Warren Holes
I live in Joseph K’s rabbit pen, a warren, a burrow dug deep into the basal epithelium of this, ‘the best of all possible worlds’. Leibniz taught me that, and how to square a circle and round off a preposition. Spinoza tutored me in the one-substance catchall, the ethical rejoinder that rejoins nothing, the cipher of nihility. Heidegger opened my eyes, labial-majolica, to the nonsense, the absurdity of trying to define being, the beingness of being. I got as far as being as becoming then gave up, giving in to the facility of being, the sterile marrow of being-in-the-world. Heidegger disclosed nothing, the being of no-nothingness. Kant drew my attention to the representation of what isn’t there, the unrevealed, the undisclosed-ness of thought and how to maximize my libidinal output, how to live as if nothing else matters except me, the categorical imperative-me. I live each moment as if no one else existed except me, the unconditional-me. I have conditioned myself to this, and live in a solipsistic no-man’s-land of sterility and non-being. Hume showed me that being too fat is a liability, a categorical imperative that one should stay clear of. Hobbes reconfirmed my belief that we do, in fact, have caudal appendages, and they are well appointed to swatting flies from one’s a posterior. Freud tricked me into believing in the mommy-daddy godhead, an oedipal strangulation that has left me stone-blind and psychoneurotic. Only Nietzsche, the princely enchanter, the Zarathustran soothsayer, taught me anything worth knowing, the paucity of truth and value, the toxicity of breadfruit, and the transvaluation of the unconditional-me.
A Woman’s Mouth
the sky is like a woman’s mouth, you said, a soft peach without the stone
impassioned fruit, succulent and watery, sugary and sweet, you said
a woman’s mouth is like the folds in a child’s arms, doughy with butter and lard, kneaded into a flint crusted pie, you said, then swallowed in one bite, a
languor in the want of your belly
I live in Joseph K’s rabbit pen, a warren, a burrow dug deep into the basal epithelium of this, ‘the best of all possible worlds’. Leibniz taught me that, and how to square a circle and round off a preposition. Spinoza tutored me in the one-substance catchall, the ethical rejoinder that rejoins nothing, the cipher of nihility. Heidegger opened my eyes, labial-majolica, to the nonsense, the absurdity of trying to define being, the beingness of being. I got as far as being as becoming then gave up, giving in to the facility of being, the sterile marrow of being-in-the-world. Heidegger disclosed nothing, the being of no-nothingness. Kant drew my attention to the representation of what isn’t there, the unrevealed, the undisclosed-ness of thought and how to maximize my libidinal output, how to live as if nothing else matters except me, the categorical imperative-me. I live each moment as if no one else existed except me, the unconditional-me. I have conditioned myself to this, and live in a solipsistic no-man’s-land of sterility and non-being. Hume showed me that being too fat is a liability, a categorical imperative that one should stay clear of. Hobbes reconfirmed my belief that we do, in fact, have caudal appendages, and they are well appointed to swatting flies from one’s a posterior. Freud tricked me into believing in the mommy-daddy godhead, an oedipal strangulation that has left me stone-blind and psychoneurotic. Only Nietzsche, the princely enchanter, the Zarathustran soothsayer, taught me anything worth knowing, the paucity of truth and value, the toxicity of breadfruit, and the transvaluation of the unconditional-me.
A Woman’s Mouth
the sky is like a woman’s mouth, you said, a soft peach without the stone
impassioned fruit, succulent and watery, sugary and sweet, you said
a woman’s mouth is like the folds in a child’s arms, doughy with butter and lard, kneaded into a flint crusted pie, you said, then swallowed in one bite, a
languor in the want of your belly
