CLXXVIII.

April 24, 2013 § Leave a Comment

The apartment flooded

 

belongings crowd my back

monitor light assaulting glass lenses

behind,

treated-mahogany bass drum, keyboard, laptop, suitcases, leather shoes,

dry-clean shirts—

slacks, ties

 

water-logged artifacts towered, crushing air

around our Room-less roommate

unobtrusive, he huddles in the couch, comforters, whatever dry

 

All behind,

behind me

Wet towers suffocate

novel sentences unfit,

Cannot fit—

noun, adjective, joiners wedged

No room

 

no money

no money, in this

no money, for lights

 

Oh, Monitor, how harsh upon these eyes

how late,

I must quit

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

Returning: LXX.

December 17, 2012 § Leave a Comment

Just that awful, violent roar of a machine, the one I am steering over a carpet sewn by hands sewn with sperm and egg, a union which laid down these bricks which stack all around me, squeezed between a space, the same properties that bend this vacuum toward my will, myself, bent in this sucking, awful roar of the vacuum, the killer suns, and all that I will never steer — it drives me, relentless in its own way, never my own, never me.

- -

Always me, always everyone; in its own way it makes itself in the only way it ever could, as no way other than the way it formed could have occurred; it is perfect in its disorderly manner, in fact, by means of its perfection it is not disorderly but, rather, it is in order — all is in order; that is “us” (youme) and all outside of “us” is also “us”; it is never within something in the same way that everything is inside of it; all is outside of it (think of it as being within and out of itself) and my feelings to its pull, its bending, are subjective and weighty with misunderstandings — I was mistaken in my seeing of the energy, just that awful, violent roar of a machine…

Returning: CXI.

December 15, 2012 § Leave a Comment

I must practice writing as Earth practiced itself

until I emerged

now words surface

to stars and to black [crushing] voids

[press lead / press diamond]

I / You

I / We

……… / (             )

Returning: CXXXV.

November 29, 2012 § Leave a Comment

Watching films of stars receding and stars expiring

planets consumed

elements exhausted

matter compacted, clouds buzzing

It’s okay. Holding you, it’s okay.

CXLVII.

November 21, 2012 § Leave a Comment

If I could stare long enough at a single point . . . say, I was standing in a room and staring—not into a corner or at a blank wall, but if I could stare long enough, holding my friend’s hand while I did so (because her presence provides such strength), I could see into that spot, into this empty air, this vacuum, this invisible little nothingness between the ceiling and the floor and the walls, the part we walk through daily without feeling it pass through us—

if I could stare into the nonspecific space long enough I might see the atoms buzzing.

There is a law in quantum mechanics stating the specific placement of an atom cannot be exacted. A definite number cannot place its presence. The measurements are given in scientific notation so as to account for error. This is because the atoms are never not moving. Everything buzzes always. Without movement, nothing survives. Without the moon’s gravity and the tidal push, organic matter does not shift, life does not emerge on land. Stagnant lakes harbor death and bacteria. With only movement does life and light exist. With collision, new life is birthed. With a dying star, elements are hurled out into the nothingness; here, the debris collects and compacts. Planets are made. They move. The atoms they are made of move.

The laws of physics we are submitted to are specific to us and our size. Our atoms do not follow the same laws. They follow their own. How is it that the very essence of which we are made of does not follow the same rules?

The meteors and the red giants and the colliding galaxies are rushing ever-always, looming overhead. We are stuck between the quantum-sized fabric of matter and the ominous threats, the larger, unfeeling, relentless beasts. We are the Middle, a harmonizing of the unseen and the incomprehensible, all coalescing into brawn and sensuality and intellect and humor.

Vibrations of the atoms affect each erogenous pocket of matter—

screaming, we enter

pleading, we exit—

how magnificent, how frightening—

this begs interpretation but the truth remains evasive (“truth?” is the wrong question to ask here but I am left lying here, fighting off sleep and these poisonous thoughts that often plague a young man in his twenties.)

Another quantum law states how no prediction can be reached on what will happen in any given circumstance.

CXLV.

November 19, 2012 § Leave a Comment

a man broken

absent of brawn

aged, bent

Not me

branchless, I spring

bathing, rising

rooted to rock

origin reaches origin

Youth nourishes ambition

Forever young, I rise

not like you

a man broken

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.

Returning: XCII. & XXVIII.

October 31, 2012 § Leave a Comment

XCII.

Soon as I dictate my thoughts to my limbs

to my fingertips

the keys

the thought vanishes with the magic of its inception

- -

soon as I etch mentalities into a yellow legal pad

I become less of who I was

I become much less

enhanced by refinement

bereft of any chance of purity

- -

am I More now or Less now than prior to This?

XXVIII.

No matter how I try, can’t trace my pen-hand. Its shadow attached, trapped existing; out of light, extinguished, is its only rest.

Move a thumb. It moves. It interprets. It soothes. It means. It mars. It takes.

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

Where Am I?

You are currently browsing entries tagged with blog at J.J. Smith's "Numbers".

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 389 other followers

%d bloggers like this: