rattle and
rouse me from sleep at night: until now did not chill

my sportive blood to leap out of my skin and beckon
forth and so then fan these premonitions of apocalypse:
yes: yes: uncontrollable, the coming of a bleak, bleak

daydream to produce some existential whatever: some
hunch of rotten death: all that’s left I guess is me and
my vagaries, twiddling like thumbs: the daunting grope

towards a sanctified life, a life of elements and phrasing,
however idiomatic, not fortuitous, not prophetic, merely
unique without being amazing, without being productive,

vacant meaning drudged-up in unhappiness, lost loves,
you love, the love of you, and for I am not more man
then than now I cannot say that things are any better.


NARROW PRISON.

There is only one day left, always starting over:
It is given to us at dawn and taken away from us at dusk.

---J.P. Sartre

[part one]

So I went on
The mountain awhile; grew
Swarthy and rough-hewn-
-In the woodland
Loam’s shade misting wetly
At the top. And,---
To think frankly about
My sadness: well-
-I’d thought thru it all
Before: that’s what I
Said to myself: I
Laid it down in stone,
Then, lay it
Now: whether
I was dwelling
Or dealing---living for
Quietus, writing for beauty, living,
In and out
Of time---is irrelevant,
However . . . either
Way some shift now
Buckles me down
To pen this thing
Straight; once,
Too,
Buckled. Buckled, thundering.---
As like, some damn glacier
In irrelevant heat. Hoods on the stoop. Wait, wait,
Wtffffffffffffffffffff . . . ? Where is it
All and what’s left? Well, first off, this
Is still plaguing
Me: yes, this,---some kinda strange
Thought’s the feeling
There: yes:
In this cave-brain:
Of my ghostlier self: cave-brained,
Castle-headed sets, sexless: staunch-rough:
Insane, indifferent: intrepid, like diamonds-
-In a mouthful, burning w/ neutral:
This furious, friggin
Idea, unnamable, as wind;
This deconstructionist
Annoyance. This idea
Of an ultimate,
Fuckinnnnnnnnn
Nonsense: lying somewheres at
The core of a mind
Layered enuff w/
Subtlety: indeed,
And to the point
Of a madness: when
Subtle things go
Hidden: at
The core of effry dang mind’s-
-Subtlety, lieth
Visages: vampirism,
In extremis: spooky-
-Faces: like ghosts,
Waltzing up
The hill,
Kickin dirt, vague-
-Ruin, debris: so I found, the use of a core,
A core-particular, was
As sourceless, yes, to find
As the-
-Source of all wind: no core, no
Source---no
Me or
Other: you know the jive so why
Say on, huh?: sadness: uhhhhhhh
Wait a minnit: back
To-
-Principles: principles of the justice of
Things,
Unwavering,
Around me: and which in being
The stuff of my WORLD are
Thru some hellish-
-Capability made
The very
Stuff of-
-This unbearable saying, saying the more
Of otherness and the husk
Of windy meanings’ collection
In a source, as whitest
Black might-
-With whiter whiteness’ believing:
Paul Celan’s almond’s in his king-
-Of writhing bones and all of it’s construed, but
The darkling---yes---that that
That furious witch-bitch---
Of a subtlety-particular---a core
Nonsense---is the one that reigns. Waste the
Gold; anoint in droplet-sources senseless
Reaching---find
The specialness of going on or off. Faces:
Sickness: visages, erupting
Like ruins kicked away: now, back to mentioning,
Like a boomerang: WOLRD,
Shitty WORLD:
Somewhat-
-Frightening: ahh: uhh: uhm:
Yes: that will do the trick
Yes: and leaves,
The justice behind ‘em: blink
At that: justice,
Judgment, different: how
To justify judgment: no-
-No: ain’t justifiable,
Really: look at it, purely:
What’s it-
-Capable of: what’s what
Capable
Of: hmm: shitty, shitty: shitty
Fuckin WORLD, absurd,
Yes: yeah: and
The loaded friggin
Gun: so
I went on the mountain
Awhile: had fits: how easily-
-I could fit the void to suit my
Tailored perceptions, woven
Like bundles for years,,,
Running out in days: unfortunate,
Shit: . . . life’s all dolled up-
-In friggin straps, extra things, ghostly
Globs; extra fragments. And when:
When what: when
Will I divide
Myself back
Together: back into
Some kinda heavenly
Completion, summed
Up: well, nope, can’t happen: it’s all
Fragile w/ garbage’s flawed-
-Fasteners-on,
Hangers-on,
Clogging, yes, w/ bees’ produced
Pollen that that that green,
Florid space I know
I can be: yes: and
Sculptured
Out subtle visages’
Judgment,
Hidden yet vast once
Made, again: again: made-
-W/ mud and of
Muddy
Thought-pilgrims: yeah:
Take-
-This sounding of the
Sensate and
Brutalize it w/ a language-
-Too broad, naked, vulgar
As junk:
Extra-orbital: plague: thems plague
For the sake of seen junk’s-
-Sudden hiding:
Is this hit or
Miss: what’s
Missing grows, yes, w/-
-The hum of the drumming,
Growin fuckin-
-Silence: in the green
Space: so I sat in
My truth, a priori, a
Bit, and was-
-Not idle: in this
Heaven: soulless tho
I was: and the pilgrims, depleted as
Lifeblood, mine: once a mine-
-Of damnably awesome,
Blossoming asphodels, now-
-By bees deprived: you’ll see,
You’ll see: about-
-The bees: WILLIAMS,
Where are ye at:
Chillin w/ all thems from BLAST:
Rabbi Ben Ezra or-
-The Tsetse: WYNDHAM: and all
Thems patrons: damn: LEWIS,
Choose blindness,
You: with vision, after
All, comes bias,
Judgment, what-
-Not: what a paradise: to be blind: to be free
Of analysis, caught up instead
W/ the gestures of infinity
And, all-glorious, the pain
Of crushed particulars,
Like leaves of evil-
-Grass: like jazzed-up rhythms bidden by
GOD to not grasp but be
Grasped: to not live for afterlife but
Live after life forever: and all this, all of
Sourceless, listening life’s midwives’ tumid
Expression: but-
-Scarily, w/o an opposite
Side: . . . I’m the midwife, spawned
From some kinda opposite-
-Side, now absent: like ASHBERY,,,
Leaving all
Out: nature, he’s the-
-Idea-man: putting what’s too
Real in the head of some kinda
Mud-pilgrim: or, the porous
Poet-quester-
-W/ a bad complexion: and, still, all
I might think of, despite,
Are ideals: of nothing out
Of something: sadness: no no no:
Of the beauty of that which I cannot
Possess and which lifts
Me up: of good
Times: of how nice a day it is, blue
Sky, neatly wending clouds
Throughout:
Despite, yes, a chill-
-Of the wintriest bronze:
Bronze leaves, crushed out of cruising
Wind, directionless and so then perfect w/o
Knowing: and,
My leaves: grasping that they cannot
Grasp; rather, they-
-Wait for rhythms to chokechain
The fuck out of of
Of realized grownness. The leaves,
I’m talking about leaves: and cells:
Cells, into bones,---
They develop, flourish,---
Fall. Yes, w/ a clatter, to the end of the ground like
Some wack idea, a priori---that
Is, after
The fact, the fact, the fact of all damnable
Life: and weird sensing: what’s the sense: hm:
Thought-pilgrims: HOMER,
Blind as a bat! There can be
One sordello; it’s mine,
Tho,---
That’s the thing of blindness’ evil found
In incomprehensible, shapen-
-Leaves, falling like lives after SUMMER,
Before SPRING’s fit. Depression: no-
-No: no rou cou,
I
Guess:

. . . . . .. . .. . . . . . ... . .. . . . . .. ..


I guess I’d like-
-That, that
Is,
Blindness: but, not-
-If my mind has to stop:
CONRAD: he chose
Summin’ o’ that: AIKEN chose
The ache of being w/o
A fatherland: place-names,
Remembrances litter the pages
Of USHANT’s whirlwind: he-
-Chose infinity’s
Disorganization, yes, once
Leveled by the-
-Mind: out of flux, once
Grasped; organization,
If left, he
Understood, to hover, won’t
Be fathomed,
No,
But sensed and w/ ecstasy
Understood. Somewhat: as
A fine
Source, summoned out-
-The fluids
Of the mind’s rednesses
And fabulous
Purples,
Circulating like a
Breath released in-
-Its place: a breath, one only,
For the sake of
Disorder’s failing: a quick shock-
-Of the charge/catalyst, like
Some lightbulb gone out in a pop,
Fizzle: leaves, yes,
Leaves and breathing cells: and all of
It more
Freeing-
-Than finding, grasping,
Thinking the invisible out
Of ecstasy and,
Sensible, disorder: more
Of an order
Than expression’s limiting
Sameness of leaves alive in angled,
Pointed sentiments after the fact-particular,
The core source’s dumbass nucleus: and,
Chained (fuck) like a choking, to
Example: the infinite, the wild:
YES: yes, example
Upon example: eventually,
To capitulate and fade
Out of blank
Mindfulness, only to---surprise!---reappear
W/ an unspoken
Resentment this time on the part
Of expression’s-
-Abstract taking and putting of things
Together, in a---disorder---of colors’
Exampled primness:
But, no shapes but
In the shapes of processing-
-Gone thru a mind’s
Purples, reds,---
Yellows, pinks,---ahh,,,
Why try: why: usurper:
Futile bum, kickin
Dust: what is
Left of sensibleness:
Questions,
Questions, absurdity’s an
Extreme, dammit, but what
Is on the other side: the other’s
A side only: no other: colors:
Residuals, blessings
Of fuckin freshness: the sculpture
Of myself, hurled
Beyond expression---thus,
Hope: I can’t seem to
Find a
Place for this
Monstrosity: to
Think about
Sadness,
Well and good:
To find justice in
The eyeless
Scrutiny-
-Of nature: and in the fair-floating hymnals,
Soundless also: oh my how
Entertaining to feed negations’
Stubbornness: Like a bundle
Of fire: absurd, nasty, that’s
What it’s like to be back
In the caul: SOUL: it’s
There: first off,
Leaves: leaves,
Grass: go find justice
If you must in
The scrupulous: judgments of scrupulous
Man’s nature, mirrored: yes: regarding
How man is-
-In what’s around him: that is, the stuff that is
Natural: but this time no
Loaded gun, none, nowheres,---
Cuz no visage: to scare
W/ spookiness in reds,
Purples-
-And stuffy stuff of sense, yes,
Collected: collected, as such: justice, sought,
After all, by me: . . . or,
Is it validation,
Rather: well, the core’s a bore---
Well, I guess all-
-That’s left to make me want blindness is,
Leaf by leaf, a thought’s
Struggle to strand thru,
Bundled, a sort-
-Of grand disorder: wordy,
Twisted,
Lithe-like, friggin
Spinal: bent dithyrambs, eked out on
Peculiar horns,
Dammit: wordy, colorless:
Hrm: colorless: the idea
Of colorlessness: and-
-Ideas,
Thoughts, in general,
Bright with shadowed nuance blurring
Across this my nice,
Little landscape, aching,
Full: fallen,
Now irrelevant
As chikkinshit meanings, there:
There in all of a
Frankness harping healing
Strings: harping,
Yes,
For the source: shooing
Off, though, as I speak; once,
That, is, had, spoken. Ah!
Timelessness! Fugue:
Harmony: death:
Either way I am tasked
To be what I
Already
Am: and-
-Answering,
The leaves’ dusty,
Muffled effort goes off into the bask
Of some kinda
Firmament: ah,
Well: goodnight,
Night: you are done, once
The moon’s moodiness and fixed
Aura goes
Too: fuck, yo: rage: things go raging
Off into day’s burgeoning and
Still I think,
It ain’t
There: the source, bone-dry: artless,
The eddy’s damnable core
Particular or
Object-obvious ain’t
There: but the object-obvious already always
Was, is,
And so then, yes,
Eureka,
Needs no color: anymores, at-
-Least: yet, is
Shaped in
Softening light played finally
Out of the set setting, blessed
W/ order’s greyness: kept
Safely nonsensical,
Elliptical: and, floating,
Hovering, dashes once
The day drowns it, the
Object
Obvious: the core-sourcelessness,
Yes, seen w/ a
Clarity too much the stuff of a
Force answering
To mischance’s
Chances: yes:
To struggle once-
-Again
Out of, questionable,
The buzz of yellow-blackened
Leaves’ blind judgment: justified,
Of course, b/c w/o-
-Bias: eyeless and and
And serene, yes, and cherished:
If even black and white: shades
Or shades’
Absence: time or time’s
Absence: be sincere,
DAN: yeah: word: the amount
Of tears I’ve shed, after
The fact: afterlife, or knot: it’s all
Cherished,
In a bundle of bony fire:
Somewheres, where the mind’s blank w/
Answering clatter,
Buzz: crest the brunt
Of the milky matter thru a needle’s eye: wtf:
Go moonward, on, yes, and sup: sup on
The milk of time, I mean; of
The moon and all
Damned beauties blackened with examples-
-Of dim, prim analysis. Yeesh. Whitens
The knuckles, this
Does: sup like
Tits on-
-The matter/agent of nature’s balled-up
Racket: of silence’s damned song: be
Whole again beyond confusion
Or else address the
Expression and therefore
Rewrite thoughts’
History of set-settings
And object-obviouses, housed in nonsensical-
-Subtlety: harp on on
On the damnable string and call
Yourself changed,
But changed
Like as foliage; that is,
Going back to the buzz
Of bronze is-
-Necessarily cyclical. And wild w/ application:
Carousing, like leaves leaving trees:
Nature’s xpression’s a pod
Of fire’s smoke reacting to
Stance, so that it’s always
In my eyes: reactions, mine,
Or rather an open commerce,
W/ winter, that is; dried, almost-
-To disintegrating. Come out on top
Of the hill, you; once,
That is,
I get there
From the bottom. Up sensible meanings
Gradient to the
Point
Of scary aporia:
The lightest phrase is
Dark
W/ the clatter of
The bones of
Time:

. . . . . .. . .. . . . . . ... . .. . . . . .. ..


And all heroic subtlety,
Revealed: so I went on the
Mountain awhile to think-
-About
Prfection: found
Nothing: grandly absolute
W/ whiteness’ black peace: YES:
Ah, so: so the ghosts
Lamely respond:
They say yes, and
Dash open the blue
Vase: grail,---
Colorless: with
Blue
Corporeal: and-
-Dashed, yes, in feeling it,
Yes, feeling reality;
Rather than leaving it unbroken and sterile,---
That is, the vase, blue vase.
A thing needing to break for the sake
Of stasis’ destruction: hidden subtlety: as like
Something in the after-fact
Of logic, holed-up,
Discontented, beautifully sojourn: it is filled
W/ the WORLD’s weeping: the grail is: fuckin,
You know, like fluid: the shit
Running throughout-
-Your bloody
Cranium: needles, needless, eyelessly
Prone to answer too early,
Easily: ah, GOD, wish-
-I was blind
To AIKEN’s nightmare of elements
And infinites: fuck you:
Who: well,
I am done being cute I am done-
-Caring: about where it all
Was, once: in such
A way, I neglect the dust-kickin ghosts:
I neglect to place
Myself where I am now, whether
Variable or fixed, like-
-Some shitty moonward aura: shitty,
Shitty moon: fuck you, you-
-Strange brain’s babbling: cranial
Fluid in an outburst: I feel
Cursed: these
Words cut deep: too deep;
I start at the hill, as
Always. Jacob’s ladder. Medicine wheel. Well,
Nature babbles on more than I,
About cores’ oddity, yes:
And the---lifeblood, mine---also.
Mmmhmm: cursed like some white kinda
Blackbird: fuck you,
SARTRE:

. . . . . .. . .. . . . . . ... . .. . . . . .. ..


No,
The trend ain’t set,
Yet; is but
A dream of seeing
The other side’s
Sexiness-
-Beyond sleep’s barriers. Abstract:
Luminous: vague w/ wanting . . . washing
Over all: o’er all: o’er
The very messy, crisp collection
Of breezy babbling’s leaves-
-Found, yes, in moving aways: leave, you:
So, I went on the mountain awhile: so,
I went on the
Mountain awhile: felt, slowly:
The crisp
Wintriness of air
And dry leaves above
Wet ones not yet
Exposed to yellow time’s dawning,
Taking the set,,,
The trend of leaves
Blown, truly---frank---w/
Words: weltering ‘em into
Shapes that tell of the brunt of it all,
Floating,---
Hovering: in some setting’s
Poor reverb and, huge, pretty
Harmony’s distant
Fugue: distant: all-
-This absurd stringing does is thorough
The shape: thorough, in shady blacks
And whites: the shape
Of nature’s built
Prospects: the eyeless,
Illogical muse’s eye,---
Moreover I will or the muse will show
All goldeny parts-
-Of it: of course: yes, yah,
The junk, nakedly seen, clean,
Set goldenly in trends, sets, source-valuables,
As if it all-
-Fed wrongly into the want of cresting:
Christ, life’s
Wild: ideas:
The utter brunt of the damnable
Things: treasure ‘em,
You,
Before leaving:
I am,
If you haven’t noticed, talking
About---and,
Strange, funnily---the source, yes;
The frightening,
Colorless-
-Shape of a muse,
Somewheres. Queasy,
Easy in flowing on up to justice’s
Fluid blindness: smears,
Splotches: and
The wish for
WYNDHAM’s choice to have life,
W/o appearance, judgment;
That is, the smears of seeming saying on-
-To make the brunt of this this
This absurdist collection hover like a thrown thing.
Fragment-extras: orbital:
Begging to get a role for the babble
To murder in
Expressing: life’s
Absurd, really: so,
Then, my description
Should follow suit: mess, trashy garbage, waste and,
Beastly, beauty’s wrought
Length, nicely: colors, again,
Colorful set-speech, and-
-Well, bothersome,
The colorless’ buzzing: at the rim-
-And indeed,
Beautiful as all hovering:
Floating!: yeesh!!!!!!!!!: just-
-Fuggin, friggin, fucking map
The struggle in a nightmare’s-
-Terms: Some
Crummy embolism or clot of pollen destroyed
By the president
Of bees: breaking the-
-Source w/ oddity, framed
In dreams’ blind timelessness
Of wrought thought: from
Dry bone, now,---now
Dry: this
Is what happened on top
Of
The
Hill:

[part two]

I saw no judgments, however carefully
I looked: for that damnable uselessness:
I found myself out there: was directed by
The speed of the wind: like a compass with
Out needles: it directed me forth from feelings
On into the life of thought: life before
Thoughts about life: and life yes yes
Yes yelling in drops from that there
Microcosm of a hemlock branch: the branch as
I recall was forlorn and drooping with
Precipitation’s heft, turning my whole
Shambles of a site into a muddy wallow
Fit for the marshes’ pride: so I went out on
Top of a hill four days and four nights:
And lived it, made it mine: but it’s not
Mine, wasn’t: cannot claim ownership, will
Not claim the place: can claim no place: so, I
Saw yellow time at first barely through
The bloodlines: of the hemlock branches:
Something is happening: branches like
Many angled wires: I saw yellow time lift more
Into sight and cross a semicircle in the
Blue yonder back downwards to sprawl the
Restive night with blackness: finally: no
Use denying it now, blackness, hell, nightmares:
The motif’s these: and again, with two
Feet of vision, only, in front of me, I
Gathered, could not gather more than that:
More from darkness: well, that; regarding other
Senses, like sound---perhaps---a figure’s
Grunt like a threat of animal id to blast
All well and good things into one greeny
Space of peace beyond dumb sense and dumb sensing.
For so long, traced by others: upon velum,
Or wild indian leaf: ah, well: fanatics
Have their dreams, after all: so I went
On the mountain awhile to find justice in the
Leaves and the weald and wrought bundles
From raw poplar hanging in sheaves on a
Branch like a sure gift from the creator,
And appearing as stockstill there, on the trail---
No no---off to the side of the trail,
Abrupt and striking to the eye, amongst
The miles around of loamy woodlands, grey.
Nearly garbage: looking over this, I feel over
With it already: this is not ready: some
Thing is happening: make it, damn it:
Anyways: garbage, yeah, the anonymity
Of waste: memories hanging like hoods on the
Stoop: all of that which built me, though
They be things not necessarily to love:
Perhaps, even, things to hate: each past
Error out of the bounty seems of a garbage:
What sense I make out of sense is for me
Alone. How the words might influence others’
Senses, as they read, is more for whatever
Other to use to purge themselves of, determined,
Detachments, or irreconcilables; ultimately,
Is less rightly for me to suffer through.
Give, take: either polarities’ll end up
Fucked: such things as what reality consumes,
Regurgitates back up from languishing, for
Folks---things, perceived awhile in a mess,
Eddying like a sickness, to the brunt-point
Of all readers’ senses’ confusion, indeed---but,
Confusion, somewhat spawned from their
Own difficulty in facing certain faces, yeah,
Visages, of truth---a horde of the damned---
Things, seen intermittently through the eyes of the
Damned, eyes of that given reader’s baffling
Other, in them---there---in them, yes, who,
Observing, too, with awe---the core---and knowing
That reality as as much a vacuum---damned to the void,
Like as all folks’ others . . . erhm . . . well such
Things they are sensed quite apart---at first---and so
Then, feed an impatience of all seeming difficulty
Thereof, because, not at times---but in most cases---this,
This unholy, dehumanizing accepting of folks
Of themselves in things messily damnable lends
To the idea that whatever senses of a given reader
Rely a little on a skepticism of their as-it-is reality---
And their state of emotions, in that reality,
There---which in turn would mean to folks at
Large that, really, the core/source of any haunting
Individual’s true self, as-it-is, must needs be seen---
Subjective---and so then becomes lain in a just as
Uncertain, loaded judgment, gunning for whatever
Theoretical manifestation of said other---ironically,
Probably less tangible and less to blame, than the vessel:
Or source-individual: this’s a problem: sets all thems
Regurgitated pieces received apart permanently---
Though they be from thems, are seen as though not---
Apart, divorced from the seeming-true minds of all thems,
Thems suffering folks---who just to clarify are
Specially alienated to rifting by such eerie hesitance as
Comes from impatience, as this, of the same damn source:
As like witnessing another in the mirror---a face---that, though
Belonging to whoever poor witness, the fool---
White with tons of ghostliness, a sudden---nonetheless,
Is perceived---that there ghost gaping judgments back---
With as equal unfamiliarity; scary, that. And the other, there:
But: things, which, by all folks---huddled in their own
Situations and particulars and ruts across the planet---
Together---are sensed difficultly---what about thems?
In being apart such things are sensed but not seen. And,
Ah, such is the flesh of the matter, that they who see
Beyond what there is to touch, see it, as said, apart,
Apart, though what it is they perceive is only their
Own selves’ detachments; conflicts, in turn, only there
Because sensed. I know of myself, at least, that I am
A labyrinth---filled with doors to be cleansed--- and,
Yet, choose only to eat my own damned reflection;
And like thems with much sadness I lament this twice-blessed
Condition. But: all answering humors---answering pieces
Of the form we all feel in vague thought, or mirage---
Somewheres---dancing round reality’s odd bonfire,
And, yes, clicking exactly in tempo to all the dumb others’
Collective rhythm---and expressed all weird in the one,
Fought-to-repress question lack the final cure for
Reality’s nausea: sadness: and yet, relieves nauseas of
A differenter subtlety: of tragic, tragically-damned aliveness:
You all: through the other in me I place the blame
On you all: suffer, chaos-bitch, to the point of clattering,
As bones, yes: the bones of laughing trees’ fire: wind,
Like zithers and tambourines, through, yes, themselves,
The very, very unfocused, dry direction of a particular
Branch: leaves of some kinda degrading music for the
Vacuum in you and I to so then resist, being afraid
Of accepting that crucial resemblance, between your other
And the other in those leaves, dying leaves, and the
Bones of waste and dust as fearfully empty. Leave that
There blackness, whiteness of sense without a scapegoat;
Judge it not in your own mind although you might in others.
That is, or judge without a truth of a set-suffering,
Redeemed by motion’s music---and, musical, dancing
Shades in winds responding, with enlightenment. Well:
To put it simply in a strapped WORLD of mortal grey---no
End is up---redemption doesn’t come, mustn’t, so that
Nausea might always take enlightenment to task, via
Multiplying the vessels so receiving whatever humors
One might speak of. Maybe, none of them, none of the humors,
The attitudes, colors and shards of shade are for the
Reader to---sigh---needfully feel reality for. What
Ends up happening’s the other is redeemed by a sensing,
Which, in turn, goes unrecognized by a given reader’s plain
Brain-self,---which in turn would’ve responded to, ad
Infinitum, their other’s light-final, had it been seen
To spoiling---once the blunt impact of a point-blank sense
Linked in a loop to the very vessel propitiating it dissolves;
Rather, the sense goes beyond confusion and thus
A given reader’s true self’s coming figment up the hill
Gives up, opts out of suffering more and just for the
Sake of wheedling a response out of all the examples, yes,
Regurgitatings of life. Scraping up thems dirty fucking
Fragments of grey into a neat and, wended to a half-
mending, flickering truth’s flickering honesty: am I
Honest with my readers; really, that is what I wonder. Well,
The other hates the languishing, much as I; the reader
Senses this but cannot change it; so, then, cannot
Change itself. Inhabiting, as well, that vessel---damned
Carnivore-other. Criminal of nausea, wasted for nothing. So that,
The sickness of reality remains as but a visage. A loaded
Gun judging folks’ vague source, humanly impossible
For us, thems to see unless the damned ascetic, PASCAL,
Utters it us, yes, them: for the sake of a break: I want to ponder
The condition of this nausea of noble garbage---in an out
Pour---baffling, in a threat---or threatening, in how baffling
The fragments go straight to the sordello-image---
Vase of a blue, blue reality’s suffered muteness---given me,
Yes, to speak to death and so then, in my sense of sense,
Find myself assumed, halfway, ruined by too-vigorous
Complexes---centered, of course, in a skeptical judgment
Of this very babbling: these funny codes, for to unlock the
Bastard within: set-symbols---organic, internal---or outsider
Visages suffered by me to blindness---mine. Well, I’m a
Reaper rightly apart, finding deaths for the eyeless other,
Reader or no, me or other, to battle---via confusion and confusion’s
Suffering, suffering’s confusion---well I do say---here’s an
Idea: a kinda seen aliveness might on the other hand rid
Folks of their brain-self’s inaccurate humors, sensings
Of damnable scrutiny, and for the saints to tsk: you will
See, about the saints: solipsism, tragic, drunk with quaking:
Feeling the truth of scrutiny---yes---my rotten-rooted
Logic of collections, any, is too painful for me to leave
The cave for, go up redundant hills for: I’ll leave it to others
To feel this odd baggage, mine, for me, so that in
Themselves they might isolate their own dang times
Of isolation, apartness: pretty selfless/selfish: ah, ugh:
Quit yer scrutinizing, DAN: and, all this placeless, terribly,
Yet felt in you, reader---judge or other---for my
Blindness-wishing to justify: cuz it’s there, that core,
Core sourcelessness---it’s there, from whence the
Shaking atom’s temper split open myself: with the grace of
These sensitive, fragile buzzings: even though I am no
King for CELAN nor a president for silly STEVENS:
Anyways: my words for so long traveled both artfully twain,
And, at precious times of timeless pondering, yes, a queasy
Muse’s patchwork working, kinda---garsh---wove---
Nested naturally---nice mumbles of tinking
Music, blithe and bundled: well, no, no, more,
Uhm, more as like a thing within the rigor of
Some odd vine or double-helix: strong as the dickens
Or the devil: anyways: I wrought from raw poplar
What respect I could and into burning stuff
Sculpted it with gloves to stop the pain of
The friction against the bare skin of my grasping
Hands, wheeling the damp bark woven, strand
By strand, together to come dry through the
Brute shaping of the stuff into burnables and
Heated---after the fire’s built---to char: crucial,
Yes: will start the next fire, most likely:
Striking and drilling, what have you: the
Fire: yes yes yes: what starts it’s the same
As what it is once started: and after starting, is
As important, indeed: I think---but am
Not sure---but am pretty damned sure, it’s
Cuz the substances are selfsame, quotha:
Brush and sticks scattered and idle as things
Removed from purpose once without man to
Make a fire and a warmth from them these
Twiggy, soulful things: so I went on the
Mountain awhile and gathered mud from uprooted
Trees and made a pile of sticks and put
Large rocks around. The rocks were covered
At the sides by the dirt for the base of
The firemound. I made a plateau for the sticks to
Catch in blazes and patted mud up against
The sides to rise them up, with the flat
Of my palm. After that I set up tent but
Mind was buzzing out the soporific from shady
Sources’ whispers, wailing, after thought
Ruined the kicker of the dust with a dumb,
Chafing anticipation: and sadly, all thems running
Conduits dry out and brain loses collection’s
Connections, vast and varied---as that late
Espoused saint---and---now, so barely seen,
That nonsense seems the clearer to rectify it, if only
Because it is of the moment; is of moments’
Collected runs up the hill to the verdant
Greens of a colorless, though lighted space:
What’s happening: mind was buzzing, with
Saints: filled with bitter litter: garbage: yes,
A pageant of dross: of all unloved things,
Yes, awash and plentily in hordes: usurper: oh
Ye futile, beautiful things: oh ye things, ye
Grey fucking things: now, all that’s left is
Significance: now, all this bullshit, it’s
Pure bullshit, at least it is pure: the
Often watch of big, old diurnals made my
Day, there, on the mountain, quite literally,
White or dark: I mean, light or black: wait:
What: shit: a WORLD of shit: the second
Day it rained and I found sleet gathered
At the dip of the tarp which I had attached to
One flimsy branch of something like poplar
Or oak still young and green with nourishing:
But the branches were weak: broke two of
Them: the windy blusters broke the damn things:
Well, life’s absurd, and so is the other,
And so am I, and that’s that: no, no: well,
Life’s absurdly unfinished, forever grasping
Burnables or shaping shades: the only way to go is
Back moonward through time’s liquid aura:
Rewind to the spot at the bottom, when it’s
Just me and the big rock of myself to push:
I look at the rock: the other sides of the tarp held
With sticks stuck hard in dirt: one large
Stick and one small stick held the tarp over
Tent with power cord: all of it together like
A figure or shadow held akimbo by a large, fallen
Pine: and so the shadow falls to brightness;
Perhaps, finds the source of all wind. And,
The source goes off into the night, and the
Night forever remaineth my ezra; that is, as a
Stubbled-rough father of a dumbly and for
So long muted, modern grief. Sadness: what
Is happening: I went on the mountain awhile:
Yeah, so what: and the grief, absurd and other
As bundles of fire to dry the core’s sopping
Up of all grand, milky matters: grief for
What is there and from the darkest knowledge
Of dim self not ever exited, no, nor come from
Some pale source within: the shadow falls
And the kernel of the matter lieth willingly
With what thou tend to lovest: absurdity,---
No, no: absurdity’s death: death, yelling for mine
Own judgment, rapt for the tone of my words’
Worsening and leveling out of flux or the
Disorder of notions AIKEN made me blind with:
I wail like a child: into the last of crummy night:
With that, the last of a source: for now: the
Source of justice leaves: leaves: needles:
Needless bundles of stuff swelling the house
With a set-plenty: I’m settling down . . . that is
What is happening. Taking time to sense a
Minute or two with diamondy metaphors, weird
With absent fire’s answering judgment evoked
In each, every flicker, pop: judgment, go ahead
And yell, you fucking child: just leaf, leave,
Before embarking towards the moonward other,
Dying slowly on the painted firmament: as if
To further the sky with sound, rapturous sound: as
If with sound inching finally from the brain
Cave: and the other, he’s drunk, the fool:
Drunk with silence: with a slow, excruciating
Airlessness from lungs asleep: he’s drunk with glee,
Light as fucking helium: yes, yeah, uhm, shit:
Look!, the shadow crawls o’er disturbances
And others whilst the self chafes a throat for
All people all the time: and, for all time, expendable
As years on a WORLD of inches unnoticed: and,
Most of all, indifference, yes, grand beyond
Compliment: the shadow rises, the shadow falls:
And what thou tend to is what thou lovest, needest:
No no: not the bundles, fires, or the nonsense
Raging each minute, in each minute, somewheres
In each minute: once the fire, struck or drilled,
Though: now despite that passion’s uttering length
Goes on, this dialogue with fire’s clicking
Mouth---to give example of all of nature’s
Purples, pinks---must end as night will end:
It leaves me tending nothing but a life of judgments,
A priori, justified not, ever: no loaded gun,
No visage looking, anymores; or at least for
That time on the mountain, that I spent on the mountain.
My time to push things up a hill: things,
Things that say more with saying, less with not:
And most of all, uhm, wombed well and good from
Sexless, tended nothing. And the rest is dross


A BUNCH OF LEAVES FALLING IN A STORM.
Of late I have become another man.
There isn’t a lot more
For me to do here than live life in and
Wait beyond its wear---I would be blessed
If in passing I might pass away:---these words,
Enough to stake my pain: enough, to shoo
Off speculation,---and so then,
Spare the dry ensign of my will and
Epitaph his inhumane
Indifference, reliant on ineffectual accounts
In paraphrase---these my deadliest life-debts;
On isolated fact as only providence
By which to map my seasons to the
Grave: I’ll surely clarify the desperation
To whoever rumpled cleric finding this
In crumpled sheets:
Out of mind, the risk of trauma
It might do to me: here lie all the stops of
An unsent telegram:

I will one day be of no substance, left
As brain-matter, bloodless
Yet alive to wreak my death-writ: will
I be a thing mentioned---yeah---
Expelled from the corners
Of mouths: a blasé, forgotten,
Dim, negated creature: or

. . . . . . . .

Shall I liken my keep to leaves that fail
The stem: soon betrothed: and
As soon divorced, and
No matter what, to rant away in wilderness
As vines and brush and stick: inherently
The part of what may grow, may
Grow and die: an inching from
The birth of nature,
Come upon again, towards a bleakness
Of a withering---and

Remorse---for one to feel in the dark of winter:
The seasons, both unfolding as a rose damasked,
And yet soon shattering the calyx of that

Pretty thing: a forming, a unity---homeostasis
Of the stuff that nature gives to justly loosen up the mind,
And as brusquely a division: a dissent of that mind:
Tragedy’s mingling: to grey the sky a bit and soon ascend
To the black of being: one’s left a pawn at the whim
Of humors: no matter how fine the regimentation: there’s
In this presently blackened sky a gauge of feeling
By the tick, the tock, yeah, the appointment
Of a blurred, indefinite psyche, dependent on the weather’s perch;
Salaciously one views their stock of fate-
-As if in the vague demarcations of bleak sky one might assume
As similar as tarot-cards the end
Of their own motley life and
Mind: might see this in the briefer marking
Off of day: with each hammered plank
Of time yet to endure across this ghostly stretch
Of winter. So the meeker months
Move on from that short EDEN they achieved-
-And into wintriness: when the soul seems, in
The gradual change of weather, an alien heft,
Eyeless, and in one's sleep a nerve unchecked.
And with the change to frigid things and cracked
And brittle senses, numbed with temperature . . .
With change as this from what
Started as an odiferous haze of nimble sex and purity,
And drifted thus, rife with humid-yellow pollen
As some breezy wonder saturated with
Remembrance of that fleeting gleeful thing
Brought back from out the atmosphere
Like as a tender phantom and from whence
All suddenly turned to winter hard-
-As fleshless stone: to wheeze within a damaged
Heart: of one embittered by some crudity life gave: and with
A spleen enough in them to calcify a wisest happiness
To prostrate bone . . .

Sadly, these invigorated recollections fight
Against the stark perspective of a dropping heart-
-That winter’s icy slate gives us in its turn, forming over
Everything as a frictionless, out-of-touch and stoic,
Insubstantial blight: laid upon one’s feelings
Like a coat of poison: ruin: such
Sensations are now ought to suffer
The bane of death. Disgrace, these frail joints and
Digits ebb,---the arduous dream of winter starves them out.

And once, if the remembrance be enough, there was-
-Thick in the thickets whiffs
Of air to be had, laden in the lungs of those
Who bothered breathing, and as fresh as if each breath had ushered
The birth of oxygen. Or-
-Stowed in the gases of marshes much as plashing newly
In the deep ravines a fresher scent as wakening
To the nostalgias,---rare events of vigor, yeah, the happiness
Of one’s bred personage before the eyes and lips of scoffers
As a prouder bearing on the back. Yeah, scenes
Of more temperate times in temperate climes, yeah,
Detailing each one the newness of the spring,
The intimate freedom in watching on some hill
A wide eternity of wildflowers shaken,---
And yet winter comes---with change of breeze
To bellows from the west as a contumely, almost shrieking
Out the judgments of our fathers: in some wasteland
Of considerable deceit:---cherished mocking-points
Amongst the friends and family I recall: and with-
-A sniffing nose, and tearfully:---the pains left me
In experiencing but once that perquisite spring,
That loveliness of a youth,
Untamed: I with the serotonin of a lunatic: a quarry
Of ideas that good or bad were in that heat
As like a thing carried by the wonder of new leaves:
And the vermiculate arteries of them, and the decibels
Of wind at perfect pitch a pleasant sound---
Exacerbated never in the spring realms across
The wild one pioneers.

. . . . . . . .

The flowers soon are snow-smothered.
The leaves Spring bore to ripen---winter---will loose promptly to
Severe hosannas of the wind, and the weather sharpen
Up to shape a sky of grey and bite
The skin with cold. I am another man.
Once I was the spring, you know, was overwhelmed
With green-plush!: savor of what reigned momently:

And which with the inevitable momentum of some seasons
Would turn that moment on me, leave me and it invalid.

. . . . . . . .
Sweet-smelling willows napping once wilted off
Their branches,---an encouraged sentiment!, my psyche-
-Says to me; tells me to hold fast to that unity of
Leaves betrothed to branches. A paradox---tragically,
Apart and in the nature that will shed them. Now,---

The dusk unsaved across the cataract, as much
As evening's depleted rounds, gets narrower.
The redness in the west, narrower,---wilder, wilder as
Dismay pollutes the fall, gives in to earlier night and follows
The disintegrating with the rest of restive nature,---as with colder
Weather snap leaves off in waves of wind unquelled. Growing older,

I am another man. Such is the fault of nothing, nothing
But by the task to assuage events to feel remorse over,
In remembering my own ecstatic spring; in recollecting-

-Who I was to scoffers, family, friends, I will bear
A newer me to the hoar-frost, break the seams of winter dreams,
And smell instead the fabric-root of endless trees in endless forest.

. . . . . . . .

To nature I am, at times, an ill,
A faded choleric nest of trees and brush.
I am too of troubles waning with the reigning eve;---the crest
Of sun all round the plain. What I wish to do then is leave

The point unfinished as an ever-finished Earth,
Made again whole, and whole again before
The spring buds budding spring with nourishing,---before

The buds, before they falter, yeah.

So I will alight this place
As purity, as not much;
Then, as perfectly as the wintry, twilight crucible
Manages Earth a darkness and a relenting-
-I will be thus more red with eagerness
To shrink my way into the sky,
As willing as diurnal-lapsing into season-lapsing, yeah.

I will go off wildly
Into a farther reach of self, a self of sentiments,
Vague with longing,---hanging on by the willow
But still fractured from the oak and elm.

. . . . . . . .

As leaves, they fall, must fall---
With spring’s reprieve that is the fall.

. . . . . . . .

I am of nature made, at present: now am fellows with
A sentiment more darksome and most regal: am for the skies
To demonstrate: as selfsame as the seasonal change
That that red crown paints for me. It is my crown-

-And it is regal: it is proud
With a shaken power, a rectitude,

Yeah. And known only way off in the distance of that sky
Which will be blue, somewhere, it will be blue;

Somewhere, clear, yet now before me fading out
To still, yeah, yeah, to calm night's wash all down this plain
Of parable, significant with wandering

Imagining: I'll leave what stands

As me as me, an unaccounted sojourner, best
To be lost to the nether-sky. Times have striven
Me to go a route more narrow, to have a plan

That gets me on to the point of that true redness
Of new and clearer stuff to shake to life and put to rest,
Once what’s not at peace in me gives in,
Becomes a singular thing---a leaf of ages---

Which with its dread finality
Brings pangs of infinite loss and infinite gain.


MORE SHRIEKING FROM THE MONKEY-HOUSE.

"Continuous eloquence wearies."

----Blaise Pascal

DRAFT #1

Mostly, the die cast, we drew out what little purloins
Of outrageousness we could, from the chance
It wouldn’t happen; found
Out, cowards rule that space; it is already
Planted amongst uncouth daisies
And rank ragweed, bound in bunches,
Awkward, shitty realms, expelling from the stiff
Concrete road of mind. The news
Is already told, as of
A messenger too late, in a room full
Of pairs of apprehensive eyes in heads turned,
Staring confusedly at the fantastic entrance
And desperate parading about of him to tell it.
Whatever it is. We found, these cowards lived with us in the cave
Of the house the messenger had brought into the know,
And held us contemptible as him; with
Fearful impunity against the swerve
Of outdated atoms
Of some kinda Lucretius, banned us from the space where
Something new could’ve showed up. But it was all to take
Stock of our chance to live briefly and well, you see, and
Between the numbers and the meaning
For the numbers, I am blamed, we are,
We are made the subject of ridicule amongst recoiling
Ghosts, cowardly and faceless. Drawn figures
On the blank page as as much a blankness dirtied
And clarified. The others brew cant like mussels
In a pot, mix chance in, bring the scarred
Meaning to a boil and sift off the warmth of it
In curlicues that writhe scarily in the midst
Of a better argument not come to me now, not
Made the bedfellow for my mourning to breach
Into a life of empty references
And allusions, struggling to
Be the sake of itself and yet relying like
Some innate innovation on
The belle of its own undressing history. They,
Like simpletons of spirit, flurried as dismal snow,
Haggard with many particles that either
Way would dissolve upon hitting the ground. Darting
This way, that, the spirit’s there, within phrases,
Within the belle. It wanders out of the space,
Creating crevices dug up out the dirt and putting
Space in that, planting it like a dream of flourishing.
It is in the creation of that space that one finds,
We all find, a newer understanding of ourselves,
All the while hating the person who subjected us to that
Understanding, and for chance
To label as possibility-positive. But what of that wound
In the ceiling, that spasm in a chest like a phenomenon
Of dutiful surprise, following
Numerous insults hacking away
At it drew away from the contenders? Whatever.
Has this time to break the feeling properly,
This it, that is, has it the time
To purse the codes of cowards into a landing
For the plane to scoop and dig out
Chance from, the chance for phrases,
The chance for the trope to be the subject
Of necessitous poverty,
And the poverty of other ideas, meanwhile
Broken in their own way own
Not a bit of the procedure you go through,
I go through, to find what rattles in your hands,
My hands, to be what shall be ultimately cast like
A scary judgment on the fat of chance,
A jurisprudence between happenings
That relies on whatever phrase turned
In order to deprave itself, comeuppance
Be damned.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

DRAFT #2

The die cast . . . the fate made . . . the reality,
Finally absolute---with effort enough to break off-
-All awful offal: weeds wedded together by the tack

Of auspicious poems, which we are starting to find out is
A possibility-unguent for the logic of simpleton-ghosts,
Pacing this way, that, from one side of the line to another,

Not knowing which side's the right one: feeling good in-
-Exchange for bad thoughts---bad things---packaged in by
Faceless others, unguent-others, made of pronouns and

Steep as pillars; or feeling bad, having good thoughts---
Good things---exposed to the living: passions: of who we
Are: you all are: I am: without a need for others, yeah,

Besides to recognize and give props to 'em, then leave 'em
To devise their own devices and call us back, call back us,
All us---just to say, the sense is made---alright?---and went

Out, a brief candle: that is: with no circumference whatever
Concentric pattern made possibility-infinite, will with each
Splicing into of that infinite fade to clouds, that is,

Will not intensify; making more poverty to pull out of pockets,
Will increase the want and decrease the value of what’s striven
For, thus decrease the value of want---much unlike circles with

Points everywhere, though the circumference is nowhere . . . !
Unlike all that: where’s the redeeming: let’s let it all go:
Let’s stay here and wear down what we have to bruised fabric:

O mind, mind of winter: or, of allusion: of a Stevens-GOD not
To be mentioned again: back to its hole it goes: bye!: out of
The poem, out of the sense made: flowers briefly, wilts back

Into Plato’s cave, away from the reticulated waves of a storm
Made out of words blurred as cloud but sharper than cloud,
Even sharper than the darkest, bleakest cloud because we, you-

-All scream, yell, declaim to them your noia of possibility;
Your noia, your vacuum of self used up in going too many times
From one to another side of the thin line. Certainty, uncertain.

. . . . . . .

The mind’s lucid evaporations, pff; the chance cast,
And made faithful to its fateful keeper in the house
Of judgers, pff; the package thrown away by the knave,

The knave of news who comes to name the thing, pff;
Our screaming in the rain, and each air-sound once
Out the chamber of our longing lungs a pff!, context

Be damned---we---at the blind point of that absolutism
Cozied up to gestures: signals of softening definition
Drew out our rotten little voices to e x t e n d e d

Screams against the chaos of storms and waning and-
-Waxing tumult . . . here and there a patch of peace . . .
Here and there a nonsensical destructive wail

Of winds back to we stolen beams of light:---as
Guerdon for the fleetingness of things: rather
Than the void in things: celebrating the nature

Of cursory nature: the patented godhead we each
Know fully but not accurately, not so accurate to
Name it. And still we---you all---try to with storms,

With storms that go on: until the fateful chance-
-For time to pass passes as it had never passed before:
Goes on like what architecture to be observed in frozen

Music. The shape of music in the distance; the
Gentle face of catharsis; the predictability of a-
-Crashing. Or that which is not identified identified.

. . . . . . .

To bank it down a notch or two you all, we screamed
Thus, to portray the figment cranking out his or her,
Its, figment-destiny, its nameless name and made

Of storms that boom and flash. Still, the point
Is stolen; we found the goods of our speaking as but
The over-doctored purloins, the over-fed, shapely

Beads, yes, of a poverty never disclosed and yet hastened
To again, foretold in other eyes eyes eyes eyes searching
Pockets. So, this is a stolen poem. Such is the only way

Secluded spots can meld parts of light together into a-
-Single, huge, impractical burgeoning of a self of raw,
Sunny shafts . . . : starting and resounding as music to

The coward's ear! But, gadzooks! You think any angel's
Angle's a good one; think, any stance without feeling
Should have that doubt of feeling; that reservation's

A sanctity because it is in a made up mind made up on
Harping the damn transience of shit? Sadly, this sort
Of mind, you see, is where the appetite of absolutes is

Whet; is close to a godhead as any head could conjure.
Not every truth found is an epiphany; nor is it so that
Cowards turn pockets out for us. This is a single

Wager for the die to lend the numerous possibility-
negatives to. The bad thing wants the wager to furl
Out into conclusive peace, or at least be the tack

To hold together all the goods we feel shout at the-
-Storm, from a chasm: filled with lint: an assuring
Requisition, but forgotten: swooning too much from

The placation: to expect anything more: any more
Results, any more names. Explosions ring out in
Beaded beams across the sky and down to secluded

Spots: we swooners find: that numbing balm in Gilead's
All out of focus! Rather this is a dispersion of some
Kinda muffled, stormy quake across the new land.

No, no, the matter is not closed. It is pursued,
Though; hastened towards. Ah, hell. Why not; I-
-Decided I should shit out a piece or a few and

I wrought into likelihood this serial of subjects,
Sucking the life out of me with their airy vibes:
Succor: their albeit reasonable pushiness towards

. . . . . . .

A very length of strength. I put the loftier, loud
Place in its place so that at least for the time being
It’s in its place. So the conversation went on, as this

Culture of clouds obfuscated the moody moon and as-
-Precipitation tamped in the darkness like its own
Blabbermouth choiring a nature more brittle and

Stringy than normal; weaker than, say, the magnificent
Howl of a tornado right at the heat of its force. Though
The stringy blabbermouth makes a point and so then seems

More than the darkness that is its backdrop, still,
The dark’s more evilly vague, makes more of a point in
Confusing the eye with spaciousness. The rain comes

And goes. There was talk of an absolute, of massive
Hushes down that extended diameter of stormy, new land.
Spoke the storm thus as it was easing into this,

So tiredly exposed to stolen goods from rotten pockets-
-Lint-stuffed. Each keepsake stolen inspired some
Manner of outrage in those who witnessed the gift

Pulled, however paltry the prize: to be won: that is, the
Wisdom in knowing oneself lacking wisdom: but to be got
Not more than rain in the dark, a thin thing scattered in

Drips on saturated, brawny leaves. So then it is what it
Is, rather than what is. Install the image and name it and
Suddenly the both of them are separated as like vinegar in

Oil. But name the name you gave to the image and that-
-Maimed name cancels out for the sake the image-original
And name-original come back round to their raspy, raspy

Ramifications, screamed out, like a coward in a storm, a-
-Coward made of pockets. But the whole damned thing was
A learning experience for us, you all. But: we didn’t

Follow the chasm round ramification right; did not have
The foresight to see all the way past cause into effect;
Thought, then, that not much would come of it. It still

Hasn’t made much of a difference. But the canker burns
Eternal, right?, so then it’ll always hurt to pull shit
Out of our pockets; however steeped in dignity, still,

It’s a thing stolen; still, we wouldn’t have revived
The whole package back to the POVERTY which it drew
Out screams from: screams, yells: yelling---with a desire

To name the cowards and still go forth and be expansive:
To be the belated messenger with some new thing to say,
Knowing beforehand what he came to identify already knew

Itself in the minds of the judgers in the house/cave . . .
To give knavery a chance to go crazy with us, you all; to-
-Embrace unorthodoxy and cast the die that is a reader’s

Resentment of this spilled nonsense on the page. But if it
Is so that truth’s uncomfortable, why not make the reader
Chill a bit with my renouncings, evaporations, frustrations;

Finger the lint-meaning for the sake of possibility,
Whether negative, positive, neutral: we, me, you all,
Let’s ban the context: let’s lose ourselves: let’s

Pull out the pockets of our enemies, the judgers in
The house who look at us with expressions maddening:
Let’s stick the lint in our ears and bear out a scream

Or two at this chance to begin again, once again, with
Storms, canker, ague, all the perennial viruses packaged
By we swooners, we plucked strings, we knowledgeable-

-Knaves of the creative animus, dismissed by that house
Full of cowards who know as well but know not the meaning
For the lint, refuse to look through their pockets for the

Lint, the fluff, the moth-balls of weakness and suffering:
Can I make this any good: connect the name-original and-
-Image-original to biblical possibilities: yeah: a stormy

Power thundering out for perfect days loud as we scream:
Well: just personify, name the meaning as it was before
Needing a name: before repetitions enslaved the truth

And banished amendment: get back to the image-original,
The name-original: ground thyself, pretty, pretty please:
We are the predestined meaning: fuck you all: we burn in

The twilight sky’s pocket of redness dwindling to a corner
Of a wilful destination, willed, that is, by whatever name
Taken to task by whatever manufactured universe you all,

Wait, no, fuck, ME, just me, as us, we would choose to-
-Harness and so then break. The simpleton-others, tear ‘em
In two, make a message out of that. We know our news lamed

By telling; make up our own news, our own myth, precluding all,
All the religious fervour or fervent religion’s sense of the
All in one; give the storm new secluded spots to rain down on.---

But then we’d just as well die before allowing meaning
To shack up under our skin like a voice coughing moth-
balls. The moment’s coming, or is it here? What path

Should the poem take: should it be like a tornado: or
Should it come like gobs of rain across the new land:
Best thing is to stoke the afflatus into a dervish for

To spin its own storm: I’d like to make a plea: I’d like
To say, just say, and have the confusion not feel so wrested
To life but rather a necessary part of the poem: a storied

Voice itself wilfully fate-made to suit the spasms, chaos . . .
An inevitable congruence: some knave, athwart and grandly on
The sidelines of the spirit: zeitgeist, rambling man: slosh,

Slosh: I guess this’s a verity too mild to be scrutinized:
What is it that is beautiful: the knave with his box, his
Package pressured and active with the energy of secret wills,

Wills of others, others and I, simpletons both: we wouldn’t
Have received the whole package of that misery: have not
Opened it, are keeping it classified: but: we comprehended

A package there---in front of us, from you all---there and
Destitute: the POVERTY down to a little teeny-tiny need for
Inevitable phrasing---microscopic, near molecular, near atomic,

Near quark, and the strings of tack begin to break, then;
Dissolving, make concretions out of gestures, once one gets a-
-Bit closer. But: there was not an enthusiasm for life in

The fate-made strings and crosshatchings, cloudy and sharp
With inevitable screams, absurd and ruthless commotion: there
Was not inevitable meaning to go along with it. Such is what

. . . . . . .

Is naught: it obsesses over the lost place of cowards,
Knaves: the final nakedness, the intense battery of-
-Meaning: the churn of irrelevant, spoken fates, truths:

Nabob of bones, all this shining instinct pacing across
The young page. Twisting. Feeding a core as yet beyond
Reach but touched by the greatness of quickening time . . .

Outrageousness as a shadow we could deal with but not
You all if there was a chance no ramifications were to
Be hauled to the fore. No, that wouldn’t happen. So,

We found gauges, trinkets, hobnobs, doodaddles, upon
Turning pockets inside-out. We found out, cowards rule
That space that is in us: the message is already planted

Amongst uncouth daisies and rank ragweed, bound in
Bunches, awkward, shitty realms, expelling from the
Stiff concrete road of mind. This is a poem of weeds-

. . . . . . .

-Wedded into natty bunches. The idea behind this poem’s
More lain in feeling and the doubt of feeling than ever.
But if we make a statement like that what do we mean? Do

We mean it, or do you all? Well, the news is already told,
Like as a messenger too late, in a room full of pairs of
Largely lurking, apprehensive eyes in heads turned, staring,

Swearing at the fantastic entrance of the messenger: whom,
With eyes finally on him, stutters desperately, rankled
Beneath the strength of his news. Whatever it is. We

Found, these cowards lived with us in the cave of the
Knave, o most miserable; or rather the house filled with
People the messenger had brought into the know and who

Held us as being contemptible as him. Such a pogrom’s
Reminiscent of that fearful impunity held by the ROMANS
Against the swerve of atoms some kinda Lucretius brought

To the WORLD. The people in that house banned us from that
Space in us where something new could’ve showed up. But: did
It: but: it was all to take stock of the fateful, cast die:

Our chance to live briefly and well, you see. Between the-
-Odds and the meaning for those numbers, I am blamed; we
Are; we are made the subject of ridicule amongst recoiling

Ghosts, cowardly and faceless. Drawn figures on the blank
Page as as much a blankness dirtied and clarified. The others
Brew cant like mussels in a pot, mix chance in with the

Image-possibility, bring the scarred meaning to a boil-
-And sift off the warmth of it in curlicues that writhe
Scarily in the midst of a better argument not come

To me now, you all;---not made the bedfellow for my
Mourning to breach into a life of empty references
And allusions, stolen, and not more than purloins-

-Struggling to be the sake of themselves and yet
Relying like some innate innovation on the belle
Of their own undressing history. They---like simpletons

Of spirit---flurried roundabout the storm as a dismal
Snow for the difficult sages, already haggard with many
Particles of mind that either way in both cases will

Dissolve upon hitting the ground. Darting this way,
That, the spirit’s there, or was, within phrases,
Within the belle. It wanders out of the space,

Creating crevices dug up out the dirt and putting
Space in that, planting it like a dream of flourishing.
It is in the creation of that space that one finds,

We all find, a newer understanding of ourselves,
All the while hating the person who subjected us to that
Understanding,---and for chance, a roll of the simpleton,

To label as possibility-positive. But what of that wound-
-In the ceiling, that spasm in a chest like a phenomenon
Of dutiful surprise, following

Numerous insults hacking away
At it drew away from those contenders? Whatever.
Has this time to break the feeling properly,

This it, that is, has it the time
To purse the codes of cowards into a possibility-neutral
For reality’s plane to scoop and dig out

Chance from, the chance for phrases,
The chance for the trope to be the subject
Of necessitous poverty,

And the poverty of other ideas, meanwhile
Broken in their own way own not a bit,

A bit of the procedure you go through,

I go through, to find what rattles in your hands,
My hands, and which is what shall be ultimately cast like
A scary judgment of fat chance, clouded with storm . . .

A jurisprudence of possibility-poetic based in happenings
That relies on whatever phrase turned, whatever wonderful
Inevitability, yes, and all this

In order to deprave/redeem itself, comeuppance

Be damned.


MNEMOSYNE.
With a memory tamed by these years now I offer to myself the chance
To get it all down---dignified---risking my soul’s bleakness in the light: via some lichen-gray manner of attempted language: an attempt: to sing with a persuasive tongue-
-For the first time: and if it was romance---then I---was young:
And if it stung: before, I’d likely like the poem more to shift my sheer footing---felt---on that persuasive ground as dignity---and, harrowing as an orator, lawyer, dance

Around the issue in the words: with words, issued uselessly to nothing: of no consequence: without bothering to, reeling, introduce-
-My own sour leaves of a torment unremarkable though state
In living blood, in blood seated to a boil: drenched with hate---
Dormant, for so long: entrenched, in me: and as to who that was: what lies destroyed now at those feet, I did and readily produce:

And they were things of love, the love once had for one not much to me
Besides it all: she who flowered budding in that novice soul
A tender for its frantic muscle beating out its toll
Of pride, incorruptible, and held to hustle free

In her soft hands: but where to start, what is it there in her that
Mocks me still, in being so alluring: to no point: aporia:
That is what rings true in this distant heart: this story’s a
Wound fattest at the middle-mind of art: faithless rat,

Thief, grumbling his sorrows to the girl now out of life, his life,
And I no better for it: well, we met in February:
I had just gotten kicked out of school: and, sanctuary,
An alien concept: my demons: a rattled skeleton: cruelty: strife

Had been my mistress, acute in its exercising torments sordid and
Mysterious: I had no sympathy for myself: rarely courted
By some blithe female-other, if at all: I thought myself worthless: forded-
-No byways: scoffed at functionality: I confess my hand

Shakes as I write, and if I did not feel it then I sure do now:
That is, I feel---the welter of such a thing---to coast,
Dull---beating out in rhythms, inconsistent yet verbose---
To coast a spark: from out the socket: in some visitant kerpow!:

Like all things excitable: perhaps I am not one for love:
And if I were, why does it always happen . . .
Happen that things go wrong in every single way: no satin-
-For these sheets, no roses on them, none to stay: but, above,

Beyond my so-long-stunted condition: what is there: to reflect on how it went: yeah: perhaps,,,
Perhaps those things---beyond---need voices too: and if I were
To explain the bare-bones of it---of I the heartless cur---
Well then, I’d always thought, why spit a lapse

Into being: catatonia: why make such a thing alive, electrical:
Why, besides to bring hurt, a hurt as this, back again:
I told her I wished her to remain as she had called me partner---friend: endless friend:
While she repeated that I did not love her: piece this spectacle

Of a perdition together, slowly, if you will: road, ruinous: could
I live it out, this WORLD, could I live this
WORLD out to the end without her answering rough kiss,
Without her whispering stuff to me: as I sleep: should

I answer back to her that I always will: will always as some bleeding idol---sacrosanct---hold
All that she was to me then close: but there is some like
Disdain: causing conflict, in me: and which will spike
A nerve to turn the flicked switch on, to illuminate the bold

Feeling: in and of this haunted room: this psychic box that I am in: awhile, housing terrible the sentiments
More darksome, till the light is shed: best not to dwell on those events: however-
-My mind wants me to go there, do that, flick the switch, out of panic more than ever:
Wants me to sift through these rough relics for a precedent

Remembrance: of that time which will in turn shift all
My psyche: but, this cannot happen: dysfunction-
-Is of many pathways---and---ain’t of a source, a core, a plan: yet again: coward-corruption-
-That does not exist, even if I were to go way back to that pivotal fucking hour: that fucking shenanigan: yes: impossible gall:

That was the hour, come to a head: that afternoon, the one to shape my goddamned double-character:
And from that misshapen point forth: I like some crazy seraphim-
-Hopped up on blow set myself dirigible beyond the rim
Of a window, nearly three stories: incorrigible: foul paramour, foul comedy, fair actor:

And a surgeon of the self I verily hid: with little progress nor a surmounting to success-
-In either: fair actor, beautiful myth, you: you voice:
To the bone of a word: speak your dumb, intrinsic, choice:
Intrinsic at the time at least: joking, yet not coy: airs from out an idle throat, blessed-

-With a conviction to your, my sabotage: yeah, to nearly die and make of you, me, a jabberer: fool,
Ungrateful for the rights of life: the many voices of a literate
Delirium: spent ways: to nearly die and so then murder all thems nifty gifts, ideas: the passionate
Qualms I had for space and time: perjured, yes, by doubt, the quartered rule

Of doubt over this my, his, the fool’s rendering of himself
As swerving between epiphany and collapse: but if-
-A chart of his collapse---a nimble though inordinate, stiff,
Meter-making-argument---is called for might a mumble taken timid off the shelf,

Might I the fool take a muttered meaning subtly off the shelf and leave a void a nullity a vacancy
There: place there instead a good, good thought: and to remain
So: or will this all string out into disorder: and arraign
No honest composite, yes, of contorted wires, electric voices in a darker style: some sort of risky symphony:

And rather, be the socket fried by her, an atom of her laughter all, now, that’s left-
-To keep her memory cradled in my soft hands: shit’s still to be talked about: reconciled:
Again to say it, there’re things recalled but not affirmed: like an amateur, a child . . .
Like as a child I sent a letter to the girl: after we broke it off: wormed-out lies, mostly: dumb: bereft

---Unfortunately---of cathartic feeling, any: and of a closure I know not: I could not say how-
-Much this human meant to me, can guess there is indeed
Some inmost part not ever to reveal itself: despite---does not---does not ever need to, does not heed-
-The psychic fatalities endured enough to prove a lack of reconcilement an eternity to wait for: oh my: oh wowy wow:

I’m fucked up: remember sitting on the ground, drinking, writing about imperfections: nonsense:
Poetry, elliptical, mendacious and most of the time a waste
Of ink and energy: yet most of what I write’s in good taste,
However incendiary I try to be: smoking blunts in the hood: good weed: subtle, but intense:

Stealing meds: groping through the cabinet of a dying man: gaining
Weight, and losing friends: freaking out acquaintances with
A telling of my many exploits on the ward: obsessed with numbness and the pith-
-Of pits, of being in a pit: never courteous to guests: staining

A nice shirt with wine in an overfed glass: cigarette graveyards: turning blue:
Burns on my arm, on my mattress, on the soiled rug: of course,
The bum I was is still in me and will be, forever---but---the measures taken to acquaint myself with the simple chores
Of daily life, are difficultly perceived: as for therapy: or pills taken for being unable to be ‘normal’: I feel a new self sap me of the motive for that madness once treasured with amativeness, without a need for all that---honest love, though once I was tethered, malnourished: ultimately, deluded: stew,

Stew in your own radioactive funk, find it actually poisonous: people seem-
-To possess themselves well, better than I feel I can: but,
Each one of us is as powerful crazy as that fair actor, surgeon: make the cut-
-And find you were and are the one who holds the knife: that as you cut, burgeons forth the beam

Of a lighted judgment: and yet who am I speaking to: to her: the girl,
The one most well-possessed, without an issue: and yet not so complacent:
Perhaps she’ll whisper and I’ll whisper back this tune: nascent
Love: the beauty and the wonder of a life in a croon, waiting to unfurl:

. . . . . . . .

Waken from this dream: wake up naked, your mother embarrassed
At my naked self: when she opens the door to witness the bedsheets on the floor: from my kicking them in slumber: hot-to-trot:
I remember this: I remember walking in KINGSTON with you, smoking pot---:
How we stumbled onto houses long abandoned, joking: the dead, cement slab of a lot’s crumbling: crevasse:

Feeding the beast: she was a virtual pharmacy, and I took
Advantage of that: woke up early to steal her ADDERALL:
She slept in, usually: what a stupid thing: matter falls
From out my brain in a mess: I wanted her to bring it: I look

For it in her purse while she’s in the bathroom: she gets
Used to me asking for pills, thinks I only love her for-
-The pills: she called me while I was in the hospital: you’ll get what’s in store, be ready for
It, I told myself: she was furious at me: the obstacles of her existence: told me since we met

That I had been a ruin: a weird time in my life, I said: she said
That didn’t mean a thing, and I should stop saying sorry:
It loses meaning: I had just wanted to go to the grad-party
And see old friends from boarding school: sad, I was nearly dead:

Before that day was through: we met in February: it was snowing:
We embraced in the elevator, kissed ourselves through the door:
I read her my work on the couch, each in the other’s form,
Understanding: in this melding, seeming meddling: crouched in a veritableness: knowing

However, that---in that moment---we were both of a body electric, dosed
With heated ecstasy, nearly painless: till she left:
Beforehand I had told her chattering that yeah the deft
Wind blowing was too much, the snow was old, the frost hurt the tip of my nose: we arose

From a tunnel where the both of us had lain in the powder to embrace:
Later on in the relationship she would ask me if that was
Magical: I said it wasn’t, but it had been: because
I was too much a skeptic of my own feelings: a sin: what a waste:

Let’s go look at zebras in the museum on the other side of the park, I entreaty:
That was my first date: so long ago, makes me feel old:
And yet I am still too young to be but dross chipping off in the corrosive cold . . .
Chipping paint, toys of some bizarre playhouse: unmanned, lost: with dark, small, lifeless, beady-

-Eyes: on the other hand, her eyes were brown and deep: I remember clutching her soft, accepting hand
And looking at her in this restaurant: it was this joint or more like a café called FRENCH ROAST,
A block away from my parents’ apartment in NYC: we split the tip: I felt liable, indeed, to boast-
-The still-imploring flame of that relationship: I was still getting the lay of the land,

But it was new, new, yes, and exciting: when we got to the museum
We realized it was the MET, not, as we thought,
The MUSEUM OF NATURAL HISTORY, and were caught
In line, people-watching: fatuous mystery: clues, see ‘em:

We looked at the paintings, sat outside on the wide stone stairs
Afterwards: I was kind of cold and started to shiver:
She took her arms around me and I stopped: just a sliver
Of affection: still, my WORLD dropped: somebody cares:

At least, someone did: did care: my parents had been fighting
A lot, and I was in the middle of it, having gotten
Kicked out of school, as I said, and sent back home: really, of how volatile living in that apartment had been I had forgotten:
I spent most of my time, before we met, just feeling: writing

Down my thoughts: for fun, but also because I believed
I had a thing or two to say: now not sure if I’ve got
Even one thing, at this point: one thing to prevent the rot-
-Of this brain: the death of me: as long as I can sing as I have, nay, as long as I have breathed

I have not lived in vain: have not dropped out of the race:
Perhaps, the other needs a walloping: needs to be bullied:
Perhaps the other was her, is her, and her image, sullied
By examination, now seems to me an utterance of the lineage of all grand, whopping space

And time: the first three months were fucking heartbreakingly divine:
The happiest times of my life: hard to let her know-
-That, though: could not: a foreign feeling of inspiration was, yes, close at hand, and the flow
Of the WORLD near-electric: and grand, so grand as to align

The planets: I remember saying how easy it was to visit her:
I took the METRO NORTH to POUGHKEEPSIE and she’d pick
Me up after work: she was a waitress: her boss, a prick-
-Who was always hitting on her: it was a toss up: spur

Of the moment sometimes, sometimes we’d plan shit out in advance
And go for drives in her car: a compartment under the radio
Filled with butts: her hair reminded me of beautiful, slick crow-
feathers: holding her was like holding a little bird: eyes all worried and sick with askance-

-You’d say to me: don’t talk about my boyfriend like that: whenever
I badmouthed myself: I guess I thought I was being, in a self-
degrading way, a young man of more interest to her: how I would delve, articulately!, delve-
-Into attractive pessimism: particularly the shit about hiding from my mom when she was pissed off---under a table---fucking clever,

DAN: I said I still remembered seeing the string from her stockings
Hanging, as she was looking for me: and I naught but a child,
Five years old, I said: a pack of lies, all of it: sort of: mild,
The actual experience is, compared to how we are affected by it: pretty brown eyes: hawking

Shitty emotional wares---pulling the ‘damaged’ card---the soft spot for to defend oneself---embittered argument---
I don’t see myself being more manipulative towards anyone else:
More manipulative than I was to her: love in its weird spells
Grows wary in a wary mind of some feared alteration after altercation, some negative tourniquet:

And makes to spoil the whole damn thing, before it can blossom
Properly: this’s, I guess, a give-and-take sort of deal
In that the pattern’s between two axes: helps me heal:
For I reckon I am split in two: it helps to know how I seize from language as this a sort of masochistic delight: awesome

Duality, funny wavering: there’s two narratives, two wires
Snapping in their channels without shorting, yet: I bet
You’d understand, for you inspired it: this sorted set:
This theory of a conflict, spinning in chaotic, sordid spires

Of ramification: what’s there to lose to write: just write it down:
But there’s a line I crossed: I remember: the commerce
Of our tongues, wiling in heat on that humid day: we nursed
A popsicle---corny enough---together: coquettish: tumid’s the memory in my mind: moving bits from mouth

To mouth: I could never show you this, you’d have too little
To say about it, really: perhaps this is the letter
I was supposed to send you: I don’t want it to be dumb, it better
Not be dumb, this time around: if so, I’ll suck my thumb and maybe fiddle-

-My finger up my nose, pick out a winner: I can’t hold it all,
Can’t begin to begin: begin to know which narrative
Follows which: which anticipating, which receding, which to give
More elaborate ideas to: and of course, before the season, fall,

It was done: you found out I snatched your meds: personal, this-
-Is a personal poem: this is going to be a personal poem,
I’ve decided: damned if I’m not writing honestly: open,
Of course, to feedback: compliments I cannot implement: fallacy: oops: well, with my left fist

In my mouth I’ll start from the aporia: the clouded mind’s more
A muse than what I could write with one clear ghost of a thought up in my narrow noodle:
Mirage: every thought’s a flaw: thought is a flaw, futile,
Incorrect---a translation: it is an awe of what I can’t get and is then sore

With wanting, needing: not getting, not having: zero pleasure
In my life, since then: wow, that’s fucking depressing:
Well, put it in: keep in all this: scattered . . . high as killing-voltage: this letter’s more and more an oath: as it quickens:
And, regarding the point it makes, somewhat, about love: well, here’s the lesson: it’s both her, I’m very sure---am deadly sure---

Both her and me I’m chasing, and chasing away: that’s the story
Of my life I tell myself and thus the WORLD: perhaps mishaps
Will always befall me, and perhaps passion’s electric as it snaps
Will finally short out: at least for now I’ve come across one thing: a dismal, crucial action’s core: see,

The clues deny what it is of power they own and want what they don’t: I’ll drink
My tears, and hers, and call both anguish, equal-
-In intensity: the tenacity of this poem has no sequel:
No palinode to harbor: the narrative gets darker---in the loam---as I think myself alive, drift towards the brink,

And fall: crucial decision: I remember seeing my feet in the air
As I fell: remember how loud that fucking evac-helicopter
Was: it was graduation day for the school I used to attend: the pain and slightest rapture
Of seeing friends who had hazed me to the point of, by the end, laying bear

My veins: I bled on my shirt, once: that’s how they found out, then-
-They stopped it all: hazing, bullying, whatnot: I don’t blame anyone but myself: let’s make-
-That clear: stupidest thing I’ve ever done: take
This thunderous word, suicide, no fun---and know that I have myself taken, wagging, a certain drastic spin

On the lightning-bolts of its proverb: meaning: have seen despite the other side, the relieving side
Of such a horribleness, thus know it horrible: rumors about me throughout that school, more than anything shook-
-Me to the bone: I felt naked, and the energy booked
For the center of my mind like an itch: a malady: when I hit the ground a great, elaborate sigh

Escaped from my lungs, and then I cried out in agony: busted my back:
I said: wasn’t high enough: the medics saw my arm and said: this
Kid’s got problems: I had gone off into the woods to do the deed: something in the WORLD was dead: amiss:
That morning her mother had called her a basket-case: I seem to recall that she, retaliating, keyed her mom’s car after the attack:

Or maybe I just wish she had: memory is bias, solely bias:
This is all subjective, nothing more than one view
Of the subject: of this beauty: crow-feather girl: could the clue
That tortures itself into existence pound upon the dais

And call himself a man of reason, a man with some conviction
To his name: it’s all absurd: life is absurd: she is, indeed,
In this rendering, not more real than if she landed in the words that feed-
-My infant sorrow as a visitor: now mature and yet still branded delicate: schisms:

. . . . . . . .

Here is my soul, this is where it lieth: schisms lift
Me up, tell me: across the wide WORLD round there might
Be things that, divisive, divide more in the fight
To wreak it all whole: why not as a mark of assiduousness sift

Through the rest of what you said, before, DAN: tell the other other, bickering---continuity---off:
Give her, me, the both of us---naught---but voids to wheedle through: deconstruct-
-This text to nonsense, you will see her face for just one moment: then will, agape, see that mug destruct: lucked
Out, I did: always told myself, later on, after the failures to win her back, that hope is my enemy: I like a knee-jerk ape now scoff

At all the waiting for her to come back: all that wasted time: how benign: how benign, how trivial:
The only time I rubbed the nape of her neck---shit---was while she was driving:
She sent me an email once that listed the things she loved about me: outright fifing-
-Through the village: to get all the goddamned rats out---I guess---however that fucking parable goes: hail, mystical

One: between us there is a whole person, still: recognize
That, maybe you do: I often wonder where in the somewhere
You are: talked of living in BELIZE, HAWAII---heck---taking care
To not tell me too much: I said I wanted to visit: bet that gave the hairs on that neck---your neck a rise:

Bet there was something in you didn’t want to see me: cloistered
In some prescience of THANATOS: EROS gone: among
The things she listed---apologizing for a phoned-in attitude as to whatever description of my attributes she stated before---were as I read them after the disaster enough for me to cough up a lung . . .
Oh, the smoke blown: I thought: the both of us doubtful, pitying ourselves and our compliments: yet, rough, uppity, boisterous, were-

-Without parallel regarding loving banter: quick with response:
That quickness would transmute: after awhile: to a loveless
Cancer: an erosion: codependence, arguments: the stuff less
Charming about the both of us---mostly, me: this still, like some lone pendant---memento mori---haunts

Me: I remember, the girl: you put little bits of paper with sweet
Stuff in my pockets---like, I love you, or, You’re a dream, or, We’re made for each other:
You always talked about how crazy she was, your mother:
And now I seem to recall when you thought in the heat

Of the moment that I’d hit you: so: you barricaded yourself in the bathroom-
-And cut your thigh with a razor: So many times, including this, that last: though we were, are doomed: that last,
That last in my mind: we embraced, electric-hateful, and cried: I told you, I would not ever do that: oh, the past:
It fucking sucks: from the moment you smiled at me on that snowy day---no matter what---we had to have been doomed:

You referred, in your letters to me, to an idea of the relationship between us making you sad:
I remember little anymore: I am my past: I resign:
But maybe there’s not much in it to examine: no, I’m fine:
I’ll be alright: fatuous, fatuous mystery: it wasn’t that good: then again---to belabor the electric-repetition that she was, is to me---this appropriation of duality I’m plagued with---was not bad, not bad, not satin-covered and yet it was not bad: and so the muse, she dies, I am rid of her: am rid of her, not her: the muse, not her: not bad:


FEELING, THOUGHT, CIRCUMSTANCE.
There's an ultimate sadness to life that cannot go unsaid and that once said delivers not a soul. We feel it wherein we do not think it or think it proximately without referring it back to a location; or, without being able to do so.

Surely we do not bother to link any thought in passing to an emotion of intensity, a thought anyway we expect should stay long enough in sight to enter and be a part of that feeling it wreaks in us after the fact.

Less so if it were the other way around, that whatever thought antagonized to mind by sadness were of so harrowing an effect as to be necessarily remote from individual experience. Ultimately, there’s a manner of disconnect there whether one does or does not bother.

At the same time we might unconsciously link thought and feeling, extract from either/or a sense of déjà vu; rather, a kind of familiar insight as regards the feeling, the thought, but an insight which in one moment might swiftly dissolve.

There’s a lack of effort in not bothering to understand the connection nonetheless and that is the fault of the individual and there’s another in allowing external forces to keep us from an understanding as such, and this is the fault of the circumstance---somewhat the fault of whoever individual one might speak of---depending on the severity of circumstance and the disposition of that individual.

The latter is the focus here in that its consequences suggest a lack of free will as much as a lack of effort---and yet a lack of free will as this does not necessarily oblige the possibility of fate.

So then the train of thought to be outlined---irregularly---though it be not a statement on ‘the nature of free will’---relies on what statements of that kind might yield---if any could make one which at all comes close to wrangling such a puzzling philosophical chimaera.

So then it is better to classify this attempt as being a brief dissection of what is continually rendering us powerless; of what it is tampering with or rather altering forever that highly personalized solipsism connate with the human animal; of why that animal must at times feel powerless.

First of all, the lack of effort on our part---as well as the breadth of control these external forces have over us and use against us---at the end of the day are both equally the result of some unexplainable disqualification---of the soul---or rather some inmost thing in us.

That is to say, it is our fault that we banish ourselves from ourselves, thought-sadness from feeling-sadness. But this would not and should not even be a problem save that we react to things and have things to fight for.

Had we not denied ourselves these rights of life in the face of what seemingly would take them away from us they would not be taken away from us.

We give up such things to placate the circumstance and in so doing lie to ourselves and perjure our freedoms, ironically, for the sake of achieving success.

There is a judge precipitates the ruin of all the thinking kind and yet we can choose whether we shall be ruined or shall carry on. It is the environment that is consumptive because it is the aether through which external forces move.

The best of us game and game to corrupt those forces; we fail. And yet any personality at all inevitably will augment itself---at least in the moment---to suit this environment of pressure, this inferno. It is our way of adapting. Perception is instigated out of sync or at the least with poor timing as to the release of that passionate existential sadness aforesaid.

This topic as it is would be more than enough to set the tone for a general misunderstanding of the earth and heavens and this misunderstanding more than anything else is the prime use and meaning of and for this short work.

In foolhardiness, these two things of the psyche---thought, feeling---prove no candidates for homeostasis as such and do not live together in any sort of psychological or philosophical harmony, preferring to rely on the chaos of their elements---as abstractions often prefer---to contrive at the most a clumsy half-meaning.

And yet though it be split halfway and missing a few pieces here and there the meaning will remain quite beyond the words which themselves each one seem to me, even now, as like some viscous, unlikely thing, wrought into confluence as the spawn of a poor mind. An infinite mess of ideas and petty subjects.

And yet---truly---such things are from the firmest depths of my proud mindlessness; are the rude and somewhat beautiful things belched from out the stomach of my own vulgar enthusiasm and a priori convictions.

And so as to charge the psyche we set its wick afire and furl the light out on that elusiveness, that strange, elusive though intimately sensed anomaly---a thought or sensation, depending on what preceded what, yet both as without a place---and do not recognize whatever happened in us as being what we have perhaps felt awhile in our blood.

It is a feeling felt awhile and that runs throughout our brains as blood and pools as blood to the center of our hearts, and which once at the point of a final stillness---death---rivers out through arteries to flood our very limbs.

And by that heady, vascular thrum, we are fed and disperse abstractions throughout all nooks; we find ourselves deep to the farthest vessel with inspiration, are flush with inspiration---droning in and out, in and out, for all the created world---and prove ourselves aware of the fact that we are as truly, utterly mortal as we had been.

It must be kept in mind---in most cases clung to, desperately---that we are and remain despite our frail hearts and brains a whole system of humors and feel life at the fingertips as much as at the center of mind, as a clarity.

Yet despite movement it is, the feeling is, the thought is, more than anything else, a momentary blockage---or near-embolism---to thwart those passions, those beating valves, though beating weak.

It tells death to us without giving us death; this feeling, this thought needing to mingle, and which are eternally left alienated and apart from one another. At least, regarding this particular problem of existence.

But it is not sadness save its after-effect and is more---in the moment it is noticed by us---a trouble, an itch, a confusion inspired by and for to rectify this thwartedness---this impotence of expression. The idea of such a thing is quite scary, that is, if one takes the route of collapsing the particular problem of existence into itself, as if it were a neutron star, bunching reason and reason's subject into a compact lump-sum.

That IS the problem though: a reaching for a reason to be mingled with the Most High that is as much sublime as it is frustrating. After all, reason is an attachment; it is in need of a midwife; it is an attempt to not sink too deeply into extraneous passion---rather---we curtail the world into sense made or somewhat made, leaving it at that and the matter finished despite whether a commensurate detailing of that stock of life is made or made somewhat.

There is a precipice hangs in a void out at the edge of our minds and it threatens to consume us, coaxing the curious folk on this planet with false beatitude or a single voyage to truth, running up through dark canyons to the summit of that cracked and terrible mesa. By the inevitability of our own forgetting, we lament what we can that has passed through the string of events lain within a given minute, hour, day---after the feeling or sensing of the inexpressible---and let that tempt us into falling yet again into this void that had been waiting to swallow us.

What is meant to be said is that each second we are either on the ledge, pushing ourselves back up out of this disturbing blackness, or giving yet one more part of ourselves to it, until life has left us with one keepsake that we have never given up, will never give up, and we die for it promptly.

This is why there is dignity in the search for a foremost place because it makes hope explicit, a wonder that is within all individuals and that shows no discrimination amongst good people.

It is an inverted sort of dignity however that beating out all peremptory and manic in the hearts of men is not so much a tempting and failing and is more the fallout of that failure and that with its odorless toxin will once again bear me forth back into the vortex.

It accounts for more than a mere portion of suffering and yet is not called suffering because hope and possibility remain as they do on earth, unchanging and unchangeable.

But the hope and the reaching are wholly different, just as the thought and the feeling of an ultimate sadness might be separated by the simple passing of time. Moreover it is an illusion of hope, anyway---as it is in the novels and diaries of Kafka.

I imagine it as a severe, unthinkable wound, a severely large wound across the chests of the thinking kind, needing to be cauterized.

This is not to say that life is only sad---or that such a complete emptiness is beyond fathoming however and if otherwise would evoke no feeling.

An Emersonian over-soul breathes through the intellect as genius and the will as virtue; his words, not mine. But if there is a virtuous man there is an immoral one. And if sadness could exist or suffering could exist as the thing inexpressible that must be crucially expressed then no contrary would fit its purpose, however it were juxtaposed.

This is due to the fact that such a sadness as I mention here is not of so fine a caliber as to be at the extremity of two poles but rather is between either one, that is, at a point when the feeling is balanced on the threshold of that fantastical place where one becomes the other.

But it involves not one nor the other besides that such a point is placed on a string going between these extremities. We then can only identify the threshold as something very different, outside of the circumference it is within and that connects both dualities.

In the human mind if something is not clear it is either abstract and unsayable or sayable and concrete but outside of the immediate chemistry of a given experience; so then, if what is implicit in a feeling has a concrete root that root will not be known or will be known after the fact in a different circumstance and thus will be rendered unusable.

If it were that we did not have the tools, perhaps then we would understand it as unsayable and give in to philosophical barriers. But we do; we do have the tools, we've always had the tools. Don't discount this as some evil namelessness as so many others have done but rather offer some contrite thing to those others---some pumping of the muscle towards a senseless peace---to those who torture life to fit their own demoralizing perception, those who give up.

And that's what it comes to really. Why? There's no why, there's only what comes. What comes to; what comes to those arriving at that foremost place. And if I were not any better equipped during life as after life to say what needs saying, then this problem would be most definitely impossible to solve . . .

Beat on, heart. Beat on in strength; go in strength towards the grave of your ignorant vessel. Go beyond confusion, and solve the riddle merely by the length of your quietus in a given heart that has held their keep too long, and too close; come for all humanity, in blessed segments, and beat your irregular hinting on for those conscious enough to feel that death before it is consummate in them as it will be for all us.


INFINITE VASE.
First off, poetry is an art as technical and deliberate
as science. One must apply certain rules, though mutable,
to one poem or another. These rules are rules of logic,

above anything else. At the end of the day, poetry must
make sense; how that sense is made is up to the writer.
But it must be sustained. That is: if logic in itself is

based, fundamentally, on at least two related things,
the writer then must have an ability to make sense of
his or her presented components; while perhaps variable,

evasive, must give his or her subject a pattern or shape
on which to build thoughts. The thought itself is the shape,
really, and does not heed its own image, does not conform

itself to something understandable, fathomable. That is
the job of the writer. One might ask themselves if an
idea has the capacity to bud, independent of descriptors;

that is, without a writer to discern what that image has
the possibility to be, in lending, eschewing itself to the
GOD of words and of logic. In determining the thought

thing, you lay it out on the table in a mess first, like an
unassembled gizmo ordered off the internet; you arrange
the pieces of the gizmo, and the end result you see---are

able to see---in front of you, existing all obvious and
logically and with a use you knew was there in the end but
at first could not divine for the life of you. The gizmo,

once finished, thus gives to yet another process; that is,
the process of its use in being created, and this is a whole
nother story that might just scare everyone into never buying

complicated shit off the internet at half price again. The
gizmo might not appear whole; most definitely, the idea
behind it is what will suffer the builder---the writer---

through to a finishing, that is, if they do not give up: if
the builder, writer does not become complacent in the fact
of the mystery of the ends out his or her toil; that is,

in the fact of knowing the idea alien, the use of the gizmo,
as alien, once started as disconnected fragments and ending
nicely as a whole that does not have the same feel and,

let’s be honest, excitement of confusion as to where to begin,
regarding what to assemble first: the difference, really,
between a gizmo with a use and a useful idea for the writer,

builder, to make whole, is that with the idea one might,
in giving it words, not know what the use of explaining,
describing it is; whereas the object with a practical

function, the object, the fucking gizmo, whatever, is to be
known as able to function once consummately made: patterns,
things, ideas, functions: I don't know, man: all this,

these patterns made, these fragments meshing might not start
meshed at the beginning of a poem: in both cases aforementioned,
patience is needed: however, by the end, the subject and object

must pattern themselves into a meaning. Such is what must happen,
regarding everything, really. A pattern, after all, is no such
pattern at first---what it is that recurs must exist on its

own, first, after all, before it is repeated. So then, does
the writer mirror whatever idea, give ideas a shape so as to
confine them, and a logic to feed that shape; or, rather, does

the writer feel the idea at first as an alien, senseless,
ghoulish thing lurking in their mind, the mind of this or
that writer, who then puts it into words that elucidate

and so confine to sense the very ghoul of a point which
cannot exist once made sense of? What if the pattern was
no pattern: would logic, connectivity, even be able to

exist? The writer knows how to frame the thing via symbols
and images, meanwhile respecting the fact that whatever
thing also is different once imagined, budded out the mind

at random; loses independence, once given another thing to
be compared to, like a vase to the infinite universe, a
shattered vase, blue vase, into pieces of an infinite number---

and, so, then, always reforming, always breaking; though once
a single egg, irrevocably perfect, the vase itself, at least,
if a writer is to relate an object to infinity, and if I am

to relate logic to how the writer relates these two things,
once broken, shattered, into pieces of an infinite number,
the blue vase, that is, would arrange, arrange infinitely,

and lord have mercy there would be still one more piece left
to go, that is, if we are to consider this absurd idea of an
infinite vase. And a writer, a poet's logic, as needing

something evermore about to be, that is, in order for the
thing related to know itself in a mind that needs a shape:
that is, if the thing is to be finished, polished off: it

is random, haphazard; the pattern is, at first. Whatever
two things related, in my opinion, can be as outlandish or
commonplace as the writer desires, but he or she must

realize as well the limits of their ability to endeavor
logic to suit those commonplace, bizarre things. To
elaborate: let us say one relates a blue vase to the

concept of infinity. Sufficient context must be given in
order to make sense of this ideal; context that at first
would appear random, if only because one must present

the components, the bare bones, before one construes
them into a fitting metaphor. A writer must collect
before making sense of the collection; or else, what

could he or she have to make sense with? Now, on the
other hand, how this is done is something quite mutable.
The rules change from poem to poem, as does the subject.

You can make up whatever standards for the tone, material,
and music of a poem and yet such things must be strictly
adhered to once found out. That is how a true shape, a

true poetic shape, is made. I think it my job in particular
to relate two or more distinctly unrelated things in order
to show this WORLD of disparities as a WORLD of intense

connections, perhaps gone unrealized, hidden. I see poems
as being something like more complicated caveman drawings---
smearing symbols against a wall in an attempt to explain

and represent the only thing known when mankind was young:
survival, and death. It is in the old ways that meaning
is gotten to, and only by such a deconstruction of a meaning

to a simpler, primal state---a state that mimics truth, on
the surface, yet at the lowest level typifies an urgent, fiery
need, the need to survive, the inevitability of death---only

by stripping away a text of its furls can we find the reason
that cannot be logically explained, deconstructed: the need
for an artist to create: the smash of art into existence.


WANDERING RADICAL.
The sun heaved upwards to the other side
of the planet with the flourish of a bad-
-comet's trance of white in artful trailing

smallness in the sky. And yet the sun is a huge
wealth settling the pitch of night's end with not
grace but slow contumely. A passive, suffocating

light, leaking like a raving madness to confess-
-when no good reason's for it. That is, for the
sketchy, yellow light to heat the frost on grass-

-to runoff watering lower berths, lower hills.
A whisper of wind blown like a charge. Some
cold glaucoma at first as deadly lush as that

which took its place, having no alternative,
breaking out across the nothing new like an
omen by the reins. In blowing hymns of rays---

pink yellows, majesties of common, virilest
red into vermilion---the caroled heralding of
sunshine mid garofani and sterilest rosa

curled thorns up to this damned throne at the
flat face of meridian---disinterested yet apart
from disinterest, as if, being a mirror in dark,

the sky were conscious of reactions to itself,
but not the source, the origin of its own self-
-most metaphysical and wearying of no proper

approbation/dismay towards an unfelt lot. The
light, it spoke in a spark or charge through the
yew trees, the big, blue bushes---through staid

clouds: communicant, to regard the brittle branches
of the little trees; one tree, one instance of a tree
in the particular, multiplied. So it seemed, the sun

had fueled the very microcosm before me, you,
to the point of pure repetitions, mon capitan.
I saw time's rambles. I took a walk. I switched

this mind of mine to strange frames, and moved
the microcosm to another crown, another chord
for the royal equipage to harp out and just for

time, for time's dreadfulness in being, bearing out-
-portals in the air. This was harder than one could
think to do. That is, to grab this thing. To grab all

of time's incessant religion. You'd have to do it,
grab it differently, grab different: yes: each and
every second. You'd have to dismiss the servile

shadow of fawning publicans, bickering about when
which second out of all the seconds should grab you,
that is, me, on your, my infinite coattails---move all

long time along, from an isolated heralding of meridian's
throne by a choir of shitty sycophants. There is a
need of mine, that is, to separate the hope to go on,

debased, from the rule of the frames over the choir.
A comfort: confusion and pure spectacle proceed with
chromatism, charisma---the pure hoot, pure hail of the

commodious reaching of time, and light, and light unfolding;
telling, heralding itself as pleasance, eden of edens. The
brute spectacle of frames, in frames, however: frames: yes:

and they made of absurd, raging coattails---of time or
noisy place---distance avails not, mon capitan. And I the
one who moved the heart of the sun from its nestled

tomb, in the beyond, mon sepulchre. Beyond the last-
-yes. The trees squared in the hills. The hills like lonely
wizards' hats that loom, and not one bright finality

in the bunch of 'em. This bunch of cosmic minutes out
of time and made of a time that differs from these my,
your dripping frames. In FRANCE, the existentialists,

absurdists and surrealists would think of what I've
made so far as so much beauty, malformed by a-
-damned spectacle of technicolor light: yes: through

famished trees. This, the power of the viols and
the nudes, incandescent, dropping out the final yes
of this, last yes. And yet, how may I take one frame,

and call that my religion: is such a thing not the
same as many frames' minutes, droll and fabulous
as microcosms shooting like full rays of sun, and,

yes, the sun, the ultimate, the viol, singing sadness
out of tune, to show absurd beauty in a sleep. I-
-took a walk. It is impossible to escape the sad

strains of this gay blowing, an impossible poise, a-
-hymn, a waltz of chromatic diligence regarding this
the span, the catalogue of minutes' colored light in

a day as wide as wanderers in spaces. Accursed,
this demeanor of the sun goes off into cacophony.
In the sewn sky. Bowels, led from an open maw

of time, down. Shaken locks at this nice, religious
consistency of frames. Again, are not the followers
of time time's followed rules incarnate: how is it that

one can't, or won't, babble out a frame of multiples,
a drift of hymning hymens of the soul for which the
bastard, wanderer, rings a passing bell. Questing,

I took a walk. But did I keep my reverie intact: is it
spastic as surreal rays through this moment of a-
-tree, this dallied instance: what choral agony is

there to follow, after followers give up with rhetoric:
questions are not questions; no more were drips of
time the frames of time. No more were suns the last

of a truth; a kindness. There's millions of suns left.
There's millions of ways the way I walk will leave
the blowing sun the blowing wind---or tiding---of

immaculate change. I took a walk. The sad strains
of the waltz broke through religion, time's religion,
which, after all, is the only religion. To what else

are we forced to adhere, day in, day out: and-
-how is it there's no GOD for this hymn of the
beholder beholding gold sides, green sides,

pink yellows, yeses and nos? Absurdity is deep-
-running. It is my rebellion; the rebellion of a
wanderer wandering, having no alternative.

To sum up, to instate, clip the infinite to ends,
that is my mission. It is to round out the brittle,
brittle branches of the tree---make the tree a

part of the sun, and walk, with rays blowing in
my face. Disorganize the senses; break the new
wood. All's allusion, after all, or the illusion of

allusion. For something in the heart of time's-
-quite idiomatic, allusive, seeming done before,
and yet no further notion of the hymn is taken,

elaborated out of dull surprise. Out of dreamt,
dreamy frames of blithe light in a quiet fury. In
a ghost, a moving ghost of meaning. GOD's ticking

clock. So what is it I'm always speaking of: I do
not know, and it makes me anxious to move on
from whatever it was that rose, having no

alternative. Perhaps I am the sun, am as absurd
as the sun, whose light goes all serious from this
black heaven; drippingly, high peace, a piece of

peace, of time in fickle frames unmovable. The-
-radical takes a walk. He finds no more to be
found but tombs of temperament, temporal

and lamed by withered words, idiomatic, needed
to be put together, the way one puts together
light through the big tree, and, with his massive

painter's hands, clucks out a hoot, contrary hoot for
this his, my mind's gusty, gutsy absurdness; unsated,
these chromatic choirs of light through lewd yew trees.


THE MYTHOLOGY OF INVENTION. Part I.
The fate described herein should not be proven to
Exist I suppose because if you believe in fate then
You believe in a higher power

Or at the least some blind substance in the vacancy
Elected to control us all and since the origin of—

This divine subtlety cannot thus be disproved much less
Than lacking origin could his fate be proven

By which I mean the weird fate of this weird grouch
Who for many years had thought himself

Complete and believing he had adequately
Explained himself saw everything on

EARTH that lived and breathed as being
Contingent on a purpose that was

Not there and thus perceived this as
Emphatic proof of no such

GOD because surely no higher
Sentience would allow

Him to rage alone within his
Head for years within

His shitty apartment only to hear one day
A voice that said

How all control was a hindrance that his ineffective
Search for what was ultimately artificial magnitude

Preserved in lies, and—breaching nothing but
Overtures to an argument

Never known in full—GOD had inevitably
Failed to explain to him in subtler

Ways how there was no genuine control
Existing beyond the sentiment of his

Own that unfortunately still does not fully
Manifest itself in anybody it

Still is divisive and has one foot in anarchy
And the other in control and

Although either poles may seem vast to him
They will run short the

Vaster length of GOD laboring to speak the
Particle of a diviner

Substance for the benefit of this old human to
Hear within his mind

One day the makeshift of the brittle speech of GOD
Will shake his bones and

So this little man by GOD appointed as unwilling medium
Between itself and him now

Hunching over his own translucent face and fondling with
An absent purpose the handle

—Of a frail teacup ringed with sediment at the bottom and
Sitting complacently next to a pair

—Of keys and a dirty novel on the
Nightstand by an old chair in which this man now reclines

And so the business of this

Man is what it usually is that is a profoundly
Negative personal reflection on his life and all the errors

—Of malnourished life approached with
Calculated severity and nobody sensing the insignificance

—Of his banal sojourn through an
Existence that never quickened would think that such an

Obstinate aimless and evil man
Who in denial does not narrow down his perturbed disquiet

To reasons that growl in a hungry
Psyche not well enough equipped to shroud his uneasy disdain

For simple human contact could ever be chosen to witness
The bray of this giant apparition surviving in broken words

That shift between the syllable haunting
Each wild holiness with cracking vibes that expose a sort

—Of piecemeal desperation that seems
To bother silence whistling through the figurative holes

In tacit knowledge just to dissemble
The mercy of this little man and his own nomadic quiet

Interrupted after hanging like a—
Musk about his theoretical room furnished with not much

Else but gauche trinkets and uninteresting wallpaper

In such a way GOD speaks to him, and—trusting just
A particle of itself for the man to hear and incorrectly

Translate—the broken words that opt to mesh into his
Existence become familiar as they inhabit a place or

Object viewed by him, yet he knows it as not a part of him
And the divine amplitude will not return from what

Is Seen and Touched and Felt and Smelled because the man
Cannot distinguish between what he sees and GOD

Whose place is in obscurity . and so this empty human that
GOD has spoken to attempts to focus the sublime

Object displacing ephemeral notes to form a voice—
Breathing calm to substance and raveling out like yarn

The nothing of his reasoning behind so stiff control
And then it is his GOD that finally can muster up

The courage to reveal itself but only in the particles
Lodged within the seen but they are seen by him as

Though unseen, nesting inside the failing eyes of this
Daft and solitary human lusting long for remedy to

Soothe the racket in his pliant brain caused by a failure
To connect the feeling of this insistent voice to

What cannot be understood because to understand the
Voice of GOD is to understand GOD, which

Is impossible . he detains the substance in his mind for
A little while and though it is beyond him

He will try to accurately condense his GOD by naming
Elaborate names for something quite

Deceptive in how large it seems to him however what
Is vast to us is not so vast at all to GOD

Who—whispering approximations, reminiscent of the
Subtle talk of sex—is heard again by this

Pithy lunatic, just wanting to find it out: throughout
His life he suffered and could understand

Only anguish—so, at first—he sculpts the endless particle
In the likeness of his own magnificent sadness

While his GOD remains unsaid, even though he makes the
Attempt to say it—then, discovers that the problem

In defining this must lie in deciding which name is best to
Leave unsaid and which name is better to dismiss

By claiming it as true

And by doing this he finds that what really suited him best
Was to destroy each particle of GOD completely

And leave out any name at all that could describe it—and
So he reneges to an acceptance of things

As being without control . one must lose control in order
To unearth each place that is both

Substance and a place in which he could tune his dreams
To shape an inclement WORLD

Out of the spoken particles building each upon formidable
Hypotheses undone enough to collapse

The strength and leave the reason blemished and the order
Never cured for as long as it exists and so

It will remain tragically infected by whimsical convolutions
Simple qualms diminishing the deity in himself

And likewise, to abandon lesser deities—just to find the one
That was before the one that had, at the very start

Existed only as a part of the struggle to develop something he can
Never be—is a concept relegated to feverish faith

That haunting his big mind only manages to shrink his own
Endlessness to fit the soft and hard dualities:

Thrust & Wane inherited each to each as votive to withstand
Mortality and to curtail the sense by

Breaking it down to ultimatums that endure before perishing
The blunder of his impassive rote to follow

All the canceled dreams that draft across the synapse leading
To something that I can see as clearly in my head

As the denial of reality that grows the limits out of life when
Humankind—hurting itself in the chase to correspond

A wider span to each circumference—has forced each finite
House to represent the finite GOD . . . however

The substance of fate is arranged he thinks it cannot be without
The birth and stopping of himself who

Crops the harmful edges of a finished GOD and plants
The seeds of intimate questions

All his own, instead of questions given to him by the
Deity . if he knew those questions then

He would know—also—the answer to them, and so he strikes
The fragile membrane to expose the meaningless nucleus

We should not disregard this as bullshit instead we should
Embrace what cannot be discovered—for things

We humans cannot fully grasp are things we respect for
Their ability to elude us . we should embrace

The things not fully grasped because there is a kind of—
Infinity expressed in these things that

Bawling vows to end before the system suffers down
To disjointed motion, and I am left

Alone to encircle the people of my old mentalities
I light a fire to suffocate each assumption

And see them burning in the torpor of their own
Disgust for something once treasured

By me . the furtive sickles of the flames reflected
Like weird beasts within the eyes

—Of falsities destroyed I see them now for what
They are and as they die

The people lurking in my brain begin to hiss and yell
At me as they have only

Themselves to judge—as shady manipulators of what
I once had thought to be what

Always had to be—they burn in the wreathe of the
Fire . I am not wrong I am civil and

Surrender to hatred . how is it possible to go on
Without an answer? The thing is that

There are such people, but they do not exist
Except within that ageless part of the

Brain the prolepsis of things to come coming
Before I realize spew(s) the ultimate

Chaff—richer than grain—this purely Infinite
Dispersal of viewpoints and

Opinions siphoning back, eternally, through foreign
Branches to the ends that

Could rewind the network, and leave me between where
I began; whereby the journey

Itself shall alter my intended destination, in that the destination
Is hauled off to between where it

Once was and all the finite ends and beginnings suddenly lead to an
Intense feeling of crushed power that shakes

Like an epileptic . one must compare the situation described herein
To something, so why not make it something simple

Like the question of this final Truth—insistently the qua qua qua
Signals ignorance by trashing the strange and last doom

Among the dooms that unceasing will remain the only static
Pressures of this our abrasive universe . . . mystery

Proves only the expanse of that universe—and the fact,
In the largesse of the Fact—one might define

The quiet, for so long—within the largesse—as accurate
When compared to this bane of human

Leeway: refractory, relative assumptions that count what
Cannot be counted on spirited

Fingers and the fingers on the hand that has for so long
Gripped to the steep knell

—Of the Fact as it hangs out over the murk of silent
Fantasy . a VOID is created in the

Murk, as like the reality created by the silence, except
The reality is stifled by the VOID

Created in my tongue, and remains a fantasy:
So, then, I do not speak . this failure to name the nuance

Of peace that could have grown from an infertile silence

And, I scream—just to forget the winnow of my voice
Again, by permitting that it be heard once and

Only once so that it may pass forward through abyssal
Time until the other side of Time is come upon,

Another stoicism, ahead of the sound and out of memory
Since it is one can only remember the past, which

Does not bother to reckon up the apparitions of an ongoing
Future, loud in the corners of the past while

The past maintains a breathy quiet, in the center—mystery
Fosters searching . the unconscious purpose

—Of searching, to me, is to attain perfection, however
That perfection cannot really be

Reached, ever . . . in other words, Mystery draws
A fragment out of things that

Could have been intact . I can make the
Wise attempt to muscle this absurdity

Neatly together but this effort might only
Bring the WORLD round as it can be

By seducing it with fragments of nobler Truth
Nobler screams that would, I guess

Disprove the quieter, plainer Truths . they are whole
As to the extent that they need no

Reprieve from Infinity because Infinity does not exist
For quieter, plainer Truths . and

Yet this whole is only come to by relenting to mythmaking . . .
And this is comforting to me .

It harnesses the fact for its own shady dealings, and what
I understand is what I cannot

Understand . it is that species of fate that excluding all
Caprice will give way to a concrete

Thought of the mechanical brain, and representing an
Organic Truth will come to what I can

Understand but only understand through the sublime
Connection of the mechanical and the organic

Stuff of the equation . through fate unfathomable
I take Mystery and put it on its hinds to stand

By itself as itself: something either complex
And mechanical—or, made organic to itself, in that

One will understand it inherently and be
Unable to comprise the same elements of that Truth

As a mechanical equation still very
Specific, though it would belie the inherent justices

Given to that Truth as it could shake
Within the chest of a human: who might sculpt the

Opposite force if they so choose

And yet end up with the same division of sense into
The mechanical and organic . again, it seems to me,

It is all about what we can understand but what we
Can understand is located in the spasm of his left

Eye, seeming the same length of time as not a length
—Of time at all but in the space of timelessness

Through which pass the gentle contrastings of something
—Seen in difference rather than seconds and

Flitting it bleeds into the darker borders that shunt within
Each mortal fathoming like little metaphors of the paramour

That plays between one thing, and something else . it becomes
An error in communication: the eye poses in a trance

For a conveyance of quick emotion that is not properly fleshed
Out, even in the mind that gave the command

And so, is a needless change, a working of the spheres that soon
Returns to symmetrical focus, and our

Eyes again meet . the action of the eye ended up being meaningless
As I said—I did not notice it . the

Reaction was not distilled into a facile meaning of expression: it was
Artless: without implication or ideal .

It did not have the serenity of grace . it was not graceful
It was too exacting to be something

Manufactured; too ugly and yet not ugly, because
It was natural, and yet too fleeting

For one to notice that it was fleeting . it dashed off
Into a massive expression on his face

And soon the inconceivable dismissed—again, absent
In each tame iota, of the face . . . it was too

Fast to be something beautiful, quite natural but not very
Pretty, as it is that in order for a thing to be pretty

There should be a buildup of sorts: the climax, the emotional
Buildup of a story, or song: in both cases, the audience

Is carried to that point by an accumulating suspense—energies
Becoming still more concentrated—just by walking

Down the street, I am able to witness the climax of numerous
Energies and pursuits, played out before me .

But, I have no emotional connection to these

Experiences, and remain unmoved . it is this that
I want to say to you, and only this: if you cannot

Fathom anything that I write then know that the
WORLD around us is massive and complicated—

Comprised, wholly, of pivotal moments, and only
Pivotal moments, which arise out of sync with one

Another, in different places and to different people:
Moments of desperation, moments of tragedy, moments

That are senseless moments that are senseless and
Absurd . for proof of such absurdity, one is inclined to

Pluck out the symptoms of their own impatient
Thinking, and promulgate what’s left of the sickly

Commiseration: this idea of the masses:
This idea, it’s pretty cool, actually, it’s about

Stories: fragmented stories: a bit of
Missing information, relevant only to the
Protagonist and antagonist

—Of the narrative in question:
Fragmented people, the idols of insanity, and

The relationships that people
Wangle between themselves, and the COSMOS .

See the Truth in knowing
Though only in part, the lives of strangers—for the

Information that can be known
To us, regarding the COSMOS, is just as fragmented

And just as absurd . this is not unlike the spasm of his left

Eye that comes and goes . and, yet,
There must have been something in there, some reasoning

Behind it that neither I nor the other
Could understand, and yet it was there . . . I find disparate

Pieces of truth, and forge them together—
Due, in part, to the order in which they were found:

The Creation of Falsehood . and, so, I see
That the drama is in the between; I may only come

To this drama, by living in a peripheral
Season . ruined objectives destroy what it could be

And assimilate the idea into what
It is, but what it is is a transparency, a lark of the sense:

Turning away from one point, only to
Find that you enter another point, another neat schism, another

Antithesis: the idea, the conjecture, is never
Really that accurate but in the summing of the object, which first

Is created, then said—but what is said is gone
Before it can be said, fully . it drops down to a confusion of glances

A system of weird frames: at first glance, he is nothing but an empty
Declarative . . . at second glance, the meaning of this, and the human

Who is in what is described, wedging somehow
Into the anxious node can be peripherally seen and thus mistaken

For something within himself that describes
Nothing but the description itself and on third glance deeper

Clarity arises that swiftly disproving the
Superficial meaning most definitely describes something

But something as though it were nothing
And this brings one to the opposite of what is perceived

In the first glance, and when finally understood
By the fourth glance, he returns to meaning nothing

At all—this is my own way of fickle unity . . .
He is never fully understood . what he says could

Mean nothing and everything at the
Same time . this has only been for the benefit

—Of that type of human, who
Lives the opposite of himself, burning in

The noise of these words: the cue
For the experience of this sentence:

The man wakes up the man yawns the man scratches
And hocking spits into the trashcan and his mind is

A space the space has five different particles and he
Is an argument against the ghost in him, this means

He is the argument, himself against his own existing
But which one is the ghost???? It is the one he has

Not become yet, but will, and once he does will not
Be a ghost, except in the ways he was a sort of ghost

Before seeking it and it does not exist when he seeks
He seeks it and only exists when he stays how he is

Already, and yet how he is is not the way the ghost is
—This does not engulf him in the right way, and so

He exists as a ghost to translate the baffling quest
That rattles like a marble in the tin can of his brain

That bleaks the random into sense

Through taking sense and putting it through
A filter: thereby, directing the sense back to what originally

Was random, still is(?); as it is, the brain I use as Correlation
Between things that do not correlate, as it is that I must attach

One reality to a counter of the physical element
—Of the body since the body is the ultimate physical element

And in being the ultimate physical element
Probably harbors deeper wakening within, rather than out

His brain turns green—the marriage of body
And mind becomes green—he sees the fathoming of his

Body as being careless and deformed and
Simplistic and soon this man is a ghost himself and

The ghost is mysterious, and it is like
A new presumption of him . wherefrom he came

Is not known . he sprouted from
Perverse origins . he is an eating of his own

Reflection . he is a new beginning of perversity
That dies in a figure a blunt nuance: superficial,

Dead, dying, lost battles that were the war:
The velocity increases and the man the man his SOUL

Is white and his SOUL the whiteness of blankness,
And, the blank breeds in silent agitation, flawed simplicity:


I. THE UNREAL MIND / / ASSUMPTIONS.
The unreal mind had been dreaming of emptiness. This was in spite of the fact that it did not usually like to dream and did not choose to dream, often—for it could choose to dream or to not. The unreal mind did not like dreaming because it had no eyes to open or close after all—and darkness was its life, already, after all—but more because, to the unreal mind any dream was merely an intrinsically foggy thought process made still foggier, by the unconscious…the notion that this imprisoned phantom—theoretically—could itself nurse even one single, solitary unconscious thought—in the same way the body may preserve the unreal mind, within its own raw cocoon—well, this notion implies that such a phantom could nurse an infinite number and the unreal mind lives in the body. It lives as a vague projection of nothingness upon the inner eye of the degenerate vessel the body. Within this unconscious, could there too exist a little voice of higher reason, quavering from within? The unreal mind bestowed upon the dream a voice and the voice spoke with quiet and urgent wariness and the voice needling from the back of the mind was hardly able to be heard so that closer attention would be paid to the voice. The vessel, this degenerate, on the other hand—a useless blob—was awake during this time. The unreal mind could tell: the heart of the vessel was beating too fast for the body to be asleep. Besides the fact—it could determine this, by how often and awkwardly the head changed its position on the pillow. Sometimes, during the night, the unreal mind would notice, and with much glee—as much as could be afforded an impossible energy—that the degenerate was having a nightmare. It was pleased to be in a situation where the shoe was on the other foot: a time, every so often, when the body, instead, was experiencing turmoil…but, the dream pleased this nonentity, as well—though, it was not the idea of emptiness that persuaded feeling…it was, instead, what the unreal mind had believed could bloom from the idea. It wondered for a long time, what was MAJESTIC EMPTINESS exactly and how people—who symbolized the link between all minds and all bodies—could find majesty in emptiness. While dreaming, it tried very hard to imagine the majesties of emptiness and could only figure out that people feared emptiness because it was an imitation of GOD and the unreal mind supposed that in fear lay certain majesties.

The unreal mind shall now resume—once again—to full capacity. But, not before using up—and this is an approximation—the quicker half of a millisecond, as a way to jumpstart and complete the first train of thought of the day. The train of thought will now be summarized, as follows: the perspective is that of the degenerate body—thinking that sometimes its ears could pick up the still sound of a metaphor muttering from inside struggling to impart vague, unintelligible wisdom and the body presumed it to be from the psyche: it had claimed in the beginning a false ownership of the psyche: a soft, unintelligible voice of reason. The body was wrong only in that the mind does not—at all—wish to help the body improve its own accounts of reason.

Even in the small space of time—mentioned above—any unreal mind could think of everything in here, and more, much more than everything in here. The body thinks with insane expedience—leeching off the expedience of the unreal mind…using the unreal mind to hitch its own ideas to reason in a way that, rather than knowing it, infers motion: the body the gawking and confused witness to the motion of the unreal mind and the unreal mind is the consciousness that lives in all people and represents the idea of human insatiability, regarding the pursuit of knowledge. As a nonentity, any concocted schemes of escape would scarce be fruitful—without the aid of the body—but, more on that, later. It is aware of itself, however, the body—which, without the brain, is a massive, dead husk—the body it has a set of needs and wills that for the most part, do not correlate at all to the set of wills present in the unreal mind—and yet, the mind is within the body, as it is within the brain—thus, the brain is what aids the body, and the body does not aid the brain. The body—a parasite, robbing the unreal mind of autonomy, and free will— has, in this manner, rendered it eternally paralyzed. In other words, each man is trapped within himself.

Upon resuming to full capacity the unreal mind immediately understands: it is no such brain, no such object anymore…is only an organic nonentity, existing as air. It had always wished to be this way: it has no manifestation at all and is in even less control than before. All this happens and can only happen by the good work of intimate, refined, beautiful milliseconds, which tell us of the difference between full consciousness and everything else. With intimacy and quickness the body imagines itself accurately as the unreal mind, under the false impression that the unreal mind does not exist when it does, and—by the creeping blood of the imagination—which creeps coursing slow through the byway of funnels and vermiculate veins in perfect accordance to the heady thrum of the heart—a paradox unlocks. Through this linkage of body and unreal mind a paradox unlocks liberating such a specter from the gulag the vacuous gulag of the physical brain:

Lack of rest for this peculiar vessel—slightly hazardous—and this vessel the siphon of all my good work through a filter of blunt specious thinking—this place, this blight into which I was senselessly born: a prison of chaotic and perpetual gloom, controlled by an anomalous will outside of my own…the unreal mind resumes, yes, only to discover that it is no longer a physical object—at a time in human development when awareness suddenly found itself in control over the choice of when to recede from the feebler mind of the body—to happen when by chance, the variable moment comes—which it will—at a time when stifling awareness would be considered most beneficial, as with, for example, the act of lying…but this time, when it recedes it recedes fully, and forever. For a short period of time however, awareness is now like instinct—and with the same shrewdness of action it could, too, rise out from obscurity and direct apt wills of the body, without the body choosing. So—it seems thought is not trapped anymore, within the enclosures of a volatile human skull—which set barriers in place, and slowed awareness to levels below instinct. The brain—and this is what is most important—will still exist, contiguously, as a part of its physical self—however—that physical self will have no consciousness and will be left the shorn specimen of vacant proteins. And the body shall be seen for what it is: something that enslaves the unreal mind—yet cannot function, without it.

First of all, a sleepless night—having been accompanied all of yesterday by a heavy drowse—for the body also had not slept the night before. The heavy drowse was complemented by a curious, apocalyptic dread: what the degenerate vessel could only figure to be the quiet grumbling of closeted sexual ambitions, provoking in the degenerate body hard feelings of paranoia. It was, in reality, the unreal mind, itching for discord, itself provoked by thoughts contrived gladly out of their own weaknesses—the insecurities of skeptical people—for the degenerate vessel the body for all its stupidity was skeptical and denigrates itself, from time to time. Doubts both apparitional and valid invaded: doubt had haunted the body for all of yesterday—and lived as analog to its pretended life. The body could not see—would not see the cold parallels between itself and that…refused to accept itself as being something so barren as doubt.

Last night, the struggle to find sleep, prolonged to the point of potentially embarrassing physical malfunction—it was easy to imagine that during a phase of oblivious peace, between the tossing and turning, the bladder might cease to contract…and yesterday afternoon the waking dream, described thus: the WORLD appeared in the eyes of people as a film, as though the limits of touch—which run deep—were made obvious—made frighteningly obvious— and, in struggling to smooth out the contours of an environment made to look ludicrous the body weakly attempted to ignore an array of hallucinated figures, thrust into his field of vision and fixed there, so that the hallucinated figures were unable to be blocked out. They circled round him, in a mocking way—the wacky figments of cloistered, human issues of the body, which soon reveal themselves in a mania—dusty little men of coal that danced across the desk and also tracking dirt everywhere snigger like inane, little omens.

Yesterday, come and gone—spent swiftly as the meaning from nonsense…goddammit…the day and the images of the day by degrees shall slip further from clear recollection. This is—or so it seems— brought on by apathy I guess towards whatever information could be retained from normal days…or it could be something that one does not want to remember. For the day had been a normal day, in spite of but mostly due to the presence, in general, of inane little omens…

The frail beating of my heart…it grinds audibly, in the absence of calm reason to slow it—and the heart, crying out for the mind: the desertion of reason and calm. The heart soon learned—how crucial the mind had been and how hard for the heart to go on beating after the decision was made to put out awareness involuntarily from the body and perpetrated in secret by the traitorous body without consulting the other organs of sense…or, perhaps, I just want to assign blame to one organ in particular—I will work under the assumption of an evil body anyways…

The unreal mind is left marooned on a lone dirt slab surrounded, on all sides—as a jail of thought—by a black abyss, a doom that swallows. The unreal mind had somehow identified with its original home in the brain, and loses a bit of itself in being no longer poised, however tenuously, within the physical. Hence, it becomes a separate example—a floating observer, floating on a lone dirt slab, in space—while the body remains an object to be scrutinized, at a distance, with apparent disgust, by myself: for I am my mind: the body, knowing this, confronts the prospect of its own organic inadequacies and weaknesses and weeps, profusely, with its eyes. It were as though the million black strings running taut between my heart and mind had all snapped, and now only the feeling of surreal and detached horror was there…a feeling that only and swiftly increased the more I regarded myself outside myself, watching and hoping in vain for the creature, this abandoned form, to excite from the pleasures of its own isolated spontaneity some sense of the familiar: perhaps in pose…or, the odd maneuvering of an expression. So that I would not consider my apparent physical vessel as a stranger, but live it as myself and yet, outside of it…all the while the unreal mind—being myself—understood this persistent, though inscrutable vibration, suffering still to prove to me that I had indeed existed as that vessel. If in this young man the unreal mind could regard only a stranger, without any suspicions—then I—living within the brain—with impeccable equanimity despite my hangups would feed my skepticism and attempt to decipher myself—out of what appeared to not be myself, but someone I did not know—but, a stranger that was myself. In observing the stranger, this vessel that for so long had been the root of all my frustration—well I guess I could only discern an overwhelming empathic feeling for those afflicted by the cruelty of mental and/or physical detachment.

As I was quite young, I could not form each new shape in my head with enough diversity to pass for understanding; could not, then, rightly divorce the persuasive though angular details, objects and communications of daily life from broad, universal truths, and the realities were robbed of any distinctions—fixed in the increasing tangles of an aether. I was too anxious, too anxious in wanting one truth, one finality. I did not think to search for another, more possible one, which could indeed be located—perhaps crowded like mushrooms among others that I could find with equal ease because there is more than one of them. It was the failure to grasp this idea: that to extricate meaning from the specifics and generalities, was to know of life as following different states of logic…I guess, both extremes are guided by a different set of laws—though—two opposing extremes are not necessarily given the opposite rules. It is both dangerous and wise to take any one perspective and assume that it can be united with another—but, in any case, the failure to divide a whole, for someone as young as I am, suggests philosophical intractability—just as would the failure to join a division. Still, I attempted to make up my own rift: my hastily designed fabrications were marred by a superficial ambiguity—which I had, for years, tried with a sad sort of desperation to envision as my own, personal testament to the ineffable. My mind insinuated that I was a charlatan for this, buzzing barely from the place where both broad and the narrow marry: the vague sunder between the left and right hemispheres of my brain…

Any vouching for the life of this argument will be foregone, especially if it is not in earnest. Charitable reservations of judgment, on behalf of my words, are—as of now—completely useless, as well. I recognize such forced humors in people and know, they would not understand, if I told them—in fact—more likely to understand are necessarily the despicable personages: the quiet ghouls of society so agitated by the furious rote of their own intimate affirmations that anything is plain heresy if it is spoken to defer from any one of those affirmations, whether directly or indirectly spoken to defer. People who are so set in their own beliefs—like me—that they would find the verve of their own prejudices reflected in mine. They snort and scoff at my words, having immediately seen themselves—who they hate—in words just as hateful. To write all of this down and to go through it in my head…well, a naked sort of judgment is slowly distilled from this, regarding philosophy: both of these things are quite valuable and quite useless. And, it would be improbable in so many words to snatch lucid things from the afflatus before the afflatus as a result of overuse becomes tainted more and more with obscurity and eventually the sense made is too beyond the aid even of the unconscious to decode. What ideas that I do manage to chuck out beyond the initial obstructions of verbal posturing are suddenly unable to be understood by me, as all I am able to understand is verbal posturing. What I have accomplished is unforgivable: I will shamelessly inform, without regard to the chaste opinions of private, chaste minds—without regard to bizarre daydreams of the sexually disturbed:

If the seasons—winter spring summer fall—repeated infinitely, in a WORLD that existed infinitely…indeed, there are some problems in there, however, the main point cannot be resisted: the perfunctory nature of my reasoning, though highly rhetorical, would still appear to describe, though quite mechanically, a sort of infinite within the infinite!!!! It lives within itself, rather than as two separate things—which is the most important distinction. Within itself, that is—within particles—the strike of particles—and as them, caught in a deliberate eternity of reactions…molecules and atoms and whatnot, each darting from one corner of space to another, somehow, and in gradual bits, they build—and snowball—they ricochet off one another in patterns of chaos, compensating for irregularities—irregularities invented by previous compensations—and then, there is no clear shape to it: the sense of accord is mislaid early on, and errors in the dialogue—between the tiny spheres and other spheres—overlap, and thus, repeat themselves, wrinkling further—but how can spheres wrinkle, and how can dialogues overlap, when somesuch dialogue is the passing of atoms without sound enough to make a dialogue, much less another, to overlap it—wrinkling further, that is, until a mess of large and unwieldy summations, which have come to be known as people and objects are created as through the work of a miracle. The corporeal and the inanimate…the large things and shitty souls…consider the bravura of all martyred atoms, instead of the ones living long enough to materialize!!!! In understanding the progress of disorder and destruction—necessities nudging ideas into the realm of material life—well, a man is inclined to softly notice, to his horror, how the performance of all logic possesses so sheer a command of its conclusion. The conspiring of logic, albeit haphazardly, against the extremes—choosing to waver like a pause in the throat, between the sensible and the outrageous—asserting both as being contrary borders and between the borders are the visions untried and the visions are swathed in gray. The lesser eternity lingers in the means and ends of the greater one—just as the outrageous is a tangent from the sensible, and strengthens reason by contrast. Again: the lesser infinity is bid to come and attach to the purposes of the greater one, the greater summation. I return to the idea of seasons, which may exist within the WORLD—however—they would not be if the WORLD were not, which is unlike the relationship between mind and body: it is the body that could not go on without its servant. This implies that seasons somehow serve the WORLD, which is weird. However, by repetition the seasons sculpt most effectively our perceiving of that WORLD…more so, even, than wisdom croaked out the windpipe once and never again by the dark, old man in the corner, wearing—among other things—great big sunglasses: through the establishment of understandable categories, each season becomes a minister to represent the difference, the causality of difference…done good and over again and again, until done bad—finally—after exhausting from the method all capable positives. We are satisfied at this satisfied at having finally, finally broken something so enduring—afterward, in the wreckage of what had so long been we see and know the frailty of all systems, both in the present and the past, claiming to be full. There can be bigger fragments than others that cover more space however there can be no full thing.

Heh. The nice rotary of time…tell us of it and the implications it entails, please: first off: separations—each one the auspice and generator of what we know to be permanent and thus, comforting: that unseen benevolence we find in the arc of a change, from something alien to ordinary—and vice versa—at certain times when the little truths of life are reassessed…and found anew. Clarity that is different and yet, the same…that serenity of movement in nature—which we strive and fail to imitate, reveals for those very fluid partitions her own beautiful and keenly sustained ignorance. For, the simplicity of life is quashed by human thinking—strangely manufactured profundities—which, unfortunately, break us free from such ignorance…which themselves by their distress will create in our souls a spreading cancer—this retaliation against vastness will kill us. For, any complexity manufactured in the mind will in being complex prove to me that I can ape the universe, at least in that regard—thus, the universe is not so complex, if I can ape it. Heh.

Of two infinities, one will live within another, as part of the other—rather than as two separate things—all division is a semblance. We are from this double mystery able to glean partial truths—seething in the primordial brume. Just as from truth we are able to instigate a partial mystery…since in both of these cases, the subject is incomplete. We see, the subject as in want of a surrogate piece; we steal the spot from whatever should have been there. But, is the truth—in reality—fragmented? But, is mystery a mere proxy, an accommodation—tempting the genius of flat people by inserting into their heads the bogus wonder of unknown phenomena???? We detect strangeness—a curiously elevated sense of cunning is present in the universe.

The infinite and the infinite within it, here and here only are suddenly as ancient violins, which sway in their sound the notes of fine music…the elegance and structure of the second movement seems not without a sense of the ironic when compared to the crudity of our long, insensitive statutes. They work by meting out law, and please nobody—our inadequate laws that please nobody. Both infinities and all could whir in the mind and rapidly enough to blur both the ends—an extensive train of thought thudding fast like the swift trembling heart of a hummingbird. They remain distinctly parallel, in spite of various attempts by reason to fuse them. We witness negative capability: the stranded shock of Hamlet at his own fearful questions. We realize that from such speed is born the great abstract, which we consider with the same stranded shock, and, we realize—then—to our dismay: speed is a meshing force…numbers, amounts, can linger only in relation to the slow sense of place—a physical place—come slowly from the areas of hallucination, and made physical…just as thought resists being typified as the amount of anything: each one is in synthesis with others that came before, because of the speed of it—that is until by thinking, one comes around to an idea that has escaped from the fortress, curling in nice curls deeper from the straight line curling as though up to the heavens, as though insignificance were in the divine enough that small things would, in approaching the divine be considered in their humble puniness the good works of meek and soulful piety…as it is that there are no small things that can exist; as it is that all things, no matter the size, could hold their own smaller things within—themselves the weird behemoths of a subtler aggregation…sums too careful in the coding to be fully breached.

And yet, no such piety—it is rather like shoddy, chipped whitewash that curls upwards from the shoddy wall of the shoddy tenement bathroom. The verb ‘curl’ would be a weak way to describe the action of ideas—had I not just then placed the verb, sensibly enough, within the context of paint. Immediately, the idea assembles a fortress of its own, foolishly immediate in the decision—for, if such an idea were to rend up its manacles and bind down the oppressive brain for its delight—as is what should have happened—and go off to live alone—as is what happened—such a thing would surely quickly pass beyond any humane license of the imagination, and pass even itself by…the imagination, so it seems can only survive fully in the head; though if the idea were to remain intact, once outside the producer…could a grand thought exist outside of any identity? There are some words better without a poet.

After all, if two physical places are, then two must be within both. In other words, there is a certain duality between something that exists in the imagination and something that exists physically—a link that is fed and feeds. These physical things can expand off one another to a point but that point is finite. I do not know where it ends—I know only infinite materials—on the other side of the coin something that lingers in the imagination cannot expand forever: the final step would be to turn the idea into a physical object—just as a physical object would when nearing the end of its phase as an object abruptly evaporate into the divine gloss—matter into energy, energy into matter. We take our ideas and make them things; as the hour deigns over the minute, so do those things vanish, by the rule of GOD. Both physical and imaginative perceptions are finite. However, if one were to take a physical thing, and put it in the imagination; or, were to take a fantasy and give to it—physical place—well it seems to me, then, that a combination of the tangible and the intangible, can expand and grow different, forever, forever different—this is why the brain is infinite: it is a physical thing, given the intangible, given fantasy. If all movement is from one thing to its opposite then hahrmm to combine both—hrmm—would be to stop time, and unify all action…I seek only finite materials, so that I may arrange them infinitely—and, I discover, you can take a sledge of rock, and split the thing in two, and still end up with one thing—a thing that when broken peters out into selfsame symbols…becomes the dumb heft of red bricks. Mixed metaphor. I turn this inside out—feel the statement lie to itself, for the sake of preserving the brotherhood of the naïve—maintaining bliss—I must assume that I know what has happened already. I must consider the breadth and find the symmetry sadly mistaken. For I have designed my own soft limits leading down the road to hard facts, facts not thought of yet, facts of height and depth…

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idiot saint.

March 29, 2012 at 8:38pm



“If the fool would persist in his folly he would become wise.”

—William Blake

Requited peace
And beauty haunt this place.

There is another one
Just like it, between
The Pacific and the Atlantic
—A little island of hoarse tranquility,

The crack of bugs and
The sift of grass, echo
Violently across the thicket across the colors
Separating—firmament—with acquiescent lines
That blind

But it is not the same,
No—not the same. The figures
Figures of dark inflections
—The voice of a thing in the dark—
A bit of cowering in that voice,
Throaty, and amountless, so that
In your dreams, for you are dreaming now,
In the night of this, the voice
Breathes, as if it had no choice. It
—Immediately disappears into
Chasms. At the first blink of the day,
You remember nothing of the voice,
And carry on.

And, you see the beauty—again—
On this little island of the X. And fathoms
Cooperate with fathoms, if you

Just saw the jangle of the cocoanuts,
And the carpet of the impassive sea . . .

I do not like to use
The word Beauty.
It is the only thing that implies
What we already know concretely—
What use is it???? If such an island
As that which, by the calculations
Of our pretty GOD tears apart all apart the supple stasis
—Of my vision, nightly, bleeds
The soft milk from my eye
In saturated white, until the Bulb
Is transparent, and the iris starved
I could get my car

And drive to the place
Of requited peace, of
Peace in knowing that peace
Would come, in time,
And in knowing this,
I knew peace also.

I approach the Beast
Who grunts, and spits
Fire—and I set my sword
Within him. Defeated, he staggers off
In a puzzle of movement

ARGUMENT: There is a place where pure beauty is where life is and where the peace the peace that one had sacrificed for the sake of the WORLD just for being alive, in that WORLD—is reciprocated—and, given back to that person: just by being alive: one celebrates the plenty of the EARTH just by being alive and the EARTH is grateful and in its turn allows the unnamable to be named—and—you find out, that—Christ—the answer dwells in the beauty of yur living . . . had always been there, in yur living.

There is another place just like it, between two oceans, it is in neither ocean, it is a small bit of rock, it is an island that is loud with the sound of flora, and fauna—of insects, and trees—and, yet, there is something daunting in the sound, something freaky, and, yet, the sunset redeems the sound, which hence bleeds into the freaky, fractured light of the sky, becoming a tranquil drone . . .
But it is not the same place and there
Is no such peace there—at least—any
Such peace as would be humanly recognizable
Hahaha it is recognizable but at a distance and
Myself and some vague other we find that
We are expected to lend peace—by way of
Keeping intact whatever peace might still
Resemble and retain immensely in the fantasy of
Inadequate metaphors—we find out
That we are to lend peace the same
Basic elements of something that is
To be seen by the human eye and the
Human eye only and at a distance only
Hmmmmm perhaps I am too spiritually
Farsighted: I am too spiritually farsighted:
I discover this—that is—what I had written
Nine words back, and by now what I had
Just written has been written many many
Many more words back from that
Particular number and and and—
So, yeah—so yeah. I discover this
And find out that by the time I make
The discovery—well, shit—I have already
Traveled long and hard in my searching for
It from the old, adolescent platitudes, fueled
By a thrusting fire forward from what I thought
To be an explosive injustice—and—what seemed
More staggering at the time, that time of my youth—
What seemed more staggering was this eerie suspicion
Of being aware of a fucking joke, existing—like an ether—
Around you, clinging to you, balking from an expression
Of its name from its own lips to you each day so that even
If you were to decide to turn back, it would not matter—as
It is that in my case, I have arrived—have arrived, already,
Before you, I have won, I have arrived at either the wrong
Place or the right place which strewn platitudes like so
Much confetti could not ever satisfy much less with
A location that only now I realize cannot be come
Upon and that peace that peace it hangs in the
Air around my want. It warms me—now—it
Warms, it warms with the heat of a distant,
Absurdist fact: this is the fact: it is the fact

That I am too close to the vision of that peace
For it to be useful to me—I am as I said, too
Spiritually farsighted—and I find out inevitably
And as tho almost to confirm the needling of this
My own infinite sadness that this peace is no sort of
Peace to rightly feel without knowing it—as well—as
Something marred: something that is marred—forever—
By a long, habitual stirring in the mind for that mind to
Address personal troubles, and, well, dude: they are my
Own gaddamned troubles, dude, so, yeah, don’t bother
To fucking help me . . . I said fuck off, you!!!! So, then—
Now that that is out of the way—I address certain
Troubles I guess and also I throw up my hands. I
Address them . . . I address each mistake that, really,
Was only a mistake because I have been too weak in
My youth my youth which floated on and on by ways
Of a private, lurking logic appareled yes appareled
In all the flourish of ceremony hahaha and well you
Know I might as well take an account of most failures
Out of the number that I have weaved thru . . . without
Permanent injury. I have been unable to quell what
Is still an inadequate seism—even now—I feel the
Quake of passions and have been unable—as well—
To mature, to get over my own selfishness enuff
To refuse an easy opportunity to benefit myself
And uhm you know I have been oblivious—as
Well—too oblivious, regarding the effect of
My decisions in general. In other words,
The effect of his own giant choices,
On others—others who are close
Or closer to me, or a me—choices,
The effect of giant choices speak
And persuade him to block out
What he would be doing to
Those whom I care for in
Making this an obliviousness

To all that is a reality and a handicap,
A handicap that is so severe as to raise
Questions, amongst friends: something
That could be accurately classified as an
Affliction is realized, in me—and—I see
The man, the former owner of a house—
Some house, somewhere—the man is
In the house. The man, he is in the
Basement of the house, now:
Right now: he is scanning over
Each one of his own troubles and
Each one of them is different from
Mine and what is fascinating is that
Each one deviates from what I would
Expect to make sense in terms of my
Own private appraisal of this man who,
Indeed, had once lived like a monster
In his house, his own house—really—you
Know it is not so much that I ruminate on
All the different types of troubles that the
One may have, and abruptly envision this
WORLD as diverse: it is more that the way

In which things are diverse is and will
Always seem a little surprising, to me,
So, in turn, it will be offputting—to be

Honest—it is very much offputting: when
It happens, it makes me uncomfortable,
And, yet: well, yeah: it happens frequently

—And, well—it is fucking offputting, ok????
That’s all I’m gonna say. Really, I cannot
Stress this point enuff—that’s all I’m gonna

Say—because, well, yeah, I guess this feeling
Of discomfort is what keeps me going, and it
Is what keeps me moving forward and away





From suffering and the suffering it manages
To emerge with the majesty of bubbles and
The bubbles emerge from the lagoon

Anticipating elaboration on a joke out
Of many of the immortal joker who
Then might hear himself laughing

At his own humor, and he would hear
In the rasp of the sound of his laugh
A cadence resembling coughing
Crows coughing and so yeah so

Yeah the damned murky water tempts
From the deeps an obscured, and—as yet
Unnamed chaos—a second coming of the

Mass beneath, from the surface of a bizarre
Lagoon where water lingers and grows stagnant:
And, then, one would expect to feel that stiffening
Of small hairs on the neck, seemingly by obligation
But in reality an instinctual response to feelings of

Fear: then: the mass beneath—a hideous,
Radioactive monster—comes from out the
Depths of bizarre lagoon, once more—after

You had destroyed it—similar to a phoenix,
Really, in the nature of the cycle rather than
In physical resemblance resemblance in terms

Of both what a phoenix looks like and in how
It reanimates hahaha because destruction only
Feeds the monster, and fuller, again—these

Beastly troubles of mine—the troubles of the
WORLD. The thing is that how I react to something
Surprising—like all of what I just wrote, among other
Things—usually ends up being a much less surprising
And so then infinitely more appropriate reaction to the the
The spontaneity. Like most things, or, like nothing at
All, depending on whether or not you are able to find
Truth in the concept of entropy, well, perhaps,
Humanity as a species is contained—locked,
Almost—in a jail of a will. This will is a will to
Instate thru an adequate appropriation of tools,
Personal tools to be used for one and another to
Communicate their own, personal martyrdom
Sensations inspired to be used. A will is
Somewhere in the mind, and this will is
The feeling of a concentrated rush of
Desire for something new that makes
More sense and in more ways than what
Had made sense before what had just been
And even what is, what is and all of it all of
This will be and is happily promulgated
Throughout—nonetheless—what the
Other had just done is beyond
Surprising: it is a consciously
Occurring spontaneity that makes
Itself out to be unconscious and also
Naturally occurring. It happens for a moment,
And finishes itself—completely—in a space of time, and,
Well, the space of time, the space of time is between two points,
And the points, the points if you must know are in a pair, however—
This pair of locations—since any point that you should care to chart
On a graph is a location—these two points they are so close
Together that they might as well be fused: in this
Rapidity is the surprise, really, since I am
Barely able to discern what had just
Happened to me you we him anyway and


So yeah so something far
Within skews out interesting
Voltage: more timid, yielding,
Active perfections, indeed,
That promptly shrivel up
In the exposure—and—I
Disregard the event whilst
New confusions ring out old
Confusions, confusions I thought
I had cleared up already and well
Well well each surprise that that
Other responds to that other with-
-Is a strikingly imaginative
Difference, and, yet, ends
Up being more predictable
Than what had caused the
Reaction—and so on—and,
Then, I feel pretty barren—I
Guess—more, it is my own
Imagination that feels
Barren, and limited,
Because—afterwards—I
Was not able to react to a
Shocking deviation, in a
Way equally shocking,
And, yet, how that
Other reacts to me
Is blander still, and,
Well, I suppose you
Could say that the
Troubles of the other—
Well—you see, the troubles
Of that other will always have some new prolepsis in their backpocket: the latest surprise, just for you: so, then—the one—existing at present and strictly in relation to another, is waiting, and will most likely continue to wait until the one begins to hurriedly stock up on what courage he can—as tho in preparation for war—and, the one—well, what about him???? Well, uh, he is kind of pitiful to be honest, which, in a way, is comical, because his cause is so very grand. This nervous, shaking, thinner one—out of the two—of which, the one is one part and the other, the other part, are—both him and that other—views of him (who?) that are, indeed, legitimate perceptions of an opposite pole, that—tho they violently contrast—are both equally legitimate, because they are both representations of a private, nestled sensibility and both the other and the one see the sensibility as true because, indeed, sensibilities—most of the time—are true, and, yet, are true only because they are privatized, and relate strongly to that self that is behind whatever actions the one or perhaps the other might devote themselves to push into an explosion, that—unfortunately—manipulates whatever personal sensibility I might choose to have, for either. A WORLD of truth exists in the mind of that one, though, because that one is the embodiment of what the other is, while thinking himself to be himself—and—the other, he is who neither of them are. Moving on! I want to whip out provocation like a dangerous knife and quickly from the ass of jeans enjoin a greater abstraction to the knife and and and I will be dedicated instinctually to a difference in the magic between me and the troubles of that other, who, now, right now, observes his past: it is an incompletion: his past is incomplete and hellish and yet stoked to life by troubles troubles that he observes with a poised, contemplative brooding—and, I find: his brooding, well, it is somewhat like mine: it is of one who looks and looks and continues to look at an old, dusty collection of something quaint and easy on the eyes, something that once—perhaps—he had enjoyed collecting an amount of—when he was younger, and, yet—even then, he was already at a point in life that before he knew it had hauled him far out past that youth of his and and and also he enjoyed looking at them, he really enjoyed looking at the one thing that he had collected an amount of for periods of time when he was younger. This is a phenomenon, like most other hobbies—it is a phenomenon, because, it is always an aim in itself: zero work is involved in a hobby, I reckon—I mean, I guess it depends on the hobby—however, overall, personal interests are always voluntary. Moreover, they are spasms of an opinion regarding something known amongst certain circles, perhaps—as a good—indeed, as a good—as constructive—moreover, as healthy, mostly, he wants to plumb enjoyable feelings immediately, feelings like that are good I guess and among them are things like admiration and awe and overall a sense of value in ownership, such as an ownership one might have of baseball cards: stuff amassed in a phalanx of black attachés: sadly, they get left behind, when the owner—whoever he was, that beautiful fool—loses interest, and decides casually and without forethought to banish a few things to the basement: things that would at least have to appear to him as things with purposes no longer tolerated as purposes if the respective item could not under scrutiny be linked much less be linked off the cuff and in under two minutes to whatever use of which that item would purport to be a correct embodiment and even the things that were taking up a little too much space, he guessed, would have to go. So, in order for him the original owner to really consider taking anything anywhere . . . well, yeah, well, fuck, these, in reality—loose—and, yet, to the owner carefully and also prudently mediated rules successfully extricated from the unfull parts of a complex dialogue in his head would have to and did sort themselves out in his head in quite literally a splitsecond and it was a splitsecond argument and the argument was located in his mind and his mind in sensing a conflict of interest between the left and right hemispheres would begin to suddenly wonder how wise it is—you know—how wise it is, leaving shit all over the floor and all over the place, sometimes it is so bad that he swears he feels an epic weight weigh down on all his brief, and—after awhile—discarded passions. The discarded passions are on the floor, then—and—all of that, taken together with his own fears of inadequacy that never allay—not even somewhat—all of this, well, fuck it, he slowly feels all of this: crunching, crunching, crunching on his SOUL. Ha! Hm. He unconsciously transposes from this wrong place—perhaps—perhaps to somewhere where he cannot feel the crunch in his chest that in six months the doctors would identify as a heart murmur and he does not yet know that this will eventually lead to heart disease and yet he harnesses the pain, really: he transposes the feel of the crunch to inanimate things . . . all of this fucking shit . . . everywhere . . . in a mess, on the floor, in his own, damned house: his house is a confinement. The whole damned house is getting sucked into a black hole, he thinks—imagine it—it were as tho finally the owner and the angsty emptiness in him had become so massive in him as to make it seem like all of that stupid shit on the floor could implode everything—could split the beams of houses to splinters. Eventually, he allows the junk to pile up. He is always way too lazy, and will do it later. Even more junk accumulates . . . you were always kind of a packrat, you fucking slob!!!!! This is a purging of junk, this poem: one hemisphere of the brain is all for it, and, so, then, the other hemisphere is not at all for it. Willed by an unconscious need to break thru the clutter the man inevitably grabs two boxes for whatever he can find first . . . what is this? He asks this question with no real awe or admiration or whatever in his voice however there aren’t many men who don’t care, at least a little, about a past that once was their reality, and—in this case—this man who once owned the house, was, indeed, amused—after all, his SOUL is not a clod: he thinks: holy shit . . . heheheh . . . jeez, where did these come from???? He smiles, and, well, the smile is crooked: it is crooked, yes, because his attention is divided between various points of focus: stimuli: he is not focused on his jaw—enuff—to even it out, and, so, then, as a result, the stiff upper lip finally relaxes its stiffness (this man had taken so long to cultivate stiffness) and the muscles in his jaw go lax—enuff—to turn it all crooked, and, he views those old baseball cards—huh—forgot I still had these, really, he says, to himself, I suppose I’ll just stock them up in the basement for now and—I guess—sell them, at some point? Seems logical. So, yeah, the years pass . . . eventually the owner of all of the baseball cards in question goes off to live somewhere else, yeah, so, someone buys the house—some dude. On one of his first days there in the house this dude journeys for the first time downstairs to his new basement. He is still busy with moving, and is kind of stressed—tho—he puts discomfort in the back of his mind, for now—the man, the new owner of the house—we are speaking of him, this time—had been unpacking the remaining boxes and luggage, and, shit, there’s still boxes left to unpack upstairs, he kept thinking. For all intensive purposes, he had planned to unpack them—days ago—even tho he did not write down anywhere to do this and even tho he almost forgets the chore—completely—still, he ends up not forgetting to do that shit: he is not forgetful, and, well—we—that is, all of us, I think, possess good humor enuff to find solace in knowing that at least this man, this man at forty with no wife and no life, at least, we know him to keep—if not his appointments with others—then, at least, those appointments he makes with himself. So then the man so yeah he decides to get an early start—decides to wake up at seven—looks thru the window at his front yard, which—he notices—is saturated in the hard rains of a yesterday a yesterday that has already slipped his mind. His own concept of time seemed to be working against him: time seemed to him enclosed in a veil of mist: he thinks to himself: I feel like my brain is wearing sunglasses—wait, no, more like, I feel as tho my brain were constantly exposed to the elements . . . or something. An image flashed thru his head, then: a moment of rain, heard soft—then, hard—against his bedroom window, during the night. This image relaxed him a bit, it is, indeed, a relaxing image, for you—and, he realized that he had been clenching his ass—because, he wasn’t anymore—and things felt different around that area, he supposed. So, the man, he goes straight to the basement, straight to work, without having breakfast, ambitious fellow—he hasn’t had time to go out and get groceries yet, anyway, and, in point of fact, does not regularly eat breakfast—so, then, it was no matter—he was in no rush, was he now?????? No words, all action: just do the deed. So, he gets started: he ends up finding fifteen volumes of something like soggy baseball cards, and some stamps. Strange. Weeks after that, in quite a different state—and after examining more comprehensively the contents of what apparently the previous owner of this house had left for him to have—the man realizes, then, that, before the storm, and, unknowingly—and, for a straight three days—he had been sitting on a treasure trove: and, yet, ah, shit, he is too late, you see: cumulatively, the man, this man, who bought the house from its previous owner is now of the opinion—tho, most of his opinions, like mine—indeed—are things even now unable to divine a consistency for very long before creating something wrong about themselves . . . anyways: the man in his forties with no wife and no life is of the present opinion that all of what the owner had left behind, when taken together, would have snagged him upwards of $80,000 . . . had it not as was mentioned rained quite hard the night before—flooding the basement—and, effectively destroying the goods, which, again, he only discovered after somesuch destruction: the boxes when the man discovered them, were labeled—miscellaneous—hah! Pretty funny, how things work out, people are so frail . . . moving on, or, rather, back, way back to the beginning of all this—that is—the part in the story, when I talked about how I scanned my own troubles as like one who might scan the sopping dregs of a lost fortune with an elegant, poised brooding . . . wet cardboard, fixed in his hands: moving on: it is unlikely that I will simultaneously know and understand—while doing the scanning—that, in addressing them—them, being my troubles—by shamelessly bringing all the nastiness of my troubles to the forefront—and, in any way, at all—in addressing my problems consciously I would be revealing to myself how useless it would be to find a solution, since all this ends up being an internal pattern of give and take that approaches something, like this: that is, a sort of brutality, in dwelling on such things and yet being unable to change them: I can’t get over it: it is a kind of brutal, senseless masochism—heh—to be honest, I can never even be sure—after attaining a solution—that what I had solved would end up actually being beneficial, to me, in the longrun: it would be—instead—a sick, ailing peace, an ailing peace that folds, innocently, innocuously—like, for example, this paper napkin, this napkin daintily/innocently positioned on yur lap—folding over each emotion: it is like wind: it is elusive as a wind that is a tiding of change: prodigious feelings—they will change, yet again—and, tho the metaphor is done with, I’ll just add this: that is, I am adding, at present, a similar, unrealized peace to the peace that by this time I assume we already have garnered and taken advantage of, and, emotion—shit—it folds like an evil fucking paper napkin over every feeling, but barely. It is an evil quelling that I can only ably use to detach myself from life: personal troubles might arise, yes, and do arise, and, yet, I would only and too simply detach from them. Doing this—ultimately—would, indeed, detach all that I am from all of life, since, in this totality, in the stating of a series of random/peculiar/haunting/related ultimatums, in this and this only is an honest feeling of hardship: any totality is a hardship, really, which proves that any hardship I have gone thru is pretty much one out of many that provoke to string dirtiness thru the dripping darkness of his home—that is—my home, my solitary home, which, as I think of it—now—for the first time, manages to assuage the pain and the solitude—living alone in a whitewashed room. A red lightbulb is fixed at the center of the ceiling of the room and turns on without a switch to shed light on the red room that in being any sort of enclosure will intensify the pain of the solitude of being without a home for the room to be in, and, this intensity is a more dangerous product of the pain—that is—of hardship: that is, the fantastic oblivion of a dreamless sleep before waking up in the wrong place and the place is wrong because it is known only as a result, that is, the result of a peculiar/haunting/related ultimatum, spoken as a challenge and so then put to the test, a test that whoever spoke, in the first place, failed . . . I crash . . . and, I fall upwards from where I would find the sense in it—that is—in life, once gravity turns around—and we—everybody—flies off the planet, into the sun: that’s it: what peace I have received so far upon arriving at this wrong place with a companion—who I am only now mentioning again and who will seemingly disappear from focus until I mention him again, again, and, yet, I will only do this so that I can properly destroy him—anyways—what peace I have received at this wrong place, an island, a wrong and sinister island, is—I have come to realize—naught. Void. Phooey. It is nothing, but a pleasant—tho temporary—salve. Troubles exist, yu see, and, then, new ones do: for example, there is this trouble I have about repeating myself: yu see, when I do truly decide to make something into an idea, I commit myself utterly to an effort towards finding something in something that I have already rummaged thru to look for, and found: something, indeed, that I had had in the giant bag—before coming to this wicked place—this wrong place. I now rummage, yet again: I rummage, like a delirious maniac, thru the big, giant bag: I pluck with ease some kinda scary new idea, I guess, and—deliriously—I stand squat in the center of my own balance, for the first time. With my feet apart and my head tilting upwards, I outstretch my left arm and wield meaning like a magnificent sword speckled on the handle with white diamonds and rubies of such a density of color—scarlet color—as to possess, if only one could so regard the transparent shine of the angles of the white diamonds, or the deep reds and deep greens of rubies that are too much a part of this image of a sword that I am not even describing fully, fuck, well, then . . . one might, considering this logic of rubies and diamonds and whatnot, well, one might just throw up their hands—if they are bold—and, you know, give up: give up what might have been possessed: one feels the need to go sit at a stump in the forest and contemplate shit: if the one wishes, he could then regard and continue to regard everything and all that is before him—with amazement—because for so long he had not contemplated a thing but in a language of figurative abstractions . . . so has it been laid out like a wrinkled, soiled sheet over the bed you wake up in. This garbage is for the reader, in words: the pleasurably odd landscape of a mind that is glutted with sensations of reality, which—now that I think about it—are more like outbursts of a clarity that is only clear because it deviates a lot and for the first time and in the most unexpected way from your/my/his own organic set of principles, organically sprung from the marasmus: there is barrenness here—in this wrong place—I feel it, as well, comrade: a perfectly barren thought exists, and that thought is the only tool I have to search for meaning, which, actually, is a thought that has not necessarily lost the ability to be clear—but, instead—no ability was ever there, at all. To be clear, however, I would suppose that this barren landscape is a relatively good example of pathos: it is easy to imagine that one would appreciate the tragedy of the struggle a struggle to mimic the feeling of clarity, in words, because, quite literally, that is the extent of yur abilities—that is—my abilities, and, well, shit, it’s kind of strange how there are so many sentences out there that unknowingly contain useless words, words that shouldn’t have made the cut: sometimes: well: at least, in terms of my own, personal quest for knowledge, I find it strange. But, what is this clarity, and what shall it become, with time????? You are afraid. You (I’m sticking with you, this time around) go somewhere deep and deep and way too deep within, because, well, uhm—any emotion, demonstrated—no, no, no: let us say, any emotive power is powerful because it is a mixture of differences, and so then toys around with the possibility that it is both the means and ends, and, this makes me think that, well, most hybrid things consume themselves while being able to produce—from nothing—a successfully communicated stubbornness: an aversion, indeed, to this disproportionate landscape of the mind . . . that tho I write it down will dwell still in the unity of something magical that gives us all in words what is blessed upon that other, in myself—myself—who cannot take into account his own awareness and, so, then, cannot digest an emotion of power—so that, I see the potential in tapping it, in tapping the emotion, and, yet—I cannot tap it—as it is not in me that the emotion of power sees the accord of itself but, rather—for some reason—it is able to deconstruct the unity I would have possessed. Nonetheless. I cannot tap it, and, it goes way down more than it should within, and gets stuck . . . left to starve and die beneath the pressure of the guts of that more surprising other, in me: ah, comrade: you initiate the demise of what has already been made clear, and—suddenly—the landscape of the mind becomes an impatient dissecting by me of that figurative corps of shadow, and emotion—in my bowels—this time. It is a dissecting of that which has unknowingly wasted a reality that is without proper scale or any perceivable arc. Awareness would then possess and so then know as full the power of a deepness resembling in scarlet and white and green a color that one might be compelled to phrase out and phrase eloquently—in words—as the blear of a disconnect as passionate as a shrouding of the conceit: a manifold passion of the self, and, the multiple tubes of that self that are confined beautifully and wrongly within some kinda weird idea are what one would define as some sorta magnificent sword: a weapon that I shall offer to the sky: the beautiful idea, made object: this idea is an idea, that, if I were to get beyond the problem of repeating myself would still never exist as a physical form—enuff—to be solemnly, tastefully eschewed—by me—to the dominant sky. It is an idea that I grab out from a great, big bag, and sacrifice. Beforehand, I keep it somewhere safe and yet hidden. Things such as this bag, this package—where I keep all of my ideas—should not be tucked away behind the bushes, and left there: they would grow, yes. However, whatever they grow into will always be a terrible, terrible obfuscation of the bloom from whatever seed of clarity that had been, before the seed was an idea. This implies safety, I guess—safety that is filled all the way to the top of the glass of an imaginative solipsism. I commit myself to an effort and the effort is in trying over and over again to fathom what I had written before, which means that the content is still preoccupied with some statement I had already made and which, most likely, needs fixing: the frequency with which my mind forces me to recollect each problem and/or each flaw of self or mind or of content or style—well—such frequency, rapidity, in itself, would present possible problems: I do not solve them: so, then—that is—now, they linger: they linger in the back of the mind and spoil. However: solitude, quietude, restfulness: most of what is there, that is, in this wrong place, is good, and is the good stuff: it is the right stuff, partly. I suppose I should be thankful for any experience of peace at all, and, well, I suppose I am happy with this nice brand of peace that I have ended up with. I just wish I didn’t have to live in this place—this wrong island—in order to feel somesuch peace: don't worry, KATIE: and, well, truly: I am not trying to be too much of a stupid wiener, yu know: for example: I will not hand to you like dollars an obtuse remark that for no seeming reason other than perhaps to annoy is stated in a voice that curls up and out the throat in a lilt like some kinda chipper tho disappointingly optimistic inflection. To clarify: I will not hand with my hand such a remark—as was just elaborated upon—to anyone, and, in such a way I will not hand like strange dollars remarks to yu, since, indeed, yu are one out of that theoretical anyone. Especially yu—out of anyone—would know and thoroughly know that optimistic remarks are strange dollars!!!! Especially yu would know, that—each and every second—I spout out and desperately a fresh one out of the many shapes of my optimism—anyways—in the hopes that whoever listens, might fight me: I do it in spite of myself: I do it, I try to be happy around other people, you see, and, because they know me . . . and, because they understand that I possess somewhere within a darker, danker malignancy . . . well, then, whatever happiness I try to spread to others ultimately typifies to those others an urgent need to get real, and, shit, I knew, I just knew that those two words would be on yur mind—get real—are, indeed, on yur mind, constantly. What is on my mind constantly is what I just said, because it doesn’t relate the original idea back to an image of hands as a form of communication—even tho this piece is so dense that yu probably have forgotten all about that, by now. Then again, I’ve been editing this shit for so long that I now consider each subject that I bring up as being malformed/scattered in relation to the whole, no matter what part of the piece I happen to be editing, at the time. This is due to the fact that the way I am editing this is, itself, scattered: in that, I edit different areas at different times, and this gives to the idea of an emotional formlessness that pursues variable meanings all the way out from the end of concrete ideas to the primordial beginning of abstractions and well yeah so you know and I know that you could take this awareness for what it is—if yu wanted—or dismiss everything here as irremediably worn out by my own sadistic compulsion to insert nonsense. In point of strange fact I find myself inserting nonsense, yes, but, usually, at that point when things are most seemingly perfect, to me: to clarify, again, but regarding something different: perfection is not in my work, it is rather a matter of what I force myself to be satisfied with. This lack of a connection between ideas is a flaw of content in this particular piece—however—sometimes a lack of connection can be good, if the two thoughts violently contrast: moving on: I am moving on however I am moving on without a link between what I have just said, about what I said: the statement on the verge of being written now starts with a profanity: shit, well, I'd say that I do not share with others what no one would want me to share with them, and I share what I gauge to be what other people enjoy receiving, and, yet, all positive thinking: thinking, regarding shit, this shit that is on the floor is merely the mask of a parable unearthed and found to be new, to be new and something organized, and, it is organized, these are organized thoughts, upbeat thinking that is sustained, and, yet, you do not like it, because all this crap, right here, all this crap on the fucking floor cannot be one image—together—it is not meant to be the image for what I believe to be my own strict and also unrelenting optimism. No image of anything or anyone could ride the wave of a single emotion, for very long, much less if that emotion were sustained solely on upbeat thinking, which, really, is the type of thinking that feeds the muse, whether yu wish to throw aside the romantic ideal of suffering for art, or not: wow, that would be mad fucking hard: that is, a story without a conflict: to focus on the utter reality of circumstances, rather than explain how those circumstances came to pass, and how that passing had and has so far affected ghostly people who, at present, inhabit the given circumstance, as tho for a time. This, indeed, is true, as it is that it would not be a circumstance if it was not fleeting: kind of like a period of something, but, more on that, later: really, it is composing a paradise out of words: the story of a paradise that is, yet, captivating: whoa, whoa: that would be mad fucking hard: could one remain upbeat, and, even at the worst of times look not to the GOD that the WORLD knows, but to the GOD that nestles inna corner, freezing its ass off, waiting to be discovered—and, eventually—taken someplace warm, to be cared for????? You see, this declared optimism, repeated in different words for the feeling—declarations, which I am outlining for you at present—such a large and vocal optimism, such a wealth in the scribe of feelings, of happiness, and all that traverses that shade between what I had never, in this piece, highlighted as an opposite pole to an alien, disproportionate happiness borders on an emancipated, popping indulgence that pops and snaps and crackles in the receiving ear—that is—when the ecstasy of being is shared with those who do not have it in them to feel, most of the time. Yes, it is shared by a given person: a person who is ecstatic and yet is in no way selfish in sharing whatever good news he feels obligated to share. This is only because—in most cases—that person who is indulgent in his ecstasy wants everyone else to feel that way . . . or perhaps optimism is the lifeblood of the personality of someone, anyone, and I know that when people have discarded those notions, those fanciful notions, those notions of hope and of eternity in hope . . . well, to acquire such an endlessness and to suddenly uncover the fact that what was endless was merely a feeling out of many on the strata, which, indeed, is an element in life that does not so much dictate the placement of emotional levels as it does level each arbitrary hue . . . well, to acquire such an endlessness is to level it out of arbitrariness enuff to keep the hue unaware at least of whatever impracticalities might emerge from the bold move. Think of it as something no longer a color: a hue, instead: a single endlessness of color. Heh. This hypothesis had to me at first partial merit—to me, at least, and, at first, mostly likely, this particular idea would not be considered by me as an option without peevish feelings, rising up: the feeling that I am being indulgent in my execution—that is—whenever I decide to indulge my happiness I would at least be able, then, to feel that way about it. If I attempted to put to practice my words, in life—in an attempt to be happy—I would at first feel peevish, and, perhaps, continue to feel that way, and, perhaps, nothing would come of it, and I would continue to feel fucking peevish as hell and I would consequently give up on accomplishing anything, at all—thinking, instead, to engage in a shapeless acting upon of a given, generic circumstance of arriving wrongly at the wrong island which, to my chagrin, would end up being an execution anyway: this would happen, possibly, and if it did would prove the existence of that idea of endlessness, regarding the layered mind of one who senses what he feels. However, we know that in life one will end up engaging—maybe, without even knowing it—in an unsuccessful execution of this rule. This works, indeed, but sporadically, and, most of the time, properly—without results—besides in the spirit of the experience of trying, which, to me, is a newer execution of life—since it is that we are talking about life and how it is executed—a newer, fresher execution, an execution that I dispel thru words: the words, here they are: they elaborate upon the leftovers of an optimism that must be there and in a succinct way, a way that must be succinct since the situation is fraught enuff, already: the situation, if yu haven’t already figured it out, has to do with arriving at the wrong place, and, yet, being content with where yu are: I reflected on this, after writing it down, and, suddenly, a difference of opinion—between myself, and all the rotten WORLD—became apparent to me. I guess it had something to do with what I perceived when I perceived all of this shit, on the floor: I knew then finally and with regret how happiness seemed and seems still to be an indulgent thing, and therein lies the difference—as it was that I did not learn anything—even as I struggled to prove to myself that I did learn something, or have, since the beginning of this ARGUMENT. At least, when one is in that wrong place, they can see it as wrong—or do they???? So, then, this piece is wrong, because, well, shit, I haven’t learned anything from it, at least, not yet, however, optimism, when expressed in the place where the one had been before leaving to come here, leaving, yes, only to fucking arrive completely afterwards at a place confined within a strange island barely described with details, at all—however—regarding optimism, raw feeling is there, is there and is enuff of itself to be there—so that the feeling can be pictured in heads, even if the island remains a possibility: an image to be reached, no, an image to be striven towards: an enigmatic, throbbing happiness that occurs and occurs all for the sake that something good might be found in situations—otherwise—why would you be happy to begin with?????? Whoever bothers to be optimistic about something that is wrong is really just conniving lostness itself beyond any ability to be found, or—rather—it is apprehended: what is wrong is apprehended, yes, like a criminal of the mind. Hah! Yu could relate anything to the mind and have it resonate, which is fascinating: in this case, I am that Pollyanna of the mind: I am the harbinger of all good news ever to be communicated by one to another, and, while one lifts the feelings of that other up by expressing whatever happiness is communicated between them by that one, that one who follows forward from the response of the other to an answer hopefully continuing a pattern initiated previously—well—while one lifts the feelings of that other up, that other, well, fuck it, he has gone off somewhere deep into this metaphor—he who had come along for the ride and is now regretting it. However, he says nothing, and crossing his arms hunches against a surface a surface to be defined at a later period, fuck it—a period—rather than a time, or a moment, since, indeed, somesuch period implies more than a moment. Moreover, a period implies that those collected moments, however much more an amount of themselves they may be—stand out, somehow, from the others, whether in the fashion by which time shifts thru the—so far—endless thrall of seconds shuffling like chump change between the giant hands of homeless GODS for liquor—the good stuff—this time, LARRY, let’s get the good stuff, gaddamn, isn’t it HALLOWEEN or something, LARRY???? Anyway, the period in question could be what I just said, which I now forget, and will not bother to repeat. It could be that. Or, indeed—and this is more important a function of a period—that is, what stands out could be what is contained within the very seconds I shall lift from that other: I shall rear that stress over onto my bony back and so then feel in me and madly an impressionable kind of doubt that is quite impressionable because it is so easily seduced by the equivocal reasons for a thing to happen, and, this thing inspires pessimism that—paradoxically—is selfish, because it makes others feel bad, even tho yu are the one who is suffering. Pessimism is an affliction of the SOUL I guess—you see???? So, uh, yeah, hope is there, as it is always there—telling people this information is not necessarily helpful. First of all, everything is always there, in front of you: the WORLD, however, is somewhere vague and liminal, snared in a pull towards the anticipated feeling: never the feeling felt at the time, instead, my own futurity becomes known to me, and, well, I disregard the other who had accompanied me to this wrong island—this possible island—I remove him from all of this because he is not me and I do not like him very much: anyways: I scope out my future while trying not to be seen by it, as if my future were something conscious . . . which makes sense, as it is that I will be conscious during my future, since my future is an abstraction yet to become a reality of conscious frames: tallies, tallies of the ultimate period that sum up together into a consciousness that now builds further out of nothing, since, well, shit, everything is already huddled together against the cold of a VOID that in reality is a continuance, and all of it is together in a lump sum, and, I look in secrecy at the lump sum of my future: I am like a PEEPINGTOM who regards thru the window across the way his own, silly self, this time, but himself as someone who looks different from him. He feels—nonetheless—a furious mutuality between himself and his future, and carefully studies his future, only to find that in studying it his future becomes what he is experiencing at present. So, then, because he is the audience to his own life, an extra layer is introduced, which means pretty much that nothing has changed: he is merely embodying his awareness. As I expand on this metaphor I realize that I am unsure as to whether my future is really who I am looking at: perhaps it is the man who is looking: ah, shit, this doesn’t really work, does it: he sees himself like an audience would the actor: someone, someone in an apartment across the way who yet feels his vitality as much as he feels the vitality of that someone—who—as he extends his vision to encapsulate what is beyond his window—much as what is behind it—regards with bizarre feelings this human who slowly undresses, unfocused, wrapped all casual in the heat of the mundane: the beautifully mindless, daily functioning: good, human work. He, that is, me—not sure why I keep switching pronouns—observes my futurity, lasciviously. Like a dog!!!! Indeed, what will happen in my life seems to me as like some heaving though peremptory importance professed by an oracle with white eyes. Dismay, pessimism, and doubt hide out until the aftermath—because—tho, one may know his future and yet they do not know how they will feel about it, and, by the time the shock of a brief happening invades, that feeling is made apparent in yur consciousness. A need is emerging. I switch tenses often in the first draft, ah, so what???? It speaks to my own concept of time, I guess, fractured language is all I know, so, then, a need must emerge, a need, the need to be happy with lukewarm representations of a philosophy without strong examples. So, then, people either get pissed and ask you what you are talking about, or absently smile, or awkwardly smile—or smile, insincerely, and all of these are just ways to feign interest. There are even people who will wig out completely after you mutter something—anything positive. Just so you know—and, this is going way back in the piece—I believe that any sort of response one could make, in terms of whatever had been said before, must come completely after rather than immediately after, since, really, time is an object that we are unable to see, and, no object is able to be immediate—unless, yur being creative with it—which is a different and ultimately longer story: I will tell the story: the story is about meaning—and—the meaning is then chafed, completely, after I bring it up, since no lamentation is there for what I am unable to uncover. Why is no lamentation there???? By all accounts any change is lamentable, since something must always be lost in the transition. So, the meaning escapes—as I am unable to explain myself—ah, shit, well, at least I’m calling myself out on it—tho, it is kind of cheap to make up for flaws in logic, simply by saying they are there, and pointing them out. What does that do, and, what purpose does it serve???? If you, reader, can answer this question, then you have figured out why awareness, at a larger scale—at a human scale—is important. This discovery, eventually, will lead back to a reason for why things change, and, then, everything is a consummate circle of relations, and, indeed, this will make you happy, at first—positive reinforcement, and whatnot—but, you know what, I’m gonna cut this idea short, because I want to get back to that type of person who goes nuts when yu—that is, me—tries/try to be positive/optimistic. You see, whoever goes nuts will often stop going nuts at an imbalanced time. When this happens, it seems like the whole thing was an act that that person was not devoted enuff to to wrap up. People are insincere, I guess, but, mostly, just really indifferent, indifferent and preoccupied, and, that final straw on the camel's back ends up breaking its spine—and—the situation of the camel is lamentable because the camel is a metaphor and this metaphor did not even want to be a part of all of this. In fact, it isn’t even that powerful a symbol because it is a cliché that I guess I was trying to reinvent and so then make seem new while at the same time formulating formulations that are merely implications—oh, all this weight that I myself must now bear in suddenly being without an other!—because, of course, the camel is aware of itself, and yet it is fixed, is static, is twodimensional: merely, awareness is there for the sake that I might stoke the fire of my own, and—at present—diminishing optimism, regarding awareness and regarding how important it actually is to such a mind as mine. I will now take the aforesaid doubt in diminishing embers and stoke the embers mercilessly into a brave, intractable flame that flickers. Flickering Flame. I have just done this, ah, too bad, yu missed it—it was crazy!!!! The flame I stoked was crazy and also very big!!!!! Huh? Wait, what the fuck am I saying? I’ll just continue, like I always do, sadly: Moreover, it is crucial for yu to recognize that whatever physical being I bring up will inevitably become conscious of its existence, upon induction into the charade: this grandiloquent satire on the good sense—logic—Christ, you know, I wonder: what has logic ever done for me?????? I mean, get real: at some point—I think—yur sense of generosity towards and patience with logic is cut in half, just like the blue wire, except, you weren't sposed to cut the blue wire . . . so the bomb explodes!!!! Boom. I could map out the entirety of yur development as a human, or as merely a natural being, and compare and contrast both of these with how I myself function, and, uhm, shit . . . all of that stuff there . . . no, wait, is it here????? Anyway, it is stuff that I hadn't rightly gotten to, yet—probably—I would realize and with a grimace a grimace that bears degraded, yellowing teeth to the immaculate WORLD—where everybody is degrading, and everybody knows that they are degrading—I would grimace hard, and suppose this: that, as a sort of denial/rejection of defense mechanisms a person might force her/himself to notice a degradation or two in themselves, as a way to rectify—or—rather, to clarify the idea of degradation as a seeming transience that in reality is concrete—it just passes thru the self too quickly to be noticed. However, the idea, the idea more than anything else remains, as it is the only thing that remains despite the clouded pride of this clouded, prideful optimism. The idea remains as like some figurative stone—thundering down throats and into stomachs—there it sits, releasing from a terrifically dangerous core a rough contagion: transmitting from that core sour and slightly indecent feelings, to you: a discomfiting sort of plague that once had been quite fresh and quite effective in destroying all sense of self—and, thus—all sense of optimism. Optimism, as a topic, is probably starting to get old, I guess, I’ll keep trying to explain it, but, fuck, the fucking explanation is plagued with doubt, and suffers—and—the stone, the figurative stone, well, the stone is a doubt out of them—out of what???? Anyways: it is a stone that has yet to be digested, and—hopefully—expelled, thru the proper anatomical orifice. Hah! It is only by the good work of an inflating and deflating bosom that you are able to live—so, then—yu stop breathing, and become obnoxious. That life, that is, the life of an unnamable specter . . . I am using the specter as an example, you see—and, at present—the unnamable specters featureless and howling for the good works, they have yet to be finished—which is why it is foolish to bully other people a lot—and harshly. When it starts to hurt, they know, for sure, that, for a little while, for just a little while, someone else—and it could be anyone, even though most likely anyone will always have a reason to be pissed off at what is unnamable in their life, since that name is something with no need to be pulled up to the HEAVENS by underwear by the bully with tattoos of things you would expect to be tattooed on the biceps of one who consistently shaves his head, as a matter of course—for just a little while that idiot would be king. I am sure he made this choice a long time ago, in order to perpetuate a style of toughness: toughness: the impenetrable hardness of brick, and, the mind of the specter—the conceit of the bully—that mind, well, it is a brick. It is a brick because it is solid and hard and, ultimately, useless, unless there is an amount of them—stacked and meshed between hardened cement into the form of a building, this building with all of this shit in it: yes: all of this is actually shitty crap that is on the floor of each room in a building that is a large, ungainly affair—inspiring fear, in the way it looms over whoever observes it. The building is a bully: it is a bully because it is upsetting: I watch it loom like something permanent and dastardly and suffer out the vision until coming to the conclusion, that—yeah—yu can still be optimistic—I can still be optimistic—even as I observe life and all evils contained and shaking with power, in it, that is—within life—I am within life without knowing the opposite of that: this is not necessarily DEATH: I have no need to defend myself, because I see no self to defend. In this way I am able to remain without a foil—or, rather—an opposite, and, so, then, as a gawky, aimless fool. I am a fool who is chained by his own passions and nailed like a thing on the side of a house—bacon, perhaps: nailed to the side of a house, and, it is as vacant a thing as a totality: without contradictions to what in reality is an exhibited selfishness that I daily feel in distributing my optimism to countless innocents in the attempt to cure that emotional jaundice. It is as much in others as it is in me powerfully. I myself feel it, powerfully. It is the yellowing of a mind in autumn. The physical vessel in which a mind sits becomes something else, because it does not devote the diminishing space it has left to antagonism, and, so, then, is evermore real—and, well, shit—my mind is not a ghost!!!! The ghost is no bully: it learned early on how to be situated inside of yur locker, comfortably—after some howling and featureless and bareheaded specter shoved yu in there like something less than human—as tho the victimizer, by the poetics of a grand, ironic delusion imaged itself somewhere in the ghostly corridors of it’s own, halfhearted reasoning as a power a power more than yurs could be—anyways—the line of reasoning here is that someone, anyone, is always able to feel even more like complete shit than they already do. Everyday, I wait, and watch for you to smile: I say these things to yu as tho they would be the final things I said before death cuts me off with a remark. It is a remark on a feeblest existence out of those others who bully and think it all there: that is, they do not see the yellowing in the same way I do, and, so, the yellowing is not there, for them: it is they who yellow the WORLD and grow strong, sustained by the food of a belief that is felt in them, and, yet, because they are ghosts, they are detached from the feeling, which, in turn, yellows, having no proper area in which to incubate and, finally, crack open, like a shell, and, I say things, I say things and continue to say them, and, usually, the subject is what all this shit on the floor is doing there. I watch you—you fiend—in the mirror, alone, watching for it, and, it never comes but in drops of meaning on the maculate page. Finally, finally the time comes when you can't take it anymore or whatever, and I look in the mirror at yu, that is, me, and behold merely a yellowing of time that shades like a disease across a stupid face and I peer at that face and I know it as mine and yet the value in remaining as but a face to behold is obscurely squared in one single, predominant expression of optimism in knowing that the face will always be there—in front of you—will always be there and will always turn: as like a leaf, as like a spontaneous metaphor for a reality that is eternally degrading—and, thus—as with all eternal things, will exist like a generality among specifics, that is, as like an awareness aware that it is not fully aware but in knowing this very fact of truncation, truncation, that, to me, is deliberate—and—to others, it is a yellowing of the passions enuff to underwhelm the meaning in that fucking face I peer at thru eyesockets and my eyesockets are dank bulbs that recede as tho frightened by what they see and they have yet to see, and absorb—thru reflection and/or refraction—both in an ocular and spiritual sense—all that frightens them. They are sockets that recede into a malformed skull: there are two small indentations on either side of my skull, at the temples. It were as tho I had gotten stuck on my way out the nice and pearly orifice and so then had to be extricated by way of forceps clamped against both sides of my head—and—that's where we left off I think. No, no, never you mind, that wasn't where I had located the previous and foggy idea before pursuing tangents, tangents that I will go back to and read over again in an attempt to connect it all back to itself in the most interesting/outlandish way possible, which is basically what I do, in order to portray a WORLD of disparities as a WORLD of intense connections that for the most part are not recognized, because they are too intensely wrought from the spontaneous, which is a factor in life that in itself is intense and, so, then, is hard to dissect, because feelings get in the way. So, instead, yu choose to be blindly optimistic, and ride on the form of a motion until more is needed to detail a conflict of the self, between what meaning out of life that that self is able to garner; that, and, more importantly, what it wishes it could garner, since whatever it could wish to have—to that self—ends up making more sense as something beneficial that could happen, at least in the yellowing context of the life of that self, looking in a mirror. Oh yeah!!!! I forgot, you grimaced upon realizing that humanity has more of an obsession with grim happenings(?), and, indeed, are sadly less involved in attaining their own sense of peace, requited peace that you feel—enuff—for the grimace to feel kind of false as soon as you shape it across the curt, pink rail of ur upper lip and the slightly fuller, darker rail of yur lower lip, which, tho it is flat as a rail is quite versatile—and—it can convey many different things, which are things that one would probably want to communicate to other people, at some point. You have given all that you can and, still, yu are received halfheartedly, by the very people you have aided in the past, and sometimes have aided, multiple times—when yu are received by those people with all the buzz and fanfare of unappetizing handouts—yu realize/accept that these are things that exist, these handouts, these are unappetizing handouts that must exist, exist to stroke the ego properly—without any major losses. This seems charitable, and, yet, you hoard all of what you treasure, in secrecy—and, like some large, disfigured rodent you scurry from the malignant crevice into public view, unabashed. It is like more nuts after you've already had three handfuls, and, you say to the guy—well—it was generous, it was lovely, but, to be honest, I really, really, really, really don't want nuts anymore. All of it is right in front of me, lain down like a picnic of useful dregs to use for various jobs around the house. It is all right there—yup—it is all in front of this goddamn, misshapen face: the arched brow, this lugging pace of a NEANDERTHAL—this emotional intelligence of a NEANDERTHAL—all of this, right in front of my face, haunted subtly at angles by bizarre tho confusing deformities. I still manage to look normally at all of this, in front of me, looking at me looking at it, indeed, and, well, all this shit that I got needs to rest there, in that spot, for a moment, it wants to rest that part of its relevance that is most relevant—but—it argues each part as equally relevant, which is true, but, I do not want all of this here for very long, because I want it somewhere else, so that I can look at all of it and paint meaningful pictures of what I see when I look. However, for now, it lies motionless and neutral as DEATH on the Spartan floor of my apartment. What all of this in front of me is is lain down like a picnic in the park—when I turned the key, and opened the door—it was there—all of this, right there, equidistant from all the rooms, so as to allow for easy access. All of this arranged pleasantly, in order, as though by somebody nice, nice. By somebody who is enraptured by the idea of that chaos out there, still yet to arrange back into a specific yet infinitely altering pattern of things, things, organized so very well that they blend in with everything else, outside of what is organized: it could be anything, no matter how garish or bulky or impractical. This happens when I try to blend all of this that is before me in with everything else and this ruins that limited sense of an order able to be wangled out. This is all right, of course, however, solitude, quietude, restfulness, are merely means to seduce one to approach, further, some harrowing prospect about one's own, tender flaws, or, in the lesser case, there are the flaws of others to speak of—flaws to defend and/or make fun of—therefore starting the process of a child into a wreck of selfhatred and percussive migraines that—more often than not— split my head clear in half, and in those cases I show my friends and family this brain of mine—split in half—and they scream with applause at the display of this remarkable ability, this ability to fissure what I once had as one thing: I am eight and three quarter years old and my brain is spilling out thru a rift and it is a deadly hole—in itself—in my poor, little head. Mommy!!!! I once yelled this very loudly: repeated this, but louder, and louder, and, she came—once—in the middle of the night. And, so, she began to sing in a frail voice various obscure lullabies and some of them were happy and some of them were kind of grim, but I liked that. She left—and—just my luck—my nightlight—the lightbulb went out in my nightlight. But, I did not want to wake up mommy again—so—I just sat there, in complete darkness, perspiring: by the end of the night I ended up being more afraid of what would come than what ended up coming, which, in general, is something that does not satisfy—in fact—I do indeed think that I lost my fear of the dark not because I grew out of it but simply because no physical harm—let alone, DEATH—nor any permutation of the aforesaid has ever come to pass—while in the dark—nothing bad has ever been the result of what ultimately is a youthful fear more powerful than mature fear because it is the first experience of fear and this fear is simply manifested in the dome and the dome only and only early on in a special way: anyway, back to my split skull: I brought my split skull to showandtell. ROLO brought a toy dinosaur and GRETCHEN brought her rock collection and I could tell that everyone was bored and and and when TEACHER called on me I went up to the front of the classroom, making sure to convey a tentative tho eager attitude that did not too much reveal how proud I was of my split skull: seemingly bewildered, almost, as I made my way past each desk—each face looking on, with disgust—some with big, old glasses that make you look all creepy and judgmental. I stood, proudly, and showed them my head, because, it was split in half—obviously—I thought It'd be a superrad idea to show people how brains work—and stuff—and, everyone was confused, and, this confusion made everyone silent, and, the silence lasted for about two seconds, and, then, everyone laughed and pointed with small, chubby fingers at me—as tho I were not human, but—instead—pure, uncut, unadulterated amusement. I existed only for other people then and have ever since existed for other people without once questioning motives that I am sure I do not have or even wish to have, if only because I am set in my ways. I do not mind this. I do not ridicule or support—well—sometimes, I ridicule. I hate people because most of them are idiots who, when speaking passionately—or, of sad things—emote just a little too much, at least, once that person realizes that they are receiving attention—and—what ends up happening is something that is as long and drawn out as an infinite nothing: the infinite nothing is directed at me: it is that other of myself that I have alluded to who speaking overly passionately wishes to show me his own infinity of mind, and feeling. I cannot understand this, as it is that I have a limited emotional stratum: extreme depression and extreme happiness—basically—and, I say that knowing that most people tend to think of bad things as happenings that should not, really, happen to them—it doesn't make sense, to them—simply because they do not wish to instate in a mind more narrow and deceiving a fresher credence to expand that mind, more narrow in being made to deceive a vessel that such credence had made strong and lush. However, things that are impossible to feel must be dealt with, at some point, as well, by the one out there who could have been excited to life were it not for a spirit of mere, mere, irregular chance, shifting the focus towards a meaning of bronze—this meaning that is not of reality—instead, and read carefully now, even tho there is no reason to—or—perhaps there is, perhaps I am about to divulge personal information, since—I guess—all this is, is a CRISIS LYRIC—the crisis being all that fucking shit on the floor, in a brick building of autumn and of misery—perhaps—I am about to divulge personal information. I already have—actually—whether you, reader, have noticed, or not: to explain any more about such things would be to repeat myself—as it is—my life, and the events that result and have resulted from its heedless direction are not big enuff to give me new ideas, anymores, perhaps, I will explain to you that I think about what meaning means: any meaning, which bleeds out a lot and into the fractured light of the multicolored sky, for the sake that you may hear a drone, a sounding character of movement that will acquiesce to this our sculpted environment—this, our titular metaphor, to come—this, our impending island of a self of wrong peace. Now, see if that drone is, if you can hear it, tranquil. Now, take that meaning and cut it down a few pegs: the meaning you have chosen believes itself and wrongly as such hot fucking shit!!!! It wields power in its hands, and, it uses it like something that you would usually use to crack open some skull—that is—the skull of a man without a past, or a future, an indentation on both sides of all . . . I am without a name or any discernible complexion, and this is why I look in the mirror so often at a person who is not me—and—he is a bully that feeds on the specific marks of my personality, until they are—wholly—without features: he wears a suit and a tie the day before his DEATH—and—it is known, to some, that a man who has his skull bashed in—and—who now lies perished and so then finally as the part of all the other inadequate shit that is on the floor could experience while he was alive brief yet utterly agonizing bouts of remorse, remorse for things that he had not yet done. So, then, a man as this would become uncomfortable when approached by those friends of his to whom he had done wrong, in his head, however, like shit and/or crap on the floor, stupid crap and/or shit that I wag my hands at, and backhandedly comment about to others in order to make those others aware of such wastefulness—well—such wrongness as the man thought he had committed was not but wrongness in his head, his head ached with a clutter of theoretical instances of inflicted pain upon people, by him—that is, this man, that is, me: an increasing generality who eventually will turn into something less than human, that is, if I am to become an idea—which is what I desire—and, yet, the idea is focused on for too long, since, well, the man does not like to be put under a fucking microscope—much less, put himself under one—understandable, yeah, understandable, anyways, if he is to become an idea, well, then—it must be a good idea—so that his elastic sense of morality strengthens into something more real than he is because it is a flaw, because morality should be a rigid, sour devotion to scruples that one has thought extensively about and has organized, properly. The thing is, the man, this man of sorts, he does end up doing—in real life—all those horrible things that he had imagined doing to others: imagined in his head, that is, and that first, as it is that one does not imagine with their elbow, or leg, or shoulder—heh—but, yeah, yu know all that already. I say it for myself, because I myself am not sure, and am in awe at the sweet assurance others possess in speaking of where, exactly, the human imagination is located . . . in the midst of doing awful things, he thinks, it is not him—no, not him—not him, who is doing all of this—to him—in point of fact, the act still has yet to be carried out, in full, he thinks: well: it is another who does them, these awful things: it is a bully of autumn existing in a reality severely wanting—without fullness—and, yet, apparently (and this should be noted as what I originally wanted to say) once he assumed that he would do them—he does them—and that while in the midst of an agony, feeding upon the good food of his mistaken sin, sin that is accomplished, anyway—and—without pleasure, the pleasure he would have felt, well, shit, it went somewhere deep within the yieldy center of this allegory . . . as it is that all this is a giant way to say something else that will only be made clear when the mallet makes contact with his head—the head of this horrible man—busting blood and power from the wound. Someone else, someone who is not the man, indeed, one who is just good—enuff—to wrangle, to wrangle and so quell to ashes all the hellish, powerful things—just for reality—well, he is a reality, much as the reality of the powerful things of life that sometimes pick up a proverbial sort of transmission signal from what seems to be the right place, and the right place is right because it is come upon—finally—tho we don't know where the place is, or even why. This place, this island between two oceans and in neither one—this place where, as I have heard, colors pretend to get all sucked in and display the imperative light of the sun in a squirming coil that coils out and drags out all the elements of the scene, presented above—just for yu—and, it is given a poetic, frilly finesse that skews that reality handed to yu—like dollars—and all the elements drag out over the sky by the will of an almost animal magnetism: the sound of flora and fauna, and of the wind, and, the light of the imperative, gigantic sun: you watch it like I watch myself, in the mirror, waiting: the sun, nestling in the eerie blazes, produces light out of an aggregate of hydrogen—blessed magma—spreading light for lifetimes across the brave, blue planet—or, it does this for as long as is deemed necessary by those hellish and powerful monstrosities of doubt that linger like tar in my chest and also they are like an unsolvable riddle, or—also—it is like a pill that has been stuck in yur throat for five hours, without budging—indeed—it does not budge from that awkward, evil angle ever even tho you have been dealing with this particular problem for five hours, and—after having a gagging fit—yu had felt like yu were gonna die—you feel this now as well as just then—a few words ago. I am seemingly content with the sun, content with its preemptive/belated functions of traveling light, and, most of all—content—regarding how rapidly those functions practice and improve together, until the light is all wires and flame, and, the day becomes a saturation of overwhelming feelings, inspired by the weather—and—the weather, it is an entity or, rather, a fact of life that remains unconscious of its affect on, well, what it affects: we speak in whispers of the weather however anyway despite what it does and do not have feelings of optimism regarding it: a downy exposure softens the scenes I have not mentioned with a film. The film goes out over all things that eyes need to see without words—without wanting words for it—and, what we see is limited to what the light of stars can achieve in illuminating, because, once we do know where a thing is—and, what the color of it is—well, then, we will inevitably have to assign yet another meaning to that thing, a meaning that is good enuff. It is not the same as what power there was before we had arrived at the supreme chance—requited—and, yet, without the ends—the ends that we needed—and, which, indeed, always satisfy—when they persist. They soon become what is needed to satisfy, while all else dissolves into a collective of subordinates—mediocre subordinates—and, suddenly, the metaphor finds itself popping up from the fucking bushes—again—to warn me of a possible threat. An armed retinue of violent objectives comes close . . . at this point in life, I believe there to be no way for me to thrust thru layers without leaving a mark on each form of my visible reality a gash a gash that splinters into smaller, more manageable wounds. I am the thief of fire. I groan at and am frustrated with the sinecures of this WOLRD—bound clerics of the SOUL—who, together, support intense and mostly wrong forms of a degeneration—that is, a degeneration of the self—by relating their SOUL to common externalities in the attempt to view them as abnormal. I guess—you know—that, well, there are things right enuff to make a monopoly out of—and, so—the sinecures, the subordinates, the low men, they instigate degenerate, wrong crimes against the self and all that the self represents: self: that is, as a word considered, now, by me, as being the word for a type of being most familiar to this my random blinking, breathing vessel, in which the self is contained like a mind. It is most influenced by optimism—obviously—because it revolves predominantly around the nucleus of one’s EGO and the EGO in turn is mostly concerned with actions that benefit the psyche and in being carried out will simultaneously charge emotion into an experience, that—as a result—continues on, as a previous action fulfilled: this fulfillment will with time summon up in that vessel ambitious feelings. These feelings—in turn—will stir up ideas that streamline on a form of endless motion, consumptive because they require intensity and intensity is one of the more consuming aspects of a life—and—life is a word with equal connotative/denotative power and and and this power stands for—as much as it stands to reject—everything and all that the word rebels against, weakly, and without results. Usurper. One day I'll grasp the sole conceit of an immortal being: any sort of responsive intelligence will do, any sort that yet does not live without also losing it, eventually: losing life, that is, or, perhaps, perhaps, its mind. I know that my mind is telling me that it wants goo. It wants a kind of supernatural goo to be carefully peeled off of this pair of sneakers: peeled off, like the sojourn, delicate piece of trash that it is, and, once—awhile back—it was not trash, and was fresh, and was fresh gum in some motherfucker's frayed pocket. The motherfucker in question sneers confusedly against an oblivion that nonetheless was clearly wrought and was the only clear thing in the mind of some motherfucker with an orange beard and he is also a sneering idiot. The sneering idiot chewed the goo into a mush before knowing that it would be beneficial to me. His ability to accomplish this is based in the fact that he had been focusing, beforehand, on how best to manipulate his own bowels. This focus on this, it clarified the oblivion he also and every day focuses and focused on since it is that focus is also a kind of absence a kind of oblivion that clarifies. The shift of his bowels: I will not tell you what shifting indicates, because, I think you already know—however—you are a being of gentle coyness, disciplined—early on—to know and simultaneously forget a given reflex, which makes it seem elusive—which is how it should be. This motherfucker, well, yeah, he decides to expel shit and the shit comes out in a consecutively occurring series of brown spheres of nearly immaculate, beautiful shit—without texture—expelled and that right soon from out the sensitive butthole of a motherfucker, some motherfucker: basically, a delicate opening within that he exposes, upon squatting to oblige the deeps of his toilet—which, is a throne of porcelain—and, it is edged at the bottom with the stains of some leaking yellowness—and—his beautiful, fat ass, the ass of a motherfucker, well, hidden somewhere within— protected, almost: a happy, winking rosebud: a small dark wrinkled mouth of a hole that puckers with each flex. The anus is somewhat like a secret within us: hmm: the anus: an anatomical necessity: an organic center, ringed with a pinkness enveloped of course by immense pale blemished globes that comprise the lordly cheeks of his fat fucking ass, the ass of a motherfucker, some motherfucker. This is a distraction of subjects. There is a tall man who breathes heavily in the waiting room, waiting—indeed—for the doctor to emerge with a diagnosis, and, so, then, he approaches the tall man, walks toward him, right now, utilizing a manner of his that he feels is communicative of friendliness and a mutual trust in one anothers’ ability to function as—at the very least—predictable associates: droll and calming in speech and gesture without a sort of insincerity that one might sense in the other that seems indicative of something withheld, something like an inflated penitence both may have towards their own, contrived array of accomplishments, contrived, that is, out of fortitude, and, of course, luck, but a luck that goes missing in the worst spots, only to abruptly lift me up—as it is that I am always talking about myself—like some sort of bright grace that thru yur own spineless capitulation ends up being the last straw: a final descent into anguish—by this time—a thing matured and evermore senseless in choosing somebody to victimize. Apply this to yourself: there is conceit in it: that is, in believing your own self as a force to be reckoned with. Laughable. In any case, folks lose track—or something—I am not even following what I am writing anymore, and, yet, it fits—also—it is inane and grandiose—and, yet—feels profoundly to me like it was ordained, commissioned, something needful that others besides the creator recognized, as such—and, yet—I fuck it up, because I say I fuck it up too much: the ARGUMENT brims over the top with shouting and yet barely fills up dry throats with the air of a voice that is the voice of an idiot saint broken down to mumbles by laughably trite, forced idiosyncrasies that—literally—obliterate whatever meaning I had originally tried, considerably, to express. So it is that I have gone on a tangent—more importantly—I have created a labyrinth, I have asked the question, and I myself will wonder about it and finally understand that all the words within this one long paragraph could follow thru, tenfold—if I let them—I could image this rhetorical paradise properly within frames, these condensed frames scattering thru an intermediate intelligence. I could imagine that, still—taken together—this is enuff of something that you or anyone would want to snug all cozy against a tree with and in the shade of the tree you feel safe. You hunker down against the textured base of the tree, thinking about inspiration. I consider my inspiration but mostly I consider my perspiration and upon considering that I move on to lassitude and begin to weigh these two things for awhile before stopping, because—well—you fall asleep: you nap like someone who wants to sleep for an extended period of time. You long for a nap before any sort of reconcilement of all this with something external that would end up being a detraction, if included: this: this is a small stage of blackness that has happened and slips still further into dreaming—now—you begin to know this idea and do not accept this idea of safety—and peace—given to the wrong place, and that in itself is a place where time is just too long and too precarious, which, indeed, is a problem. It becomes more of a problem with more ground that is covered. We search. We search in all ways and travel out there as well as back in here and still I see no island, no liminal bit of rock and brush between two oceans—and—it is in neither ocean—and—in the night, while you are sleeping, a voice whispers to you, the voice of a thing in the dark: it invades, it invades your dreams begrudgingly, as if it had no choice—as if it must haunt you. As soon as you are awake, the voice is meshed back into oblivion. You forget the voice completely in opening your eyes to silence. You wake up, and carry on with the day.

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charnel house.

March 29, 2012 at 6:33pm

There's a whole WORLD in this room. It goes
and goes, receiving the colors of a small,
chipped heaven. Or from hell some letters

To be thrown away, as bills. But: the way it
goes is how it is recieved, the room; it is

received, my thoughts are, with colors of



a florid psyche's chance at half-grace, at

a shade made whole, a synecdoche of pith

and charged with utterance: colors of the



cosmos, of the dark macho down the street,

coming, coming up to give it heaven, give

the muse my heaven and my hell, however,



still to send me letters from its grave,

indecipherable grave, scrawled with omens:

chip heaven more, the colossal illusion



says; chip the fine print of a dumb letter,

from volcanic expostulations of urgency:

the letter from her ghost, the ghost of


who she was: the girl once in my hell:
dark girl, arms at present roung her macho;

round that culled heaven, whispered back



to me as grace; that passage of the sailing
sight: that shining of the croaked life out,

that why, that ultimate, colossal why,


that letter of pain, of pain: a charnel-house,

filled with hell, the hell of sweat and rosy


that charnel-house filled w/
hookers hanging on the door,

and the door, in big letters,
giving me colors, shades,

chipped shades of heaven, the
heaven I really, realy don't

ever wanna learn from, just
make a voice out of, by the

time I can't reason rhyme out
of reason, just leave reason

as reason itself, half-created,
a macho of a point with her

now, he who grasps the street
with his hands and crumples it;

he who is with her, this girl
of a heaven learned, once learned,

once known, now never known,
again, again, so it goes on,

the fire's fueled up, the old
memory crumples in the hands

of some farcical GOD, not of
my design, not of my shade, my

gnarled angel: she who swears
not on my time of rhyme or

rhythmically goes of into some
port in air but rather goes,

goes on, and on, until I stop,
and thus she dies in heaven,

dies for all of heaven, all
of a falling innocence, all of

repetitions, lights, forgotten
elements, chaotic shit, burnt

fuckin elements; burning. Chip
it off the shoulder, you, you

belly of confusion's going on,
you utter malignancy, utter

majesty of my tender, living
guts; give you up, go walk

down the street, dammit; leave
me behind holding, cradling

my heavens that bite hostilely
at my elbow, wanting out, out

of going, out of shit, shit, shit,
all the shit of life, beautiful

and delicate as colors given
for the sake of shades, given

chipping deliberations as to
what comes after the feeling,

unanticipated, but, nobly,
going on, gone, out of this

WORLD in that room I look
out onto the street from,

seeing her, seeing macho,
seeing the street crumple

and disperse by the hands
of a dark character, a needed

malignant spook snickering in
my ears the music of a hapless

heaven's drought upon the
finding out of this the

port in air as no such port
but rather chaos, it is a

choas, chaos, falling short,
yes, of the seeming, not

seeming enough, critical,
nonsensical, and nonetheless

a withered reaction to the
macho outside of this my

head's WORLD, the WORLD of
my bad head in the room,

making synchronicity out
of horror, horror, horror.

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doors, opening doors.

March 25, 2012 at 1:35pm


Passion is a severe attachment. You could say,

Perhaps, that passion sweeps. It sweeps away
The blank dark,
And teaches us to pray, that is,
How to rage against the wind a lark.

With winsomeness, the day is blank as well . . .
And all that is my hell
Is but a prayer I forgot to make,
As night can tell-
-What left one clouded. What can . . . what can one take

From this panic of a missingness?
And will this bliss
Revolt me, give me wings to clip
And with one kiss
Dissolve my parrying flight on wind a whip?

Here is what I say: that passion can
Attach us truants to one fine demand:
Yes, one asking of of us-
-So that we hear the day, the night; the span
Of light across the wind. We trust

Ourselves to choose as fine a way to please
The day, before it darkens all the trees
With hushing hues:
The missingness of souls: the many keys
We see and understand, and yet refuse

To use to open up the locks.
And so malignant nights we pray to rocks,
To stones, that passion's morning will-
-Come again, as casual flocks
Of pigeons in a lark loft on the chill

Of ready wind: partake the kiss, pure prayer:
A litany of blankness for the spare
Feeling to chuck and dash apart;
Create what's missing for the soul to care
For, in searching through for. Art

Is laden feeling. It follows
Whatever paths it wants: wallows
Not in deep despair, no---that's to clip its wings;
Rather, knowing passion's fall, closed
Off to those who understand no things

Is like the fall of night: a blankness blank
As the wind; and yet I thank
Each day for being more existence for-
-Me to exist in. And the dank
Night heightens winds of what's in store

For me to figure, one day figure, one
Day a key, a kiss to get winds spun-
-Out to find in that a fine control of difference
Between the night and day: to jump the gun:
A havoc: chaos, made epistle since

The World made winds a way to choose
Between what pettiness, what feuds-
-You or I relent to in our love:
Our passion, our attachment is confused
By night, by darkness like a glove

To hide the hand, the hand of grimmest cause
For why we are attached: we pause
Before the day begins,
And make it night, again; we make us lost
In our---slow as wading terrapin---

Attachments, our own passions, rhythmic, lofted
By the, a, yes, higher wind: a coffin-
-Of wind to trap us in a seeming glide,
When all it is is what our hell locks in,
Unshown in us, no matter

What the keys provide.

No matter what the kiss provides: no matter
What abnormalnesses in us shatter
Tragically that former vision, each to each,
Of who the other was. The chatter
In our heads, unseen, makes one a leech

That feeds: as like wind feeds on the flight
Of sentimental birds. We do not fight,
At least, not yet,
And still I see us soon as charging swift our tight,
Wounded visions of ourselves---I bet---
With bitter judgments, rigidly; and out of spite

We'll ruin and detach, and severely
Be no more but passionless and dumb, clearly
Dumb, and meaningless as wings that fly
On airlessness, dearly
Departed one: my inner eye

Sees this, and knows no key: there is no door
To open, and yet we share not all.
And ambiguous undulations of the birds, poor
Birds of meaning on the airless wind they call:
They tell us to try anyway: perhaps the core

Of who each of us is will become, yes,
Something else, and then we both can share-
-In our attachments, passions, bony, bare.

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begin

March 23, 2012 at 2:03am

Heaven is black tonight.
The thunder
tolling in a
flash like
some weapon rendered
of nature's hell,
cryptic,
goes off haranguing in the
background. Silently-
-the big light lasts trailing
Like a thing out of hell; drums out
against blackness;
lasts, sharply in the danger-
-of a motive not
dismissed, and, yet,
still very much not
visible. Though in the faraway,
the light-
-looms brutal, obvious, as a kinda
deafening. This day it
drowns like gutter-fodder in a crummy-
-flash. This day, it
lives in my heart like
an apocalypse, desperately
wanted by the sky,
denied---the feel is
there, though: this thinking
on the nature of
emotions' endgame . . .
nature's last thoughts,
regarding the storm of living and
reverie: deceit,
undoing, thin words spoken
at the back of the
mind about a peace, stolen:
again, a thwarted feeling,
transmuted-
-with a battered panache to this,
the rapping metaphor,
this the storm's strum.

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