MEMORY::[ At five I was collected and

brought me to school. One prepare the eggs the other

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