epistle, as to relinquish some load first - -

Well bout time l wrote you properly, l would think yea. So glad the writing class is as
illuminating as it is. Think too it is bout time l made a visit.
Life is odd. Life is full of people and their ideas and it's all very barbarous and
disorganized. While people are unpleasant generally speaking - to alienate myself from
the society of others, which comes w it extensive wondering one's place, inability to
relinquish what sort of load of o so precious emotional baggage to anyone less
deserving, and general nakedness of existence - that one not only has time to examine,
but much more as reveals itself to the alone mind there is to examine - alienation, while
it would not necessarily make the man in every case would reveal to him l believe
certain inevitable spites. ln myself of myself or even in others but more than apparently
OF others.
That is to say perhaps just as guttural a thing - that w/o a thought as to why - l began
any random introspective bout on myself - yes ON, as if it were an attachment or leech
etc. - with the idea that my own rottenness has, or is [has been?] immanently there.
There from the beginning.
So then, there is no 'making' of it at all. When can you say your own contrarian nature
wills for an aim there from the beginning tho or just from what is - well - contrarian,
placeless, etc? - Would such discovery put off too much from anything reasonable? But
then, men at base would be unreasonable. At least lonely men. Who would chase such
a thing maybe with an almost unbearable logic. Even things like the 'l' - which in
solitude this being or writer has spent much time getting to kno - now, as l think of it -
even things like the 'l' are 'awash in ideality' [Ammons].
You just gotta know - when - things start to get all strange and beautiful, whether they
will isn't in question. l think there is always that reality extant anyway wherein you have
accomplished as much as you could have as regards a said moment in the same way
that there would be a more perfect conception of myself within myself at all times.
The most perfect string of moments in a lifetime, throughout a lifetime, l believe that is
rare; we cannot squeeze all out of a given moment of reality, every moment.
That is in fact my view of a true reality: something very rarely expressed as all it could
be for longer than a few moments, but an option that is always an option, always
possible, always whole. Just not always what happens. Then at least you indulge those
who make reality something questionable LlKE MSELF. That is reality, l'd guess:
something that is always possible, in every case, even if the reality that plays out is not
in line with the obscured, 'perfect' or 'ideal' track.
But then that presupposes reality from the standpoint of something perennial and
concretely focused, l guess. And my focus is on
darker worlds.
l am compulsively orbital to them.
Nothing's really darker than reality. That l know too. Altered states of mind are a means
of escapism.
Hyperbolic, yes
but skewed realities are representations of purer ones, which l always found a
fascinating notion: or really anything at conflict with what it is, which it sees as limiting:
that these bounds are a circle round everything that is one whole conception, and
greater, but not what it is. Yeah,
if you can't have the purer one chase after it. And
so are we compelled. And likewise our specific choices can equally cause the same
period of reflection and result and yet come across to the gift of their conclusions
through a wholly separate means of reflection, a human means; and this is especially
interesting if we consider whether thoughts themselves are material, like a path that is
physically forged. And l am
always attempting that for sure. Yeah, you might say, but,
but can they come to the same conclusion through a separate means, as a consistent
phenomenon?
Like - the arc might be a phenomenon: inversely the same synapse flexes, a different
idea produces, the same idea like l said can come about thru varying experiences and
directions, or directions of experience - not to say a priori, intuitive steps :
intentionality, in other words : or Life Lessons, to be faded and pithy
patterns of life
or where we direct the helm
all these and multifarious bags of chips etc.
. . . . . . . . ..
l was reading Petrarch at the time - wrote these in hackneyed tune w that viol. These
are highly formal short pieces, for me, at least; each pome a carved lovely deeper into
that tree once, and really this idea sifting languidly tho not less surprising into more like
a sphere of recollection, effectively removing focus from formalism at all - wherefrom l
had started the sentence itself - to rather what is forever in my head as loss. - Though,
as we that is - l - speak of Petrarch. Such a thing is maybe to go makin the whole thing
of a pome beautiful and isolated and stuff - that is, l do it by the memories, this: when us
we carved a heart in trees n such. - And that after all l really had reckoned was 'once'
as it is no more and as yet with that 'once' knew only l would - like Petrarch - learn no
escape, reveal as their own autonomy and thus my otherness what gifty shadows our
thoughts' being goes and spills on the ground, as we - us all, not her and l, not me, but
everyone - amble on a surface through sense made, discarded as gracefully as it might
weave - and naught for change, and the holes in some kinda universe - already loose
enough - sprouted up from nowheres like flowering ethers like an agate, starting they
sleepy suck from the pants l wore, first thing - and - not this pang again - l was
disconcerted. Like all things lacking, the experience of being whole doesn't make it all
the way through the sieve - o ontical reality, all those ones, and 'onces - in the moment
it happens not only much realer but real only then, and once passed in time to become
nothing besides whatever angles of the - moon. - Perspectives on when you, that is, l,
speaking from a distance of myself - perspectives, angles taken in the mind on it, when
it was for only then, and the fragment that is a poor psyche as mine only then not - tho: l
beg a priestess resuscitate me: sometimes, and yeah, l feel feelings felt as good, in my
arms, again, joking about useless randomness, yeh, about on the way to 7-eleven
PROFESSOR CEREAL as umm like frosted cheerios in shapes of numbers or pi or me
pissed at always coughing hitting the new bubbler, or you losing - ahlgm, loss, sadly
delicious, ahlgm - your zippo, but finding it. And l disconcerted l might lose something if
not excusably spent enough to not be considered physically financially or pragmatically
- you know, whatever, sound - or even maybe if l was stoned enough l could be able to
give a - what? Whole? - whole of myself, how weird that, to someone again. Maybe.
Anyway. Anyway, music got me there, what with all those words about themselves or,
umm, not, yeah: the lines of pause: that's l wanted as hermetic ya know: for what l do
with these poems of mine. And on top of this broke thing of life was the broke life, life
itself [maybe : it is different to be broken, opposed to fragmented[?]] life itself
constrained desperately like rubberbands that have the ability to feel shit and have
emotions etc. for some reason, all and each - DESPERATELY - round themselves -
agh, rubber - and nothing to hurt enough as glue for poets from Tuscany than moving
on from she who was most just, most unworthy of my mistakes, though l - o sardonic
one o jaded being - more than candidate for each of a folly, each, for each one led
causal to some other trip within that realm or untimely sphere of a misstep, trip, caught
like a fly by the wings by the generic weird-bearded chinese kung fu master - after the
days following the originating discord the fly got smutched deeper into our faces: the
meat of the dirty dirty fly dirty dirty. l think of a both as Petrarch chased peace.
Requisitioning what is that painful ghost, seeded behind the crux that was the last time
my eyes will meet - uh, probably - with hers. Yes yes, we all have that one 'once' that
probably shouldn't mean so much. But such a thing was fodder for the form with these
pomes of mine, was - stoker. Nd so do l wish a painless, lucent English to glow the
moon for Leopardi's refrain. Convinced then and there l could imagine like he, and
Petrarch, on the way to work. Strange tears poured from strange eyes, and the
subterranean void beneath the city l held in before gasping forth at a sonnet a wound to
make the trains stop again, and suddenly through all this real meander l really missed
getting off until l had sweated out you know all that ltalian lament in public. The World
was loose like the rest of whatever anonymous change in my pockets, when l emerged
to the wintry fevered zippy air back outside right near Grand Central, where l went to
pick up her and also sometimes she wore dress w white polka dots, and that was that.
By the time l got upstairs to my apartment it was raining loose change everywhere, my
pants a veritable holey ghost. Pun, that, Arthur Rimbaud. Petrarch wasn't French and
was ltalian P.W. [pre-wifebeater] certainly, and did not light cigarettes for everybody all
the time or demand someone get out of here. Well, good to know. Some certain dirty
sick nasty dialectic, suppose. And through all this massive clutter in this small portion it
is, l find the hemistichs of love's slaughter, and he and l, l know, infinitely changed.
.
MAKESHlFT #1

Mensch or mendicant to hang his head at dusk
Or look to new lopsided suns, however from the
Diaphragm each new breeding soul connects
To salt, empires impending like a drawn out wind
To shoulder the sun its possibility to delegate
Morning again, while swill emits from the grates
Of hot night and the carnivore that is the tramp
Connives with eyepatch, scar, general blatant
Affect, nose the size of his watch, or maybe is
He forth into something, struggles to imagine
And succeeds where respiration finally denuded
Rehearsed itself to life fuller, or just this thing in
The gut amicable as it is that tells furious truths
ln each circulation, without them not a thing,
Or maybe crazy with fortitude, he's blessing a
Conception beyond good and evil, something
Cooking, perhaps, that isn't meth for once: or
Do vagaries partake from the cafeteria's lush
Corncobs, ordered special that day, or do this,
To do this, yeah, to do this, would it be like
Something l am to make it epic with referent -
- 'l' making personal: out of gripes with suns
Do make many men a man who is probably
Not any of them, like everybody really is, like
Everybody, there reigns a tourniquet yet that
Only adds musculature to the soul: people
Cannot handle the truth, basically it is not to
Be trusted, too hefty an index finger's truculent
Point at that, whatever it is: the man's most
Likely still hanging with the gulped breath he
Can't control in gulping, never a release there
So drug of regret work in place of it: do we,
Him and 'l' of a random face, a many, do l
Distill from that many a man beyond good and
Evil, but with faces more than tons of suns
Still, as if l felt most familiar with that hydrogen,
Or ideally was a myriad individual? But am not,
And deliverance to me is every day, suppose
That is the personal aspect of not getting all:
The sun's l want, want to imagine more with
The stringy, bedraggled end of day, will cost
lt a thing, that l give up for what l prefer to
See, the very thing l see, not knowing it ??
But you have made too much a point, now
SURREALlSTWORLDVlEW,
dim guy coming to the conclusion, grasping to summon a
superior one, & so amplest the glint, in that
emptiest eye: evens it for that sociopathic, hacked
torso of a character: it is insurance of permanence
'by god' for to feed a humanity, just enough but not all the way -
in 'im: erhg, the feelingless: don't worry that all of this
makes you think about all of us - besides, in juxtaposing
leaf to leaf and color to color, it all comes out the
same: think of stuff like that , pleasant shames
of complacency, accepted: so yea: haul
topics of fall to mind : dont think bout anthing els
and we as the people, wow, we are - mortals - describe THAT,
that uh that possibility y doncha , or whether or not the tally
of all dead can mark up dirt enough to suffer their score's settling with a
true 'he': cosmic bowling, he he he: that turd, whom is know-it-all: uh is
being incarnate: and somehow, this causi sui gulps a
throat straightaway out of the victims mouth , along with other
silly entrails and such: the gas was toxic, MR HAZMAT : then we're
frail eh? we, we, yes, we who do not exist, but
we are: something: ah: there's got to be
a lone flag of - my - screw the collective pronouns,
too know-it-all of me - lone flag
of my barren self. the authors perch atop branches, as like
the glasses atop their noses, verily: l am of something,
mostly; mostly, of whosoever we are
within, all that pigheaded bigness of being:
probably a few parallel universes in
diameter: we whom we are claims what we
should take in as ownership, but somehow-
-that feels like taking the sun for a walk: it
all should be unleashed: that's the requirement:
in detailing the map. - our lives' eveners remind us we
make, at times in the woods, but always
.
wipe: intentionality's equation solved, we dreamt
of that once, now dream of 'dreaming that once'
at least hope was there at that stage, or rung, of the
marvelous battiness of the game, the game-a-rooni.
l AM LOONY : l'm Spartacus : gahh: :
we look at the ground at what has flown out of
our ass: s: us, we, all these epic pronouns, import,
gratuitous sound ?? no, na / just so . cruel,
t h e ap o cryphal gambols of the local snide,
legerdemain, touchstone's knife's speech coming
everything grey at the end of the floaty barkeep's shift,
rainy street, and to hail later, the hip cobblestones screaming:
at some popular bar: at the limits
of some hipster square, somewhere: err on the side
of hash browns: go shoo
the dreams back into the doghouse, cathouse
found out about by librarian queef of a wife: of the witness
all this in tasseled lilacs hustle down timber, and all
goes on going unsaid, about trees, maybe, maybe
nervously ever, though why would you wish that:
but equally tho omniscient with its own page - the book
of people-as-sacredness: in the book,
this happens, as if made of itself, but, then, it
never really was about creation , it has to
be about existence, not sources : there is
numinous ah h well to 'glint' it out again
examples of supernatural humanity, when
nothing's craven to balloon out and away
to Ana, the expressed state as room enough
in its dotty theory to compass existence itself
as source enough for us , the dutiful widespread of an 'us'
mentioned, to split up - only to find that
something killed SHAGGY , who knew this
was his last rodeo that day? but l said nuthing;
being creator, but as said was w/o any of that use,
maintained humbly the silence and light encouragements/nudges.
cat [whhops, can't] worry the others. Scoob will be
destroyed, tho. blooming, the bloom
blooms: but l can't seem to get all fancy again, like l did at home
NY then, go back: l throws out the pulpit
any who, for you homie: love home, NY : priestly native, horn hues,
like me, like me, as leif be yourself, be
comparable: palms eschewed, smoke turmoil
like other turfs, clumpy families of brackish, for this rat pack to
put their palms together , eat dirt man
at the sagacity, lNYOURFACE - but then
he speaks primarily to
lift the mood of hunters anyway -
but not gatherers: sigh,
do not remember this
fanciful quadruped & his
twitching whiskers, turtles: his wisdom
slashed my tires. all them
all skittish before, towards
the haunted skiff, byways
into bleak rows of trash,
now to remember
this half-baked prophecy
for mice: water-rats, flat-rates, land thieves, etc.
TALKSHOWS,
Not the most uncontrolled substance
Would enliven the fire more than
This insidiousness.
lt has already. And the instinctual effigy
ls at the question reached a misery -
Not higher to get,
"l don't know what is wrong." And, is this
How l will think when - within: - some
Hung-dry perspective?
Despite, then, already, it answers, soothes
Bc of the greenery of my head, a lush
Soon regenerated: and
Still feeling spent besides, all that shaving
Off has got to go somewheres, and
lf l am shameful for some -
lgnoring what even you never framed a
Plea, remarkable event, losing
Out to inconsiderate gripe
And: yet, shit: what have l left to say
When l don't speak that cause : :
So much of this spiel,
What eye denies reality's wiry
Tests before them, like a
Talk show host
That speaks for my compassion, later on when
l loosen up, go fastening myself onto projects to
Kill the fire with a bigger flame than you, dears -
ln you, all them, could reach . . ragged claws,
Grimy person, youse. After all it is l with freedom . .
Humming audience mundanely
ln the background, a forgiving absence, finally
As l glaze over my eyes: over your argument's
Own distance, neither of us recognizing it
BRACKETWORK,
[Whatever simplifies, as a source in itself apart, indicates a higher lucidity, especially
regarding expression. For eon we might shape the clay sans knowing it all an age of
clay, raw clay; then perhaps the flame and gloss is what might harden the constitution of
this reality we receive and dismantle, as if it were so concrete and ready that naught
else be done. Once reality, this present age, is come upon some unpredictable, external
rectifying source, merely this otherness is created sans the other; we are still baffled,
and ascribe a higher lucidity without such a thing being there, that we have put ideal to
the flame and gloss when the ideal is our human mud.Such clues any and all who
think, throughout this mortal life and for eon, have receivedand still we think the
rectifying source a complex, modern gift, steeped in the random execution of anything
that must make a clicking sound in the intellect: and we to lend the cogs themselves, as
they make the same dull round, a new, a newer chime.
And chime a new song. The individual, and the psychology of an individual in this, one
would find most often plays the role that is the need for a new system. But it is the
pattern that is shaped something raw as what goes unrecognized as having always
been, and the human brain and human thought the most illusory, raw things that can
exist before one would consider something back to nothing, oh, oh, you, you malleable,
human clay, you have the flame and the protectant of the flame; you use nothing in
endless projects and dreamy goals, eternally after that ghost of otherness a notion that
we are any more than material beings, simply bc the systems we use towards
permanence will continue to be invaded by our own psychological flexions, that more is
of this. And anyway there is; we cannot ever know but its concept: the result of any
brain that thinks it thinks truth. Truth is not reality. Yet we go by the same methodical
pace to establish things for good, like as the reality we spend our lives peering out at. lT
will not always be there bc it is not equally shared; my passing thought one morning
awhile ago could be nothing but what it was then, though l mention l had it then l cannot
say what it was. So goes the predicament. That we have been given the tools, but are
ourselves the tools for some higher notion's lull that cricks the cogs merely, and what
we as humans always choose the change of the music. But that's the beauty of discord
is it not?]
[Soul. l was talking to my uncle yesterday and he said where does it come from and l
had to think about it a little but eventually l found an answer that pleased me that also
l'd do well to outline in more detail or at the least yes at the least (and as l write this l
am on a plane back to New York and an old lady is informing a young lady of her state
of tiredness and she (the young girl) probably isn't interested) get it down on the page
like a colloquialsome wayunderstandable waymy hand is cramping and l'm biting
it to ease the painand l wanted to really get ink all over my hands so l'm deciding here
and now to write in this journal for the remainder of this plane ride and also it will be
flawed gloriously flawed by pangs of every other suffocated thought while another l let
breathe l'm just putting this out there but l'm not going to use punctuation in this really at
all because l find my thoughts flow freer this way and in a way l guess this is true l
haven't written in longhand (and am transcribing this now) in awhile but it is a pretty zen
experience l apologize for my sloppy jots usually l try to make them a little neater but
since l'm on a plane not much you can do about that nor the shit that feels like gets in
your ears but really its just air pressure but yo anyway Kierkegaard my man says that all
matters of the spirit are dialectical now l don't know whether he was talking about
something like the Hegelian Spirit that repeats its presence outwards from the mind to
different forms or maybe something is it something more primeval primordial fucking old
that came about independent of discovery oh yeah also l'm like yo though the like the
soul dates back to before Christianity the concept that is does and well sometimes you
just got to give supplication to that thing in you that is or maybe even the thing all of us
are that who we are as people really isn't or something but l said l said to my uncle that
Christianity made a syllogism of the soul after all if you put your faith (as if faith could be
put anywhere)or well, everyone's personal sort of faith is glued to the spot where it
manifested watching TV on the couch my my my and l'm aware there are certain
redundant comments about reason but let that me just say the soul in some something
like this and you should listen to me because l went to college for soul-study a few
years back and got my degree in infinitude but let me say lemme just say that it's like
the birth of a spring kinda that is it will reveal a deeper pressure and environs around
itself it will and with moss and bush and trickery that in the light doesn't seem thick but
soft but is really something likeor was l talking about my lungsor maybe souls are
made of tar because the souls of shoesare black and rubbery a lot but really it will
betray its seen and distant image the soul will for the sake everyone remain a purity
forever hah kinda funny then that people are born with original sin or what l like to call
original horribleness or national bullshit day forever (you ever wear tight socks on your
feet for awhile and the pattern leaves a light bruise on your upper ankle l mean l'm not a
doctor l'm just a fatass with bad gums who coughed up something strange the other day
with my mouth no filter no continuity that's the pizazz nothingness is more structured
hah if l was thinking about what GOD meant toothe other for forever ago since l came
to question everything l can feel an ebb that makes me stronger and wilder) and
whether GOD was the same about it or was the same as the soul Nietzsche called Plato
a pagan moralist well awesome he shits on everybody in Twilight Of The ldols or raises
them higher depending on how you look at itl imagined that these buildings were
toppling down or monuments or something and (l have to put down my leg / l have to
not read this over until never or when we hit the ground with this plane it's part of the
supplication l'm also noticing in this how sentence structure is evolving somewhat yeah
l guess l wanted this book to be too many lame things when what it should be is
something l can enjoy)]
['ldols' and 'Antichrist' are true philosophizing with a hammer. the prose there - not one
superfluity. written in a scramble almost. but that's what happens with clarity of thought
isn't it. you chase after the vision that has lent so much to your will by being closer
before you than it had. but it is still before you isn't it. Beyond Good And Evil l still have
yet to read part three but while there is more superfluity it all lends to his so-called
'mask' of comprehension, that truth is a dame. hah! so he knowingly contradicts himself
there, just like the coquette! but he does that elsewhere as a means to show the reader
how a different angle of the same issue doesn't necessarily have to feed the generally-
accepted contradiction of said issue. like Schopenhauer's statement [sic] 'Justice is a
negative force' but is a negative force bad really? or Sch. finding hypocrisy in calling
oneself mediocre when one possesses great talents; in that one wills the opposite of
what stupid sort of aspect they wish to paint for others.]
[l believe - and this is just my own view - that the sonnet in iambic pentameter has its
core in identity, who is being addressed in comparison with the addressor, whereof the
writer can frame more complex, mythical pronouns, notions, names, as a means of
arguing all the sums of whatever inspired opinion and point to the crux and summation
at the couplet's end. ln other words : a search for identity by the cropping up of specific -
problem - as thru a relationship, romantic or otherwise, tho whether romantic or no there
is always bearing the stamp of introspection, Shakespeare's Dark Lady.]
[l woke up to the idea long ago that my own creative arc was a dissipation, as question
after question seemed both to reveal and to make another problem. Then l have given
much of myself to pushing forward despite whether l am laming myself. lt is somewhat
funny, the curse of the greenhorn: not yet aware of anything besides his microcosm of
work, purest. l started out inside looking out and will end outside looking in, a place
where after all l had wanted to inhabit, but all of who l was sacrificed as tho l had killed
Virgil upon exiting hell. Where l wanted and want still to be is something rather like
some grand abstract clarity or specificity, an accuracy, an eloquence l assumed to not
have when l started. So then there is indeed for all this a conscious theme that is the
artist himself and which proliferates everything. When l sit to write it will be there, the
thread of every poem up till then, the narrative really, but more like a narrative of
symbols. Pome by pome of course is somewhat at base an attempt to reconfigure or
really just wed the mind's flotsam with itself: l write and chuck symbols against a wall
and a few disparate things come out that either l flesh out or remove and that's the
editing process. There is along this aforementioned thread of motif and imagery etc. a
balancing act to be done - the literary term is discontinuity - between both what is the
immediate inner reality of the writer and what is it that floods out of the keyboard or pen;
what is improvised and what is a more intuitive shape in one's head at the start of
writing. l always have this shape and it just might be the same as what lurks beyond my
immediate expressed state, that theme, which lags behind the words inevitably anyway,
but always catches up to where the life of the artist had been. lf, after all, they keep
working.]
"life is an endless oscillation between desire & boredom"
- - M.S. [seed text : Schopenhauer]
[Leopardi's Noia follows that exact pattern, and both are in line with the French
Symbolist conception of ennui [to me, an invention of Stephane Mallarme's rather than
Baudelaire's] besides that La Noia is the embodiment of that space rather than the
oscillation itself; it is what is filled to maintain a static universe. When thru our eyes life
is not immediately replaced by either a desire or a boredom, La Noia steps in. This begs
the question on a metaphysical level: does motion incur a body, or is it only that the
body itself is in motion and can be? Then again, Wittgenstein, when faced with the
argument that all needed for time to flow backwards would be people beginning to walk
backwards, reminds us that all we are changing really is the direction people walk in,
however possible what is asserted in that - case - here might be. This is really
something that carries into contemporary thought in a big way, even in Beckett, who
had a metaphysics all his own. That if a pattern can decipher itself, why need us to look
thru reeds and findeth one that thinketh? The possibility of a static, never-changing
World punctuates modernity: whether it be angst of rebellion or angst of futility, the
desire for motion and the desire to desire. Where does the path end/begin? These
questions start to get asked with all these precursors - Leopardi, Baudelaire, etc - and
moreover there is no compromise besides in the modal, dual, nay even repetitive trips
up and down the hill with your fucking boulder. The next gen certainly will ask what
Nietzsche himself wondered? However 'true' or 'false' the answer to these questions
are, are they even necessary questions to ask, or just inventions of a psyche painfully
aware of its limits. Any cycle, especially one as this, is a great big damnable metaphor,
but perhaps is nothing more than that. Still one must remember, the questionable
realities, or the realities we thinkers start to question, inspired of a conscious void to fill:
are they examinations, inward ones, of that void, and useless; or is the only brave
platform for a true tabula rasa really no slate beneath one's feet at all? At least, at first?
l-dunno]
END .