CLXX.
March 7, 2013 § Leave a Comment
Taken from John Roderick’s “Punk Rock is Bullshit”:
“What has punk rock done for us? Did it defeat Reaganism and Thatcherism and end the Cold War? Has it brought us social justice? Did it smash the state, prevent in any way the 12 years of the Imperial Bush dynasty, galvanize youth, subvert the dominant paradigm, or for one minute prevent the total commercialization of culture and the chemical digitalization of music that happened under its watch?”
petty shifts,
words make
ears distort
Hive-mind: “for a cause!”
its successor scrambles, a blind infant seeking unheard sounds,
more shifts, such petty shifts
What has anything I created done for anyone?
brash, misguided inquiry
CLXIX.
March 7, 2013 § Leave a Comment
for a close friend,
Thank you
for administering such raw, unsolicited, immeasurable love
Your speech endows my hearing;
your dress, my sights;
your fragrance, my ancient faculty—how olfactory nerves yearn, impassioned!
Against long distances
ambitions intertwine us
CLXVIII.
March 5, 2013 § Leave a Comment
beneath asphalt roofing
lanterns beam
Out my window,
condensation flares orange
leafless, scraggly oak limbs tower
A white-blue mouth is crashing
down, around us
CLXVII.
February 24, 2013 § Leave a Comment
I have only submitted one opinion to the Statesman Journal. It was published a few years back. For my second submission, I have responded to the [above] scanned image. It was published in the Journal on March 2, 2013:
This is in response to Bill Blankenship’s Feb. 24 letter, “Why would a homeless person need cell phone?”
This struck a chord after having driven 1,465 miles to visit my homeless father in Arizona. He suffers from schizophrenia, (and is) incapable of socializing with others. His cell phone was a pre-paid gift from distant relatives.
Perhaps a little bit of critical thinking would best serve Mr. Blankenship. It is not difficult to realize that an individual lacking a home still remains irrevocably human. Or maybe that does not occur to the casual passerby whose “common luxuries” are taken for granted.
Many of our homeless suffer debilitating mental illnesses. A simple acknowledgment of their existence can do wonders for their esteem. Oftentimes, my own father raves over the kind gestures of strangers, remarking that God is indeed responsible.
Despite my own reprehensive nature toward a Christian deity, I can admire my father’s faith. He calls me some nights just to celebrate having sold $20 worth of newspapers. Another day survived; that is an achievable dream.
If this response does not seem sufficient enough, allow me to refer you to my novel “Rabbit” written on this very subject: a son accepting his suffering father.
CLII.
January 5, 2013 § Leave a Comment
–
six
to
eight weeks
rabbit, marked prey
child: powerless, naive
numerous ways describing a book
twenty-three years in the making
new year, new pains, new page
CXLIII.
November 18, 2012 § Leave a Comment
During the flight, Simon & Schuster’s World of Physics brought consolation; Weaver and Feynman affirmed my own life-mulling in the way that Fichte and Kant had this year previous–thank the Germans! Today, Blaise Pascal–thank the French! But these are only names, only heritages. Their words transcend them in the way that my own notes scribbled on airport receipts belong no more to me than anything else (do I “produce” these notes or, rather, discover them? And what is it I discover? That which lies dormant, breathing and waiting in nature.)
On the receipt acting as a page placeholder,
unlike the Greeks, I must form a concept of the nature of physical laws in the way that I have sought a relationship between the forces and structures of nature
no structure can exist without forces
the laws of nature which apply to a human apply to any celestial bodies as well
observation, reason, experiment
methods of understanding: control/isolate, deduction, approximation
CXXXIV.
November 2, 2012 § Leave a Comment
Nothing to see here!
ashamed, so ashamed
but swallow that down
(maybe no one will notice)
every entry bears its own responsibility
Remove me
It is not me–
nothing to see here!
CXXXII.
November 2, 2012 § Leave a Comment
Nothing inspires. I will not agree with this sentiment at a later moment –
no, I will then put together the necessary words to form an exclamatory sentence expressing wonder and awe with the processes of nature, its many functions in the grandest of sizes, be them inconceivably large or microscopic.
At a later moment, my chest will strengthen to support this weight. The heart-load will not lift or subside;
in time, I will grow to sustain it. But for now these parts of the tunnel I am navigating through are their darkest. The light in my hands is out. The paper is unseen –
whatever is written is committed so blindly. These words accomplish little for me.
CXXXI.
October 31, 2012 § Leave a Comment
It nags, pulls here; it is not the impulse to write but
you sleep; I write
is this not true? Or am I deceived?
Skin of my bones, my muscle, my egg-carton of organs (cook, crack, split them; they expire, they spoil; all it takes is time)
all it takes is time and these nights fade
you sleep; I write
there was a life here, was there not? Out here floating off is a boy
a balloon missing its weighted-piece –
not “decorum” because my inflated form does not belong up here
not “decorum” because the wind whipped it about, scuffed the plastic, wore-down the edges
faded; all fades as these nights are closing
in, around — I am deceived
you sleep
I write
CXXX.
October 29, 2012 § Leave a Comment
Each new entry is an apology for the last, each new word having healed what others damaged
/ steady washing, the forms of water rushing –
sleet, snow, rain –
rocks, even vulnerable to the slosh-and-cave of things –
things, how bland, how vague
/ words, how colorless, how white
/ soul, how empty, incalculable –
no amount of back-dashes, hyphens, colons, or markings will alleviate the dissatisfaction
no markings make pause for thought no markings make reason for cause
no justifying my means
nothing answers the call of the clouds
the great descent / the great ascent (of all things water)
as nothing answers the urge to write of it
/ it, how bland, colorless, incalculable, vague; how empty…Is this entry healing what I have irreparably damaged? Might the elements purge the page of it? Might the waters wash it from record?
/ might the fog in this head clear / time, how empty –
might “time” be the sole healer?
CXXIX.
October 28, 2012 § Leave a Comment
I sat here before
again, I wait for responses, replies, critiques, rejection
(many words to suit the effect, each ill-suited for it)
Eleven Few, do your worst.
Do unto me what my words deserve. Not a year has passed
I am here once more
(as I will until my writing-hand is cramped, eyes clouded, head-of-fog)
as I will until the flesh drips
as the rain does; out the window to my backside, dripping, dripping
as it has before
