oX-gLUE1
(April 29/06)
I will never think straight, all of my thoughts, the process of thinking, are bent, twisted into an authentic doubt. I think from back to front, an a posterior that antecedes the first premise, a false hypothesize, a conviction that back is front and front back, an inversion of thinking. I think like a Ulyssean character trapped in a disinterestedness that is disinterested, twice removed from the thinker. I think circuitously, in a tangential reticulation of thoughts that has no beginning or end, simply a jumping in point, a junction between thoughts, a Derridian reconstruction of what has yet to be deconstructed.
‘These figures of speech, these awkward expressions for which you reproach me, I have noticed and accepted. Remember: I did not contest them. They stem from the profound uncertainty of my thought, I consider myself fortunate indeed when this uncertainty is not replaced by the absolute nonexistence from which I suffer at times’. (Antonin Artaud, June 5th, 1923)
If thought has a sound, my is cacophonous, a wailing disunity that begs dissonance and disharmony, a Banshee screeching at the top of her lungs. Words drowning in an amniotic rupture, a heresy of meddlesome nonsense, an agitation of text, syntax and meaning, an ensanguination. All thoughts, all thinking, is private, quarantined, a solipsistic detachment from being-in-the-world (the word).
Eleven Hours
I’ve only seen one dead person up close
and he’d been that way for eleven hours
his hands were gripped into fists
knuckles whiter than chalk dust
and his eyes were wide open
staring at something on the ceiling
or maybe at nothing at all
The Taking
the Taking of Christ
sparrow’s blood, golem-oil
and stale biscuits
Caravaggio’s skeptic gaze
Judah with rabbit-skin, ox-bile
and cadger’s glue
I will never think straight, all of my thoughts, the process of thinking, are bent, twisted into an authentic doubt. I think from back to front, an a posterior that antecedes the first premise, a false hypothesize, a conviction that back is front and front back, an inversion of thinking. I think like a Ulyssean character trapped in a disinterestedness that is disinterested, twice removed from the thinker. I think circuitously, in a tangential reticulation of thoughts that has no beginning or end, simply a jumping in point, a junction between thoughts, a Derridian reconstruction of what has yet to be deconstructed.
‘These figures of speech, these awkward expressions for which you reproach me, I have noticed and accepted. Remember: I did not contest them. They stem from the profound uncertainty of my thought, I consider myself fortunate indeed when this uncertainty is not replaced by the absolute nonexistence from which I suffer at times’. (Antonin Artaud, June 5th, 1923)
If thought has a sound, my is cacophonous, a wailing disunity that begs dissonance and disharmony, a Banshee screeching at the top of her lungs. Words drowning in an amniotic rupture, a heresy of meddlesome nonsense, an agitation of text, syntax and meaning, an ensanguination. All thoughts, all thinking, is private, quarantined, a solipsistic detachment from being-in-the-world (the word).
Eleven Hours
I’ve only seen one dead person up close
and he’d been that way for eleven hours
his hands were gripped into fists
knuckles whiter than chalk dust
and his eyes were wide open
staring at something on the ceiling
or maybe at nothing at all
The Taking
the Taking of Christ
sparrow’s blood, golem-oil
and stale biscuits
Caravaggio’s skeptic gaze
Judah with rabbit-skin, ox-bile
and cadger’s glue
Nude at Dawn
Your's is the first redness of the sun,
And of the sun's liquidness is made
The naked gleam of your skin.
There is no coolness, no shade in you
And you are not a haven for my wanderings,
Being of congealed fire! Your's is the gift
Of ceaseless, comfortless wanting
And in the spasms of my desire for you at dawn
The world's longing finds its voice.
And of the sun's liquidness is made
The naked gleam of your skin.
There is no coolness, no shade in you
And you are not a haven for my wanderings,
Being of congealed fire! Your's is the gift
Of ceaseless, comfortless wanting
And in the spasms of my desire for you at dawn
The world's longing finds its voice.
Five pastures of consciousness
after Michael
green green green
green green green
green green green
green green green
red red red red
red red red red
red red red red
red red red red
white white white
white white white
white white white
white white white
yellow yellow yellow
yellow yellow yellow
yellow yellow yellow
yellow yellow yellow
brown brown brown
brown brown brown
brown brown brown
brown brown brown
green green green
green green green
green green green
green green green
red red red red
red red red red
red red red red
red red red red
white white white
white white white
white white white
white white white
yellow yellow yellow
yellow yellow yellow
yellow yellow yellow
yellow yellow yellow
brown brown brown
brown brown brown
brown brown brown
brown brown brown
filament . drifts
I could be the thousandth eye looking at you
plaster flecks
falling from
violets / voltage
bury me here
(i don't recognize you
from language [with love]
alone alone alone
plaster flecks
falling from
violets / voltage
bury me here
(i don't recognize you
from language [with love]
alone alone alone
tHIS-tHAT1
(April 27/06)
I am neither this or that, that or this. I am what lies in between, the that this, the silence within the this that. I am a bedsore, the septic wound that won’t scab over, a syphilitic ulcer that will never heal. I am the carotid artery that begs for more oxygen, but is given none. I am the shit bag appended to the bow of your hipbone, a conduit for the waste drained from a prolapsed bowel, the cesspool that collects the unwanted sewage. I dispense of nothing and have nothing to dispense; I am indispensable. I am the Rector’s surplice cinched round his churchman’s collar, the hair shirt worn beneath worsted Oxford broadcloth. I am the swine in Swinburne, the fuck in Foucault, the flaw in flawless, and the ass in assonance. I am all of these yet none of these; I am the that this, that which lies in between this or that, that or this.
Holderlin’s der Bildungstrieb
pure imminence
bled from the menace
I am neither this or that, that or this. I am what lies in between, the that this, the silence within the this that. I am a bedsore, the septic wound that won’t scab over, a syphilitic ulcer that will never heal. I am the carotid artery that begs for more oxygen, but is given none. I am the shit bag appended to the bow of your hipbone, a conduit for the waste drained from a prolapsed bowel, the cesspool that collects the unwanted sewage. I dispense of nothing and have nothing to dispense; I am indispensable. I am the Rector’s surplice cinched round his churchman’s collar, the hair shirt worn beneath worsted Oxford broadcloth. I am the swine in Swinburne, the fuck in Foucault, the flaw in flawless, and the ass in assonance. I am all of these yet none of these; I am the that this, that which lies in between this or that, that or this.
Holderlin’s der Bildungstrieb
pure imminence
bled from the menace
of world
Black Mold and Disrepair (Shakespeare xix)
T'ward blinding hollow falling, now we pause
in halcyon days, on other blogs to brood.
A fado lilt as grilse in iron gray jaws
boil in our heavy metal Pluto blood,
and out of Xibalba sail in tattered fleets
the byblows. Then i parse the transit time
yashmak-through, no coruscating sweets
handed beyond, and know a shiver. Crime
to write again, dent the dented brow
a wallful. Qlipoth conquered by a pen
of bull. For these last days desires allow,
let those who spurn reality build spacemen.
Like Shalimar i go, and i go wrong;
like malachite i stay, and i am young.
in halcyon days, on other blogs to brood.
A fado lilt as grilse in iron gray jaws
boil in our heavy metal Pluto blood,
and out of Xibalba sail in tattered fleets
the byblows. Then i parse the transit time
yashmak-through, no coruscating sweets
handed beyond, and know a shiver. Crime
to write again, dent the dented brow
a wallful. Qlipoth conquered by a pen
of bull. For these last days desires allow,
let those who spurn reality build spacemen.
Like Shalimar i go, and i go wrong;
like malachite i stay, and i am young.
Where is living the echo ?
Embrasse ces fragments/
Dieu à la césure…
C’est alors que : Hurlent !!! Les hauteurs à coups de lignes a-lexiques---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
- SACHE FUIR -
L’anorexie de l’encre/
Mémoire menteuse du hasard !
L’aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaammmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmeeeeeeeeeeeeee (élastique)
Détonne la gravité des ***************************************************
Et croit coucher le 8-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Vestiges amollis de l’écho------------------------------------------------------------------Folle effervescence---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
- SAC RESTE -
Dieu à la césure…
C’est alors que : Hurlent !!! Les hauteurs à coups de lignes a-lexiques---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
- SACHE FUIR -
L’anorexie de l’encre/
Mémoire menteuse du hasard !
L’aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaammmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmeeeeeeeeeeeeee (élastique)
Détonne la gravité des ***************************************************
Et croit coucher le 8-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Vestiges amollis de l’écho------------------------------------------------------------------Folle effervescence---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
- SAC RESTE -
passage
as the curtains are drawn
with a cinematic flourish
I present to you my stage, my
Life
A backwards glance
I am thrown into a
swirling miasma of recollections
where bridges and doorways
keep me
running and bumping into
my self
Bridges that lead me to my self
ropes I impatiently tied with words
of hopes, of dreams, of apologies
I flung across to my self
There, too, were
Doorways I clawed a gazillion times at
so my self could hear
this stranger, a wannabe
guest to this house that is this stage
And then, I realized
Bridges equate to distance
and I wonder if I should
have weaved the rope in another way
interlaced it with other words
or tried a material of a different color
And that
Doorways are dots
and I am the line
my self drawn in a marker
to connect, to make sense
of a lost time
Now
I discover this one portal
of neverending bridges and doors wide open
I wail in pain, in tiredness
As I mouth my wordless thoughts
I bow my head and lay to sleep
beneath a white blanket
with cow shit crowning my head
and riots of flowers around my feet
with a cinematic flourish
I present to you my stage, my
Life
A backwards glance
I am thrown into a
swirling miasma of recollections
where bridges and doorways
keep me
running and bumping into
my self
Bridges that lead me to my self
ropes I impatiently tied with words
of hopes, of dreams, of apologies
I flung across to my self
There, too, were
Doorways I clawed a gazillion times at
so my self could hear
this stranger, a wannabe
guest to this house that is this stage
And then, I realized
Bridges equate to distance
and I wonder if I should
have weaved the rope in another way
interlaced it with other words
or tried a material of a different color
And that
Doorways are dots
and I am the line
my self drawn in a marker
to connect, to make sense
of a lost time
Now
I discover this one portal
of neverending bridges and doors wide open
I wail in pain, in tiredness
As I mouth my wordless thoughts
I bow my head and lay to sleep
beneath a white blanket
with cow shit crowning my head
and riots of flowers around my feet
The Smoke
Got an opal in my eye
From pining for the moon,
Prison open to the sky.
Best despair that cash can buy:
I took the plunge and soon
Got an opal in my eye.
Clowns all call it getting by,
The compound-moaned bassoon
Prison open to the sky.
News is worth haphazard sigh.
While dowsing for maroon
Got an opal in my eye.
Every evil alibi
Contrives its own glad poltroon
Prison open to the sky.
Sober and i don't know why;
Licked Victory Koolaid's spoon,
Got an opal in my eye
Prison, open to the sky.
From pining for the moon,
Prison open to the sky.
Best despair that cash can buy:
I took the plunge and soon
Got an opal in my eye.
Clowns all call it getting by,
The compound-moaned bassoon
Prison open to the sky.
News is worth haphazard sigh.
While dowsing for maroon
Got an opal in my eye.
Every evil alibi
Contrives its own glad poltroon
Prison open to the sky.
Sober and i don't know why;
Licked Victory Koolaid's spoon,
Got an opal in my eye
Prison, open to the sky.
Who killed Ava Star?
Who killed Ava Star?
Leaving light means I am shadow.
But I can be so much colder
When I love you.
I have to know,
Who killed Ava Star?
Beautiful like Rita Hayworth
Gone like the dark night sky.
(It ain't nothing at all.)
Stole the lime light.
You'll never get away.
The overture-mad-aria-
Plays on and on.
It's in our soul
(Heart string chords)
It's in the head
Over and over.
The song sings
We don't know -who- we really are.
Or what life is for.
Even when it's over.
I ask myself--
Don't go away!
Why do I do this?
-Why-
No one recognizes me.
The pain is all the same.
Something returns.
Suicide's a bore
Unless I'm the one doing the killing!
But I can be so much colder
When I love you.
Never feel.
Never miss anyone.
And if you hold your eyes wide open
Just enough--the tears don't spill out.
I can't say the name.
(Jesus.)
I can't take the blame.
(Christians.)
Healthy suspicion will keep the heart beating.
Poetry isn't therapy.
(But oh it is!)
It's in our soul
(Where were you when the lights went out?)
Over and over
Feelings run toward the sea
And my inside longs to be: albatross.
(I want to face it all.)
My words are heart beat...
And time...
To me.
--Nobius Black
sPRINGtIME iN sTOWE
My Great Uncle
my great uncle stove the cow’s head in with the hammer he used
for knocking nails and shims into tracks of dry wood and posts
its legs buckled under as the hammer hit bone gristle and skull
a popping sound issuing as the hammer swung quick then away
its eyes went red then white then its shoulders slackened and fell
then and one last snort of rye whiskey and Presbyter’s admixture
I closed my eyes as it fell tongue tacked to the chisel of its teeth
and my Great uncle spitting whiskey and quid into the grain of the barn wood floor
my great uncle stove the cow’s head in with the hammer he used
for knocking nails and shims into tracks of dry wood and posts
its legs buckled under as the hammer hit bone gristle and skull
a popping sound issuing as the hammer swung quick then away
its eyes went red then white then its shoulders slackened and fell
then and one last snort of rye whiskey and Presbyter’s admixture
I closed my eyes as it fell tongue tacked to the chisel of its teeth
and my Great uncle spitting whiskey and quid into the grain of the barn wood floor
pRIMAL sTRANGULATION1
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
Clé anorexique
--------------------------------------Foultitude et Vacuité--------------------------------------------------------------------Sera-t-il un passé ?---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Des instants-----------------------------------------------------Ensemble-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Une mémoire------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ = Somme de questions originelles-------------------------------------Echelons-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------La peur de l’autre---------------------A----------------------------------------------Déjà-----------------------------------------------------------------------Façonné un Autre------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Pour le pire et le meilleur-----------------Alice a un plan------------------------------0 et 1------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Nuage se soupire-------------------------------------------------------------------Chasse le ciel-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Onde le sel-----------------------------------------------------------A chaque meute, sa pile--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------L’ampoule éternelle------------------------------------------------------------------Arpanet sur la colline------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Avec le chien dresseur--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Je sans ciment---------------------------------------------Végétol----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Amphithéâtre arboricole-------------------------------Ici, la porte a faim---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Spaces
after sink langor /Bango clap yr hand/ memory ? shitebust to wind
_________________________________
Afternoon sinking in langour
Outside, the world turns in a dream
Here, the softness of thighs
Here, the heaviness of breath
The swiftness of desire.
Outside, lives rotting in the sun
Here, the inexorable burrowing
Of lands unknown and older
Than the roots of memory,
Clad in a perpetual twilight
Here the hunger of arms,
The reptillian smoothness of tongues.
Outside, the vast emptiness of the night,
And here, for us under the stars,
What redemption?
__________________________________
Escape
The bird of my brow
Breathing deeply
Slowly close my eyes
Breathing deeply
Slowly close my eyes
Of tangled branches
The wind playing my hair
Tears of the moon
Washing my serenity
Duvet of darkness spotlighting
The hidden beloved stars
Washing my serenity
Duvet of darkness spotlighting
The hidden beloved stars
Lost in the ancient roots
Of an inner child
The stage of dreams
Coming too gradually
Of an inner child
The stage of dreams
Coming too gradually
Sweet tides of night
Firm in my soul
Washing away time
Firm in my soul
Washing away time
.
Travel
- Snakely Ossuary.
- Key of the sun.
- Third tentacular iris.
- To remain in your body.
- All is well.
- the tear is confined of the river.
- Perspiration of the culpability.
- Shroud torn by the other world.
- The cascade of truth fly.
- Eyes within ink.
- Stellar wire are woven.
- Always three nightingales which crackle in the twilight.
- Fate of you!
- Key of the sun.
- Third tentacular iris.
- To remain in your body.
- All is well.
- the tear is confined of the river.
- Perspiration of the culpability.
- Shroud torn by the other world.
- The cascade of truth fly.
- Eyes within ink.
- Stellar wire are woven.
- Always three nightingales which crackle in the twilight.
- Fate of you!
cAN'T sTOP-mUST sTOP
Lammswolle
(Jan 06/06)
I am, she says, trying to pull it all together, but the wool, she says, gets all tangled, sometimes it breaks, other times it just sits there staring at me. Wool’s like that, he says, always breaking or staring at you. Wool, I guess, does just that, busting and tangling and staring. I hate it, she says, wool. In skeins or balls or mittens, or scarves and socks, especially socks, she says, socks, I hate socks, wool socks, especially. I, he says, especially hate the way they’re double-knit, at the heels and around the toes, especially around the toes, the heels, too, but especially the toes. She says, my grandmother knit socks, wool socks, with double heels and toes, heels, especially, but the toes too, always the same double-knit heels and toes. She died, knitting, she says, her fingers arthritic and bone-weary. Like twigs or child’s fingers, she says, from knitting in front of the television or while listening to the radio. She drank black tea, he says, blacker than molasses. She died, he says, from cancer, in her throat, from Craven A’s and black tea and the cancer in her throat. The milk, she said, made the tea too weak, too weak and not worth the bother. My dad, he says, tried to convince her to give it up, but she liked her black tea and Craven A, he said. I don’t remember, he says, but she stayed almost four months in the dining room, in a hospital bed, he said, with hydraulics and handrails. A nurse came, but she still refused to give up her black tea and Craven A’s, he said. My dad had to hide in the garage, he says, or out back behind the house, he said, so she couldn’t see him smoking. I would steal her Craven A’s, he says, when she was unconscious or her breathing was real shallow. I don’t remember any of this, but it happened, he said, just the same. My dad knew she was going to die, he said, but I either never heard him or forgot that I had, he says. I guess its better that way, he says, not knowing or pretending not to know if you had heard. My grandmother died, she says, from heart failure, or congestion, something like that. I was away at school, so I never got back, for the funeral, she says, they had it without me. I went to the cemetery once, she says, but it was too cold and the ground was frozen. I couldn’t see the plaque in front of her grave, under the snow, frozen. I, he says, don’t remember much, from my childhood, he says. Not even having a bicycle, he says, not even that. I’ll knit you some socks, she says, with double heels and toes, if that’s what you like, she says. I’ll make some tea, he says, and put on a record for us to listen to, something old, he says, from then. You’ll pull it together, he says, just be patient, it’ll come, he says, just don’t stop, it’ll come, I just know it.
(Jan 06/06)
I am, she says, trying to pull it all together, but the wool, she says, gets all tangled, sometimes it breaks, other times it just sits there staring at me. Wool’s like that, he says, always breaking or staring at you. Wool, I guess, does just that, busting and tangling and staring. I hate it, she says, wool. In skeins or balls or mittens, or scarves and socks, especially socks, she says, socks, I hate socks, wool socks, especially. I, he says, especially hate the way they’re double-knit, at the heels and around the toes, especially around the toes, the heels, too, but especially the toes. She says, my grandmother knit socks, wool socks, with double heels and toes, heels, especially, but the toes too, always the same double-knit heels and toes. She died, knitting, she says, her fingers arthritic and bone-weary. Like twigs or child’s fingers, she says, from knitting in front of the television or while listening to the radio. She drank black tea, he says, blacker than molasses. She died, he says, from cancer, in her throat, from Craven A’s and black tea and the cancer in her throat. The milk, she said, made the tea too weak, too weak and not worth the bother. My dad, he says, tried to convince her to give it up, but she liked her black tea and Craven A, he said. I don’t remember, he says, but she stayed almost four months in the dining room, in a hospital bed, he said, with hydraulics and handrails. A nurse came, but she still refused to give up her black tea and Craven A’s, he said. My dad had to hide in the garage, he says, or out back behind the house, he said, so she couldn’t see him smoking. I would steal her Craven A’s, he says, when she was unconscious or her breathing was real shallow. I don’t remember any of this, but it happened, he said, just the same. My dad knew she was going to die, he said, but I either never heard him or forgot that I had, he says. I guess its better that way, he says, not knowing or pretending not to know if you had heard. My grandmother died, she says, from heart failure, or congestion, something like that. I was away at school, so I never got back, for the funeral, she says, they had it without me. I went to the cemetery once, she says, but it was too cold and the ground was frozen. I couldn’t see the plaque in front of her grave, under the snow, frozen. I, he says, don’t remember much, from my childhood, he says. Not even having a bicycle, he says, not even that. I’ll knit you some socks, she says, with double heels and toes, if that’s what you like, she says. I’ll make some tea, he says, and put on a record for us to listen to, something old, he says, from then. You’ll pull it together, he says, just be patient, it’ll come, he says, just don’t stop, it’ll come, I just know it.
gOATsKIN jACKET
What Remains After Death
Yesterday was a mirror of all days that preceded it, and as such not worth the bother of description or recounting. Cutthroats of cloud skip like devils across a dun-gray sky. April showers pissing on the head of the world. Wittgenstein says we will never understand pain, only experience it, each in his own solipsistic hell. A language of triage is impossible, as the very problem lies in our inability to communicate our pain to others, what we are feeling or experiencing, and this, clearly, is the metalanguage of pain; its very incommunicability. As such, pain is monological and remains so until death. The only way to understand, or more to the point, feel another’s pain, is through the backdoor, through a reconstruction of one’s own experience of pain through a solipsism that denies access and objectivity. Pain is distinctly subjective; I must take your word for it, nothing more is possible than that. As would have it, I am in horrible pain, yet you have only my word and grimaces to go by in determining whether I am telling the truth or not. Such is the nature of pain, an elusive and hellish experience.
Entry X.1
Another night in Little Miami. Sirens in Sunset. Dogs bark. Rain. The dirt road is a mess. I decide I might quit smoking. The Smiths sing you just haven’t earned it yet baby... Cigarette arcs in the wind. Heart attacks. Cancer. One day I will live in the city. Cows in my neighbor's pasture sound like tugboats. Backtrack. When I was 6 I was an archeologist; I excavated plastic dinosaurs. When I was 5 Mother cried in the woods behind our house on Griffin Street; her gravestone and epitaph on wide rule— murdered. In the black and white flicker of an old movie reel: I hesitated between the house and the tree line, head low, eyes up. Cold air. A ghost in the shade of clouds covering the sun.
pATURITION hOLE(s)
Not thinking about Thinking
(April 24/06)
A moment ago I was thinking, or am I thinking now about thinking that I was thinking a moment ago. I thought I was thinking, thinking that I was thinking a moment ago, but could very well be mistake. I could, in fact, be thinking about thinking about thinking a moment ago, a past thought of thinking that I thought I was thinking. In this manner, I can only think, or know I am thinking in the present, thinking about thinking a moment ago in the past, a past moment of thinking. I think now, in the moment, not in a moment of thinking that has past, a moment ago. I think I thought, or thought I was thinking, but could be verily mistaken. But my mistake in thinking I was thinking a moment ago is predicated on thinking now, in the present moment, the thinking of thinking. Perhaps there is no such thing, no act, of thinking a moment ago, only thinking about thinking a moment ago while thinking in this moment, the present now moment. I am tired, more so exhausted, of thinking, so will stop. But can I, can I stop thinking? I think not, because were I to think I wasn’t thinking, I’d be thinking about not thinking which is thinking itself, thinking now in the present about not thinking, the cessation of thinking, which is absurd. In this manner, perhaps I can never think I am not thinking, because if I were, I’d be thinking, which negates the negation of thinking I am not thinking.
What, then, is time, this thing or activity or movement called time? Time is memory of something past, something ago. Time is rot and partition, thinking in the present about the past, a past event or memory of an event or feeling or thing that past, that is ago. Time moves through memory of what came before, the antedate of the present. In this manner, time is a misdate of the memory of an event or thing or feeling from the past, a reference or locator for the present from the past. Kierkegaard said, did he not, ‘we live our lives forward looking backwards.’ The past, the memory of the past, is the parturition hole that gives reference to the present, and a lucky guess about the future. I have no time for the past, present or future, or, for that matter, thinking about it. I am a parturition hole, the caulking in the seam of your chimney, the scullery whore with tiny misshapen feet and an overbite, the Heideggerian misstep that started it all.
(April 24/06)
A moment ago I was thinking, or am I thinking now about thinking that I was thinking a moment ago. I thought I was thinking, thinking that I was thinking a moment ago, but could very well be mistake. I could, in fact, be thinking about thinking about thinking a moment ago, a past thought of thinking that I thought I was thinking. In this manner, I can only think, or know I am thinking in the present, thinking about thinking a moment ago in the past, a past moment of thinking. I think now, in the moment, not in a moment of thinking that has past, a moment ago. I think I thought, or thought I was thinking, but could be verily mistaken. But my mistake in thinking I was thinking a moment ago is predicated on thinking now, in the present moment, the thinking of thinking. Perhaps there is no such thing, no act, of thinking a moment ago, only thinking about thinking a moment ago while thinking in this moment, the present now moment. I am tired, more so exhausted, of thinking, so will stop. But can I, can I stop thinking? I think not, because were I to think I wasn’t thinking, I’d be thinking about not thinking which is thinking itself, thinking now in the present about not thinking, the cessation of thinking, which is absurd. In this manner, perhaps I can never think I am not thinking, because if I were, I’d be thinking, which negates the negation of thinking I am not thinking.
What, then, is time, this thing or activity or movement called time? Time is memory of something past, something ago. Time is rot and partition, thinking in the present about the past, a past event or memory of an event or feeling or thing that past, that is ago. Time moves through memory of what came before, the antedate of the present. In this manner, time is a misdate of the memory of an event or thing or feeling from the past, a reference or locator for the present from the past. Kierkegaard said, did he not, ‘we live our lives forward looking backwards.’ The past, the memory of the past, is the parturition hole that gives reference to the present, and a lucky guess about the future. I have no time for the past, present or future, or, for that matter, thinking about it. I am a parturition hole, the caulking in the seam of your chimney, the scullery whore with tiny misshapen feet and an overbite, the Heideggerian misstep that started it all.
1888-
Nietzsche Contra Bacon
The best pictorial exemplar of Nietzsche’s thought is to be found in Francis Bacon’s work; the deconstruction of the corporeal, the Yes of the bodily No, the Zarathustran burst of laughter that shatters all illusions of renewal or return. Bacon painted with a syphilitic brush, the castration of rebirth; the prepuce re-stitched to the phallus by the mohem-artificer. Nietzsche gelded the ‘this is’ of thought, the canonical nay saying of pedagogical prejudice and monotheist imperishability. The body dies, and with it the notion of the body, the material imagining of the body, the body disembodied, the disembodied body. Bacon re-embodied the disembodied body, the imagining of the body, the corporeal not-body, the no-body. This no-body, however, is a Nietzschean Yes, a Yes to the No of the body, the imperishable body, the gelding body. Figures in a Garden, Figure Study 1, Triptych Inspired by the Oresteia of Aeschylus, Self-portrait, Head V1. The Gay Science, the Twilight of the Idols, Beyond Good and Evil, Human, All Too Human, Ecce Homo.
The Eternal Return
give me a biscuit
and a mouthful of blood
or I will return
The best pictorial exemplar of Nietzsche’s thought is to be found in Francis Bacon’s work; the deconstruction of the corporeal, the Yes of the bodily No, the Zarathustran burst of laughter that shatters all illusions of renewal or return. Bacon painted with a syphilitic brush, the castration of rebirth; the prepuce re-stitched to the phallus by the mohem-artificer. Nietzsche gelded the ‘this is’ of thought, the canonical nay saying of pedagogical prejudice and monotheist imperishability. The body dies, and with it the notion of the body, the material imagining of the body, the body disembodied, the disembodied body. Bacon re-embodied the disembodied body, the imagining of the body, the corporeal not-body, the no-body. This no-body, however, is a Nietzschean Yes, a Yes to the No of the body, the imperishable body, the gelding body. Figures in a Garden, Figure Study 1, Triptych Inspired by the Oresteia of Aeschylus, Self-portrait, Head V1. The Gay Science, the Twilight of the Idols, Beyond Good and Evil, Human, All Too Human, Ecce Homo.
The Eternal Return
give me a biscuit
and a mouthful of blood
or I will return
unendingly
Plans to Make Plans, And How!
Judge me not by my indomitable will, said Lenin. His shoes are purple as he relaxes. Stuffiness in glass coffin means good times later, when we all start to read. Lenin was mostly the most intense performance ever on the stage on which he presently settled and spoke. There, in the light of dying really, he was the revolution of after the facts. Those facts were filled with indomitable will. I am about to relight my cigar, said Lenin, a judge for the things that are still and worth and kindly apparent to the seamstress and tailor who arc across the space between tidy sparking points. Anne Frank talks gutterspeak, really invited to rude. She wonders with indomitable will why we daily underline how the Bush presence as president seems like a blurry wielded wallop unquestioned by senior advisers. Where did the freed up instant go, after George W Bush stopped biting? Effective immediately, Lenin has this bait in hand. It might work, it might not.
Hisory Lesson Among Stumpy Things
Lenin expected composure, not a shitty desert in the end. He didn't agree to disagree, he found out that the coolest lightbulb was his head. He got caught up, then he traveled far. When he dated Anne Frank, it was sweet and revolutionary. He was the prettiest skulking monster ever, and she was like a tight address, sinking. When everyone sold their homes, and went into furniture (food for thought), they discovered the embolism of just being there, where the group could see only the smallest view. Lenin stuck to a knowing smirk, which lasted well but didn't really inscribe. Mao got nasty about the cleaning, and you'll agree that others went south fast. Vietnam got ventured—trade name: Ho Chi Minh—with rubbery investment. When Lenin and Anne went there, jolly in spite, the land was purposefully jungle. All vying for top tree went for naught, tires were needed for the front. The front met the back, so radios were instigated for perfect communication. Around the sultry globe the word went out. We wait for it now.
A flash at the internal organs
1. It is to wander in the dream.
2. The burn in full vagina.
3. Phalli which bend my face.
4. Masturbation by the interior.
5. The lips cascade of honey.
6. Invisible, it is hidden behind quivering.
7. The hole abnormally dilated, seen by the old man.
8. A flash at the internal organs!
9. Bubbling perspiration of direction...
2. The burn in full vagina.
3. Phalli which bend my face.
4. Masturbation by the interior.
5. The lips cascade of honey.
6. Invisible, it is hidden behind quivering.
7. The hole abnormally dilated, seen by the old man.
8. A flash at the internal organs!
9. Bubbling perspiration of direction...
plethora amore
an eternal ethereal plethora amorebetwixt ego amidst imperial decor
wisdom within whispers rapt metaphors a lore
such secrets so simple locked behind doors
where exists a force which denies us with lies
they try ever so hard to let the truth die
for those who aren't closed as per the 3rd eye
see through the blinds and though their disguise
we see all of us cry from the stars in the sky
for stars sing when we die and they sing us alive
so as i look down from above all i see is the love
all i see is the beauty which feels more than enough
- alex aeQea ariumn
Of The Sun
A non-reinforced existence
The paradigm of the lonely
Develop a model
this matrix
encompass the half closed eye
the "per son"
the disenfranchised sigh of lamentation
a million white leaflets bound up and scattered around
creating connections, these associations
generalized abstraction of melanin
the thrust of hatred centuries old
this nervous pattern
weaving the pathways and networks
obscuring the light from a calm summers day
ignorance to the cool drink of serenity
This frame of reference having no shape
the thirsty swallow the paper pyramids
and black good god dog books of symbology
No bliss in translations of a hieroglyphic pantheon
Living in a eleven plus one domiciles of ancient reflection
The propagation of history in myelinated structures
Masters of the mortarboard no more aware of the inertia
critical mass in the favor of illogical pursuits
The ions bound together having no true importance
Nothing ebbs and flows
The paradigm of the lonely
Develop a model
this matrix
encompass the half closed eye
the "per son"
the disenfranchised sigh of lamentation
a million white leaflets bound up and scattered around
creating connections, these associations
generalized abstraction of melanin
the thrust of hatred centuries old
this nervous pattern
weaving the pathways and networks
obscuring the light from a calm summers day
ignorance to the cool drink of serenity
This frame of reference having no shape
the thirsty swallow the paper pyramids
and black good god dog books of symbology
No bliss in translations of a hieroglyphic pantheon
Living in a eleven plus one domiciles of ancient reflection
The propagation of history in myelinated structures
Masters of the mortarboard no more aware of the inertia
critical mass in the favor of illogical pursuits
The ions bound together having no true importance
Nothing ebbs and flows
Shattering the leaves
Against my hand, on a wall of water, a portrait of my family formed
far back to finger painting, far back to king lizards,
protozoa, mud squishing
In the sudden wind, I lost a strand of hair, torn off,
it settled against the water, asking for its turn at "spoon"
Hairs set against the limpid wall, the silt of my blood contained there
asked for a water hearse to sweep the land. It wasn't my conscious wish to call
upon open rivers, though you wouldn't know it from my insomnia, my guilt.
Why couldn't you look at me when you told me about your mother,
because we share the same name? Does that make me the criminal?
I wish I could take the leaves from your throat one by one. Press them
in a diary and write my own captions, my own expressions of your grief.
Hoard it, like a squirrel nut in my dresser.
We talked about your love for kissing and mine. How they corresponded.
And I thought of your white coverlet and high post bed. I don't belong there.
We both know it.
far back to finger painting, far back to king lizards,
protozoa, mud squishing
In the sudden wind, I lost a strand of hair, torn off,
it settled against the water, asking for its turn at "spoon"
Hairs set against the limpid wall, the silt of my blood contained there
asked for a water hearse to sweep the land. It wasn't my conscious wish to call
upon open rivers, though you wouldn't know it from my insomnia, my guilt.
Why couldn't you look at me when you told me about your mother,
because we share the same name? Does that make me the criminal?
I wish I could take the leaves from your throat one by one. Press them
in a diary and write my own captions, my own expressions of your grief.
Hoard it, like a squirrel nut in my dresser.
We talked about your love for kissing and mine. How they corresponded.
And I thought of your white coverlet and high post bed. I don't belong there.
We both know it.
tHE aDDLE-mINDED
(April 22/06)
I raked the pump like a cat’s neck, sluing water from the tap head. My friends don’t like cats; nettle tongues and drivel hair, and the clobber of sharp claws on hard linoleum. I found a litter familied beneath the silage shed, tongues raspy with spurs and awl pins. The others were fire setters, gas cans and sheet wicks twisted into funnels. Just the right size to tamp down hard into the throat of a castoff beer bottle or scout’s canteen. The doctor said that fire setting is a sign of childhood abuse, sexual improprieties carried out by addle-minded grownups and wet brains. The rector’s bench slatted with spindle elm and hard ash, the low susurrus of the calliope forcing chancel air through trued pipes. Curds of stale bread and unction wine, draught from the parson’s own saintly tun. This is how it all began long before beginnings had names or reasons. This is how I started, the beginning of what has become of me, the in between, what was left after the fall. As a boy my mother taught me to check my stool for inelegance and colour. A healthy stool was medium brown and shaped like a cone or foolscap. Anything darker or unshapely was deemed sickly, visceral canker. I had a friend who would poke about with a stick, roiling up his defecate checking for organs, dark blood and faille. His father, before succumbing to dementia, urinated in wine bottles he kept in a low drawer next to his bed. When he died, we emptied the piss into the wash sink in the basement, my friend checking for bits of his father’s organs with the stick he used for his toilet. The piss smelled like death and spoiled wine. By the time his father was ready for death, he had cornered himself into a box on the top floor of their house, cloistering himself like a penitent in a six by six beg cell. He had constructed his own coffin, furnishing it with empty wine bottles, a rosary and Popular Mechanics magazines. His death came as no surprise, a slow cancellation into madness and time. His wife’s Parkinson’s and flippered hands saved her from having to be a sentry to her husband’s absurdity. Death is like that, a joke on the dying; an absurdity to those left behind to watch. My friend drank himself into a beg cell, piss bottles arranged in a votive altar to his father’s madness. My father’s older brother drank himself into an early grave, leaving behind two ex-wives and as many children. He drove a yellow forklift, never quite mastering how to change to battery. My father’s oldest brother, who rode in the Jonah’s belly of a submarine in the Second World War, drank until his insides swelled up, his organs perishing like rotten fruit. At his funeral, the older brother’s daughter climbed into his coffin weeping like a neglected child, tears brighten the cold meat of his face. Social Services put the youngest in a foster home, placing her cat with a family with a father and two small children. The oldest moved into a room downtown, with a hotplate and a window overlooking the switching yards. We never visited them; the oldest found God in Morphine and Quaaludes, the younger in a foster father who taught her how to change her underpants and keep quiet. I never really knew either of my father’s brothers, but did learn how to change a forklift battery and row a boat. Death leaves behind memories, many not worth remembering or having.
sUNDERdAY
Spindle Elm
the rector’s bench
slatted with spindle elm and ash
the low susurrus of the calliope
forcing chancel air through trued pipes
stale bread and unction wine
draught from the parson’s saintly tun
grain skin and trued blood
The Settlement
the settlement is pending
they should have stopped me
from running in traffic
without my straightjacket on
Doing the Done
(April 23/06)
I can’t help feeling that I should be doing something else, something other than this. Shucking corn or peeling a blood orange with the spurs of my teeth; or simply doing something else, something other than this, which is nothing, nothing at all but this. Whatever I’m doing, what I do, is other than what I should be doing, what I could be doing but don’t. I don’t do things that I should do, things that should be attended to and done, those other things that are always left undone. What I have done is done nothing; simply thought of those things that should be done but are left undone. In this manner I do very little, get very little done. True, I put great effort of thought into doing things that should be done, but in the end do nothing but think about not doing the done. What needs to be done, or what I think needs to be done but is simply a thought of done, never gets done, never gets past the thinking of doing what needs to be done. As you might well imagine, this is quite troublesome, even the thought of the troublesomeness of the trouble is troubling, the being troubled about trouble. Perhaps what needs to be done is a redefinition of the word done, or to be done, the doing of done or the done of doing. In this manner, the doing will become the done and the done the doing of the done, or vice versa. Either way, nothing of much import will get done, nothing whatsoever. I am done with this, done with the doing of what is never done yet is done by simply thinking that I have done what I will never do.
the rector’s bench
slatted with spindle elm and ash
the low susurrus of the calliope
forcing chancel air through trued pipes
stale bread and unction wine
draught from the parson’s saintly tun
grain skin and trued blood
The Settlement
the settlement is pending
they should have stopped me
from running in traffic
without my straightjacket on
Doing the Done
(April 23/06)
I can’t help feeling that I should be doing something else, something other than this. Shucking corn or peeling a blood orange with the spurs of my teeth; or simply doing something else, something other than this, which is nothing, nothing at all but this. Whatever I’m doing, what I do, is other than what I should be doing, what I could be doing but don’t. I don’t do things that I should do, things that should be attended to and done, those other things that are always left undone. What I have done is done nothing; simply thought of those things that should be done but are left undone. In this manner I do very little, get very little done. True, I put great effort of thought into doing things that should be done, but in the end do nothing but think about not doing the done. What needs to be done, or what I think needs to be done but is simply a thought of done, never gets done, never gets past the thinking of doing what needs to be done. As you might well imagine, this is quite troublesome, even the thought of the troublesomeness of the trouble is troubling, the being troubled about trouble. Perhaps what needs to be done is a redefinition of the word done, or to be done, the doing of done or the done of doing. In this manner, the doing will become the done and the done the doing of the done, or vice versa. Either way, nothing of much import will get done, nothing whatsoever. I am done with this, done with the doing of what is never done yet is done by simply thinking that I have done what I will never do.
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