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
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
CXXIV.
October 13, 2012 § Leave a Comment
I am typing from an unreachable space. Here, you are sealed off from the immediacy of the emotions coursing through my nerves, exacted by (oh, as I have referred to them as before) these interpreters made of bone and flesh and all that is invisible to me unless I were to peel these layers back until an emptiness revealed itself, until the void creeping into my thoughts as of late is revealed–
you should feel alienated by my words now. Good. It is best this way. The relationship we are forming is too knowable…You read; I live, I write; you read…How are you living? Well? Not-so-well?
If you are not familiar with this manner-speak, please, humble me by allowing yourself entry and entreat your mind to wander; do me this courtesy and I shall offer a heavily contemplated experience. I offer you honesty.
Here, you are sealed off from knowing me. You know the words. That is all I have anymore, really (do not mistaken this for pitiful remarks of Self.) It is true. The words say what my laughter and my new pair of shoes and my haircut and the artifacts on my shelves cannot.
CXXI.
August 26, 2012 § Leave a Comment
Another day on earth passed; that is, the rays that nurture life have passed on once more to aid the other some-billion thriving organisms.
To many, Neil Armstrong passed.
To me and few others, a Facebook debate ensued over the jail sentencing of a sex offender.
To some child, the night is still passing.
CXVIII.
July 11, 2012 § Leave a Comment
Harvest
Drop him, Lord
De-leash your avatar
remove his belongings: scripture, wallet, emblems,
the fleshy-pink, mole-rat-state of nature cocooning him–shed! shed!
he shrivels, buried in vines
he breathes in detritus and waste he becomes (what we became)
he breathes us; digests, deposits us
to worms, we move
to muddy pockets
to water bodies; we sink, we ferment–
“ah, such legs,” Sun says, spinning us in its glass,
“so finely aged . . . I’ll have more.”
CXVI.
June 14, 2012 § 2 Comments
Writing fiction is one of the worst necessary choices I had to make. It nurtured me through periods of alienation. It also alienated me from those who wanted to nurture. It rescued me from despair but it distracted me from focusing on what could have made me money. It created for me a home to live in when I felt homeless, but it also became that home I could never stay in for very long. It became a chore to upkeep, to maintain, and it grew into a monster I couldn’t tame; it became an ugly growth I could not expose, but I had already removed its wrappings;
I had unveiled what I am, what I do.
Writing fiction brought me here, to this place, to this terrible June, where I’m fretting over resumes and completing a degree and now this trip to see a man who they say is my father. It has put me in this uncomfortable position from where I dispense only the ugliest of truths; it has become a burden for me to bear and unload it here for a measly 4,400-something page hits. It has me wishing for the dumbest things: fame, recognition, praise, controversy;
it has me defending myself to those who do not believe in this road trip I am undertaking, those who believe in book trilogies adapted to movies, both forms so wasteful but profitable; these enemies of mine believe in what the Screen shows; they believe in what the latest PR claims;
they do not believe in me, what I am, what I do.
Writing fiction has brought me to this blog that I have considered deleting now about 116 times…but each time I sit to do it I instead begin typing
as if it’s going to help the pain of disappointment subside,
as if I am committed to a monster worthwhile.
CXV.
June 13, 2012 § Leave a Comment
Today is no more significant than the next
but on Earth
today, Timothy McVeigh was sentenced for execution;
today, the Beatles had their last #1 hit, “The Long and Winding Road”;
today, King Charles I married Henrietta Maria of France;
the Edict of Milan granted religious freedom throughout the Roman Empire;
Hitler and Mussolini met;
man-made probe Pioneer 10 passed beyond the orbit of Neptune (now in deep space, out of reach, out of contact–
though, much is out of contact
such as our expectations of time and space,
our paltry attempts of making sense of where we are or why we are.)
Today, Thomas Young
Carl Schmidt
Steve-O, a Roman general, a Holy Emperor
and myself were born. Today, a Japanese sculptor died; so have Macedonian poets and Hungarian biophysicists; also, Muslim clerics and Norwegian athletes.
And I, the American author, am here to fill some nonexistent void we all tap into, this anomaly of time and space,
this networking abstraction;
in it, I am essentially no one. And I’ll do well to remind myself of it.
CXII.
May 7, 2012 § Leave a Comment
What more can be said? I conquered how to illustrate what I see proves and disproves All. I am satisfied, bereft of words; nothing more can further satiate this thirst, this longing, this torture; no words can reach that which my absence of words accomplished
- -
until I know How Else,
farewell
CXI.
May 7, 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
……… / ( )