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
CL.
December 23, 2012 § Leave a Comment
returning to what? inflection substitutes for what my linguistic preferences were at a time
returning for whom? no person replays what I meticulously labor on, be it a synthesized keyboard, organ, or an arpeggiator; no amount of virtual stringed instruments or mixed, spoken vocal tracks will attract the common ear as it will my own;
returning for whom? each note chosen, each key touched by my own hand, tweaked by my own ear
words, in their own right, chosen with care
octaves are no different
rhythms, too
commas, periods. dashes / colons: cuts
what is begged of me is internal, the audience within
A measured year has almost passed
spirits wane—
may restraint illuminate! may a certain self-temperance allow my instinctual self to recoup,
the narrative-structured prose to recall
CXLIX.
December 21, 2012 § Leave a Comment
tracking stats and “likes”
twice, LXX is ignored
just that awful, violent roar of a machine
the [vacuum] I am steering over a carpet sewn by
hands sewn with sperm and egg
this man-made object is being steered by a man-made man
a union [of women and men]
which laid down these bricks [the building I am standing in]
…me, squeezed between a space, the same properties that bend this vacuum toward my will
the properties of physics and of chemistry
myself, bent in this sucking, awful roar of the [universe]
the killer suns, and all that I will never steer
I seek to steer a vacuum, bent within a vacuum
it drives me, relentless in its own way, never my own, never me
here, there is doubt. Nature is a complex, varied organism. See: atoms. Zoom out, see: a human. Zoom out, see: a planet. Zoom out: you see a thing, not the many things trapped, bent within its awful, violent roar—
—the atoms bent in the noise of war, intercourse, ingenuity, musical vibrations
—the people bent in the starlight, oceans crashing, land shifting
—the planet bent in its orbit, its turn, its satellites
—what steers?
tracking stats and “likes”
CXI is enjoyed
I must practice writing as Earth practiced itself
the universe practiced
as did its parts, its galaxies
water planets—our solar system—Earth survived
multicellular beings practiced
until I emerged
my mind, my eyes, my hand–they practiced
now words surface
- -
often, I fear my words are read
the meaning, lost
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!
CXXXIII.
November 2, 2012 § Leave a Comment
I know a musician without a Facebook fan page. He writes no blog but he recites his poetry after writing in that head of his for days or weeks. Nothing he creates is formatted, designed, and presented to please others.
In his head, his love remains. He wanted death once, he told me. We now never speak.
I know of the urges inside of this old friend. The world knows nothing of them. Why am I so eager to stake my claim in this space
to secure my own place inside of this vacuum
to make fragments of my Self digestible
for whom? I now ask. When there were mornings, aged ten or eleven, the clicking of my grandparents’ typewriter was enough
when scrawling in a blank journal was enough
when words sat on shelves or when singing to myself was enough
And when will these new fragments cease to be enough? The new Number is there, the fresh interpretation of the same moment. It is a repeat.
You read a repeat and nothing more. It is what suits me for the moment I inhabit
while I yell, my voice no more amplified than the millions of others registered under some personalized domain name
voice no more coherent than the other twenty-something man
voice no wiser
voice no less impermanent or further from expiration
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
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.
