Notice my song and pine away on strings that

Viol practices, coordinates aright. Notice,

When I pluck the object sings and yet
Once wrecked some by some crucial kneejerk
Compunctions rasps: dustily: in tones ourselves create:
Attitudes: the soundless commerce/chatter, between this
Our neat little subversion of the positive: or-
-Perhaps, I am making it too complicated,
Saith me, the me in me, that other: that sophist,
Muttering lunatic, in the corner, yammering
About nothingness and the trash of ages , , ,
Damnable sot: it is
Our respective bitterness by-
-The way, and this wrecked further by compunction-
-As it feeds itself big by
Each ascent and descent of the bars of the musical phrase, and falls
From a still yet exquisite sightof kindnessdespite
The falling: failure of this liquid canons motion
To arrest motion finally upon hitting
The ground: in resembling sequels of unrest, twirls:
It carries on like a blowhard in the bar until
All the heaviness of sightless eyes of blue brownness
Reigns the memory, and so then-
-Metaphor, forgotten. Tragical? Nah. Or perhaps
Is it a curse, that is, in the grace
It paraphrases, like a tall order
With too little time? anyways stripped down
To simple absurdity, once stripped down, that grace to
Me belies what entropy within it, will belie it:
What patchy parts of the world: and o o o
The canon, the canon!, going errant more errant but by
Unrecognizable degrees: slowly, slowly: damn slow as
An orbital hovering-
-Quietly in the depths digging upright, that we
Voyage into as if space were not already tired enough
With itself and the massive infinite it has to
Pile and to pile on with raucous and
More raucous complexity: with-
-Each measure more, fucking more: to expand like a patient
Intellect forever on the verge of acquisitioning
Whatever: that is, whatever has waited this long anyway to peep-
-Out like suns on the horizon: embellishment, momentary
Explanation, hoping it the last: yet with
A moment following newly wakened into some clarity
In paraphrase, made paraphrase: of a noisy method into method
Further, losing focus at the last,
And, equally exquisite, none other than a ball of elements-
-Where schisms live: some whitish thing or pillared
Cleanliness: pearl-
-Shaped such by a steady hand held still
To stiller stillness: by a plague of caution
In them: them the hands, shifty as fuck: and wavering out
Of fears: fears but fears especially of corrupting
This as that learned-well blindness of anothers-
-Hushes, entirely: guile, congenital
And blank with thoughts stirred out of necessity: and
Frequent and ever-speedy: this white bird,
Who talks and speaks not. Ever forgot what bearing
Being means? It is to shrug when
The other thinks in pain. Not to dismiss,
But to release. That apt perspective flows
Through our printless knowledge, effortlessly. So it goes.
It is apt and warped and purposeless and fine
With knowing, with understanding and forgiving,
Forgetting; yes, but I do not forget you,
Not that I will. The lines they lie still, prostrate-
-As the young one fearing GOD in bed at night.
Developed, I am the developed one from winds pushing;
From the speed of closing doors as they make gusts-
-That breathe: that open all the windows of the world:
Like eyes that open up: looking outside, we see
And sigh gratefully: breathing whelping
Warmth into tricky lungs well: continuum of breaths, aiding our
Breathing as like BLAKE might fashion
Contraries to link: one disappears, if one
Disappears, the other goes all meaningless with lacking-
-The complement: so, go ahead, breathe in, breathe out: and
Yet the moment-common gets me breathless
In your company: as though I had wrought some ancient
Feeling from infinite grains of sand
In infinite number: open eyes: and so we open-
-Eyes on that elusiveness, they not to close; though
On fire to close again, lidless. And I can see againthough
I knew one type of blindnesshad another
I did not know I ever-felt ever: because it was
With pangs as dull: and rapping similar as love-pangs, though
The reason wrought from onslaughts
Of nastiness, rather: and me meek with too-much
Mentioned Miserere against the death
Or things like death, the death
Of things: but this not begging, and with
More begging more pathetic; rather, this brave wonder-
-It is brave and it is massive in the chest,
Once beating with white air that sees, that sees and
Summons itself all like a broken river to life:
Denying existence flatly seen, though existence
All the same: we thought: it is prostrate with a boredom
And remoteness much apart from me: lain fucking
Prostrate: by the smears splotches of love is love stated not
Like a Miserere, at all, but like
An immaculate sensation of what is the immaculate world,
Of who I lie next to and sleep with, overwhelmed
With no such childs fear of GOD. Though that-
-Is itself smeared: yeah: yeah it is smeared rude, premature
With wanting more the reaction than
What spurs needed for it: but even thats made out
Lazily by what mechanisms received it , , ,
Whether brain or body or some mass most metaphysical
That jumps feet up from one, than the other:
Landing one foot in one with a balance unreal balance: no-
-Such mutuality here, though both perform for
The other: we feel this as we stand
Before this one that we
You I saw first as you and as human-
-Because I, yes, I, yes, I was as human, more
Than I had ever been: so, I guess you made me
A better judge of that, WORDS: but,
Smeared rude, thats the difference
Between these painful paints: as if an insignificance from
The first: mawkish, amateur, unwise:
Is, or, rather, was, yes: was kind of sketchy with
Desultory: contended flatly: hmmmm: hm, well:
To put it the way I have and always
Will: dubious: and dubious the racing of my heart,
Which though it beats at the same speed
As sadness unbelievable comes from unbelievable peace
And eased breaths, breaths in. And breaths out-
-And over this double-span of life to use, reuse
The miles and miles and miles and miles of
Air: for the first requited: by two humans-
-And the only two to feel and to know and to
Appreciate this freedom given by GOD-abstract, and since-
-Before the flood, to humans. Thrown
Aside by humans. After all it is too necessary,
And you I we, we are too necessary
To be appreciated by others: might as well ask a stranger
On the street to bless each whelping breath: quiet
Breath, last breath: but, most
Likely, that last onell be relished upon
Inhale: relevant-
-And whatnot: and made happy: the lungs aged past utility
Finally, yes, at last: ah shit: smears, rude smears of invisible
Wind seen blindly by blind eyes, big with blindness,
Different blindness than at least that of an empty dolt: and
Blank apology, o o o that: for some absurd
Something of an eidolon: some
Snapshot of some absurd time in excruciating circulating: in-
-And out of mind: and reactions, one to one, in
A waver or perhaps wordless reiteration
Between giver, and giver, receiver and receiver,
Until one gets right fatigued and so
Receives: waits patiently and happily for the
Other to give: breaths breaths of unbelievable unbelievable-
-Subtlety: ghostlier demarcations,
Keener sounds, but, not made, not made of too meek
A thing, too saturated a thing: ah the melodrama
Of the human comedy: ah no apology: nor
Are these inhalations, exhalations saturated, however sorry-
-With aggravating: and smeared with fucking
Bashfulness they are, dammit: after all, we are adults,
Adults: we have grown into our
Shoes: shoes, not for that adolescent theorist,
Jocund, dirty RIMBAUD, yes, to tie: as he declaims himself-
-The promise and perquisite of all humanity
Yet chained to those big breaths: oxygen junky:
Since, well, the boy did nothing but fix, at least fix
At first: realized, soon realized: it is a hard fucking-
-Job, impossible job: but, yo: RIMBAUD: precocious little shit,
He wants the both of us to be his
Shoes so that he may tie them fixed: one must, uh,
Be absolutely modern: blah,
Blah, blah: meandering: so: the French boy, he, well: with
Declamatory violence, himself, hah, he
Calls, once called himself all the toiling of humanity:
But we, you, I, we, are cogs that breathe, shunt-
-By shunt, ye,s yeshh: unsure as clowns met with no laughs,
Nervous to blurt apologies frivolous apologies:
RIMBAUD you alienated clown, performer,
Trickster; ultimately, jaded writer of not poetry
But letters of correspondence dry: too dry
Almost to make a point: that the WORLD
Would not be able to understand the manner of
This Frenchmans abstract life of cast-aside
Abstractions, by him: negations, pointless: that is,
Unlike us: the bold contrariness our big
Lungs share: we jump into with feet
Big enough to fit-
-In whatever footwear of, that is, RIMBAUDs progress
His enormous child, or perhaps to him a lumbering
Thing together: love not of an emancipated ignorance-
-And weightless: because still yet fascinated by
The necessity, the arbitrary mechanism of wind breathed
Into enormous lungs enormously, perhaps, with
His capacity, that that
That pissed-off boy; perhaps, belonging
To whatever painted metaphor-
-He that boy half-knew, half-guessed at knowing: knowing,
Instead, the other brand of breath: after all and
Still, it is as endlesshowever, too,
Is frightening with perpetual hunger for it more, more life:
And met with winds embarrassment: the
Shame of not giving all of a thing needed all
The time, and most of all not ever to run out, a thing
To run out: selfish with conserving what its
Bringer never uses, anyway, just collects, admires,
Dusts off occasionally. O this value,
No, obsession; this menagerie, tended with obsessive
Care. But it is useless;
That is, if not used. WORDS, Treasured? Sure, it should be,
But air it is rough, always: with living
Out the rugged wiles: of rugged life, rough life,
Man-handled: entrapment-as-breath,
As opposed to
Breath-as-freedom. Him the boy the connoisseur of
This pair of lungs: him rumored to have confused, on purpose
Orrather, confusing everlastingness, felt bafflingly
In half-harmony with those sublimely unreachable parts
Of any life or spine of mine: yours: or the property-positive
That ever-welcoming lungs take in as air: and now,
Come you here, see blindly what goes filling
The invisible with invisible movement, movement, insecure-
-And bursting with eternity: and it, or, I guess,
It is, that is to say, old, old as a manger
For this little prophet, or some new prophetic bullshit
Of the abstract: inscrutable religion
And sprung immaculately from perception: crazed:
Crazed, crazed, melancholy world-
-Of melancholy people ever-made, then ever-made
Oblivion: once contrition comes around to reckoning its hangups,
The hangups about reality so far: contrarian fucking
Infant-beefing strikes with
Terrible strength: identities, as like death,
Rankle the living-
-As like RIMBAUD: and his boyish want to breathe: when
It was not a want, was a needduhis by instinct one: with
Time, he said, I-
-Will inhale epiphanies till my tongue is pollen-yellow with
Absurd pomp, dammit, candied with shiteating: let it lick:
Generally poor breathing: just-
-Like a spring thickness, hah: to fuck us all up
With too much sex in the air to keep the body
Relaxed, not enough to tap in to peace, unfortunately: you
Can quote me on that. And no longer need negations
Be my strange oxygen he said: so.
As to remind us all of the antediluvian
Stuff, to eventual fossils, fossils to the last grease
Boiled mild: and I guess that
To dust: and ah the corpuscle: tick-tocking,
Old in the cast or hail-mary weltering this giver of life
Towards us from us, we, I, you,
Progress: for we are no such enormous child: or even-
-Clown to clap at as like some refreshed YORICK
To browse at and know wearily with
A few pirouettes of any pliant cane: and should be-
-Proud, yeah, to have lasted this long into legit
Extensiveness, dammit, even if only in that browsing
Through the values to find most-value: not caginess that needs
To be undermined, though for another to say,
I guess, yeah: with a persistent nudge thatwellwith
Too much consistency grows worried into apologetic,
Fuck-face tones: right or wrong: hamfisted-
-With discomfited apology: as it enters him or me,
Or you, in concentrated breath, under
Some guise of nourishing: saying sorry: as
The air sucks air from hungry lungs in chests puffed proud
Towards where the first air is from, the maternal,
Important, soon-forgotten breathwhichspurred
Lungs, mine, yours, someones, perhaps, to
Life: till in the words
Nothing is meant, and
Then: it smears as like the tar of wickedness and tears, tears,
Tears of the bleeding vision,into shards
From eyes lidless made sightless, yes, yes, for-
-The torture of it of course: always and at anguishing extremes,
The pangs I knew: before your inexplicable
Forgiveness brought me heated and smiling at a cloud out
There that is: hmmm: happiness not yet to be plumbed: throbbing
With a white charisma in white strings of morning
Through spaces in the blinds: and us, driven,
Towards and from
And pushing and pulling: filling
Us with eyes that exquisitely, strengthen, and subdue.
[ : eclipsodrama]
[dialogue key] LARGER BOLD OR BOLD = wildcard, related to GOD / italics
BOLD = GOD speaking / italics = Minushuh [heroine, villainess] speaking / normal type = the poet
[hero] speaking / brackets [ ] = inner, unshared thoughts or outsider-thoughts
[terminology] HARTFORD = ETHEREAL PLANE
NEW YORK CITY = INFERNO
THOUGHT : = SUPPLICATION
or, MINION
. . .. . . . . . . . . . . .
Its not what you stole, its what they gave you.
Beach House
: "We make what we make as we make-
-It, seem as though it were
Not what it was, by turning the
Statement about it back on itself, to its
Source before the statement, as a culmination
Of the statement's later stage of actually
Being, which would not have
Been a stage fully completed, had
We not remarked, as we made it,
That what it was, was
What it was. This strange loop
IS THE ULTIMATE CONCEPTION
Regarding any reasoning of the word, as to
The reality of things, an
Apparent reality. The real-real
Doesnt exist in itself
Besides as a quandary of language,
Quandary to never be known, but
In poetry something
Happens, whereby the limits
Of this absolute reality
Are scoped out from the bush,
Like one viewing
An endangered elephant. A great
Massive universal constant,
That would not be, had there
Not been a space,
A void in logic to elucidate
Simply by stating it
As there, and thereby creating
A perpetual struggle
For sense, in that the poetic
Daemon keeps going beyond
A sating of whatever sort
Of logic-lord you
Might care to mention. It adds
New voids, new spaces to rectify,
Which is the point
Of anything infinite. It is not
So in an Absolute Spacious
Completion, a thing
Is infinite because
It must infinitely rectify,
Which is the point
Of this perpetuity,
As well reflects
The futile nature of the very
Subject struggling to be
Elucidated. That THE SUBJECT,
It cannot be come upon,
At least, so easily. It is not
Linear. Any subject, in terms
Of a deconstructionist attitude,
At least, is way more
Than mere perceiving and
Expressing. So,
Give respect to the complexity
OF this, and reflect on
The limits of logic round us
Like a cardboard coffin,
In thinking we, everybody, ever
Says anything,
At all."
Recorded time^, and all that dogs the nerve
Only that impervious, big wound. O you
Forever in the shoulder of our verve and our
Dynamism, what we drink,
What we breathe, and how we take atoms
At their word, forego the next
Conclusiondo the firstand still yet feel
Bereaved, as though
We had done wrong. Still we are in the fact-
-Of liquid names, the names that shoulders press
On the shoulder, all the ways
Of poor planning suddenly the best, the only
Plan, the single sentence, perpetrated-
-By commas, ellipses, dashes, deaths
And births, the birth
And pneumatic praising of our certainty.
The only thing we know,
The only thing life drinks of us is this,
The mind-as-name, the name
Of liquid made, and colors, all, all colors,
All colors in the color, the embellishment,
The final, colorless mesh, the-
-Sure thing done, and done, and done,
And choices made, and made,
And order made, systematically though
Always on the verge of falling back: when that is what
We when that is what we both fight:
What alighted us together from
The bruised world: the crashing: atoms,
Atoms in some delegated smashing,
Preconceived to smash: a note on the door, a place
Of drama in that voice, that otherworld
Of white serpents writhed in-
-Some motionless clarity of motion, the pure
Profound, the shutter, spinal, of-
-The spine, the spine we cradle and entwine
Like patois, vulgate mutterings, distant calls-
-And windy, crescent lovelies, and dominion over it,
The meaning-massive, the indelicate unshakable, the-
-Breakable until it is not broken, then
The only surety, certainty and claim,
The agentthose personae we hide in and relate
To: legitimately, each one is us, yet is not,
That is: until the other makes
It that, I know, I know,but we are the
Both of us engirdled round that
Cordage ranging raggedly from hearts
Like wet strings, or rather a delinquent, pretty-
-Launch into that fugue we work
To presently dismiss: and to be called back to,
Once that mending is no mending and is seen-
-As no mending. Was refusals; once was not truth,
Because, we lived in truth, in sage, in
Organic, bright epitomes unrealized: yes: an
Impressive, quiet campaign, a
Murder, a vanquishing, and, then, lusty, broad
With breaths, a release: the-
-Final thing, the last final, the needed extra,
In time the only one, the one we sway in,
You, I, that we sway in.
[Ah, yet I have made a cousin-mind
To welter with us on the plane. Minushuh!
Of happy and half-doubtful earthen
Sunken mores. That times the token
Has no rearer there to find
In lapse-gazed lackadaisical and
Musical upon the brain
A sunny drift, to please the kind
By laughter witness to my junk
A similarity that sunk a draught
To the very undines of alcohol
And had me plastered on the wall
And on the sky, a begging creed.
My cousin and I have agreed
Delinquents on this planet make
Of mores, of anything that take
The whiles from mistiness that lags
Upon the crags, an exile there
That privately a hairsbreadth
Tags, to soothe a bit the hungry brain.]
? [creation of, by space between]
[The sunny drift of light, of light
And I am murderous tonight,
And I have founded on the mizzen
Faithful, some old power fraught
And wizened, I have lofted like
Some wire to the miraculous kite
That streaks to keys in storm
Had made electric-bourn for coffin
Of old mouse of Burns. I turned
A faithless heel to kick the blazes
Of these that search for remedy,
For when I at the top make hazes
Counter the suns company
And die as I drink, the sun
And cousin, wisdom for the one
And, as much a dormant, sundry
Understanding of the other as
The tops of very nature, I
Deny and bless the mores,
I lifted take the liquid down, I
Mark my skill upon this frown
Of faith, and so disseminate
An eminence most to the hate
Of alcohol, and drunken seized
I loft my key upon the breeze, I
Dare and touch to dare my one
For he has gun against my head,
And I am mind, and head, and body,
Yet there is no more for haughty
Thunder to provoke but power,
And so I sleep upon the hour
My tremulous, big speech
To stun with utterance
The wag of tailwind on the beech,
The fluttering of nature, thrust
Within my heart, as like a trust
Between what two familiar things
I never knew, my cousin brings
A dare as well, to chide the hell
I told my kin: I am unwell.]
[Minushuh saw herself in his drain (?), thought of the main
Thing, that she could never slowly replicate, it had to grow
In a seconds time, and her own measly fate but a detail of this
Foreign type]
: An office orchid brushed my head again, it tends to as I pass.
I droop down like a sullen tidalwave over my lanky self to pick
Up another box, delivery, to be met
At the desk again, tap the bell to ring me
To the desk again, new mail, new mail, and then
This sticky flower, touching my brain again:
: Well, it delivers me from its place sitting at the receptionistdesk,
Delivers me from places too concretely mundane, to subtle thought,
It hanging low by tubers tied with some oriental string, embedded
: All plaintive in a glass cube
Filled with moss. Subtly touches me,
As I pass.
?MINUSHUH : thats poetry to me
a tender place for a small thing that you swear allegiance to
because that small thing trumps everything else
and you approach it, observe it, like a child, in a child-like way, with child-like expressions
the same way an old man might cradle some simple object in his hand. the humanity is in the
tender simplicity there that transcends the object itself in favor of the person whom has given it
meaning. their life is typified by it. and it is stronger because it is not something to be extensively
explained or proven. and yet it is for the life of me. the thing is, the thing
is the thing is
the idea is:
the idiomatic nature
thats what makes a great poem.
That you read it for the first time, all the while under the impression you had read it before
this itself gives courage to what you may choose to remember in the future
and you start to trust your thought process
that the words
needed to be put together
in THIS way
like it was an ordination of us.
Some kindred touch of light from earth. For a change! That maybe the light for once did not strike
us! That we struck the light!
But its the same compression, the same container, the same mechanism, which is why it is familiar
it is just, the light in the words you perceive first, as opposed to the words perceiving you and you
yourself seeing only nothing, blank verbiage
great poetry bows before the reader, coaxes her to grasp that they themselves might have made
down this path of rays
in other words
good books do not beg us, do not come to us, we do not beg for them either, we come to them,
and it is a smart propensity of language to lay blame for comprehension in the hands of those who
create what is to be communicated
idiomatic language then says, You, reader, have created me. I have always been here but I am also
here for the first time.
Because she bothered
to pick up the book
of course, great poetry as well
is agonistic or it is nothing.
Along with the idiom
theres a warfare to creating something wholly new
where the unity between reader and writer is, the cataclysm of writer and influence has been.
So its like this beautiful storm
but all you can focus on is how quiet it is
not the impending clouds
[Its she's writing this on this topic of all things,
While I remove the colon for some privacy.
A guy shakes a young blondhaired kid
Who appears rather disturbed,
Saying how hes known him
Since he was born and
Hasnt seen him. Its workaday
Again and Im on break, asking
Some Asian lass with highlights
For a light, after shuffling
Through my pockets filled
With two pairs of the same keys,
Sidling up to her, she obliges and
I go sit on the steps of Federal
Hall, but not but two minutes pass
Before a couple portly gawkers
Ask me to move so theys can
Take a picture of themselves in front
Of George Washington, so
I move to a spot on the curb and,
Wishing for seclusion, write
This, and relish for maybe a sec
My quotidian life, as the clock
Strikes one and I realize
My break has been over for awhile
And Im probably
Going to get chewed out, but
Lastly before I go, eye a fly, a big
One, as it lands on my knee,
And think about
Getting laid uhm] . . . a-hem!
?MINUSHUH : You are the hollow member of an
indiscrete race, really.
living fatly, like a
lecher, off this sublimity
that would be no more than the others
shoelace. Fetch her, go, fine,
bellow out for
her. Whoa. No. cur-
-tail the wail, let her be,
until she
is willing to stop her viciousness;
submissive.
[But cant the moon, friend,
Be the patterned triangle-clouds
Around which it breathes weakly through
Its small white circle to the center of
The view looking up persisting like what is
Clear in that domain
Of the sky we fathom as us???]
. . . . . . . . . .
I looked at the sun or at least the sun that existed in whatever realm we happened to be situated. It
burned my eyes to the pupilI continued to lookI could not turn away, so you turned away, on
my behalfsothis inability to see something visible brought you to the conclusion of the image
as an idea rather than something that existed neutrally. You told me that the sun was a part of the
sky and the sky was a part of the sun. Neither of them could truly wend up to the same zenith and
no zenith at all could wend back to the beginning of itself. If hypothetically speaking, we were able
to gape at that which could not be seen, a pattern probably would be deciphered, eventually, but,
we could not do this, and, the result was: the image doubled over, became something simplistic. It
seems as though I have failed to call the image by what it was, have forgotten what it was, already.
After hearing all this hooey about the sun, my eyes could see againsuddenlybut only things
that were sensitive to the plight of raw and inconclusive vision. I could have looked at the sun
again, could have abruptly restarted the processI did not do this, and the place was filled with
light and I saw through the light and there was confusion behind the light, as though usurped by
some brand of blank, barren evil, being so extreme a-
-vantage, as it was. AH-MCHOO!! Yer in BIG
TROUBLE, PAL :
I feel as though GOD shares the same fate
As Dantes Judas. An endless, shapeshifting
Monster, once perhaps, a poor something
Who, in love with beauty, made most of it
As able a thing to die as itself, seeing this
The greatest of all wonders: as most unlike this
Infinite being, beauty could greet the greatness
Mortal, then: the great guess, the transient, perforce
To garner its vacancy aloft as more a boulder
Than immortals could lift, the shaking shoulder
Steadier in feeling all that brunt
Than any magic ease inmerely
Holding an
Insensible thing. GOD baffled the angels. Made women, men,
Most importantly able to faithless disconnect;
Obsessed with words, put them on a tree,
The first created anima, before even the
Delectably ruinous EVE.
He made birds of his ears, denied the heard word
For the sake of flight by silence; knew its own fate, and the fate
Of the word, did not know how unbeautiful
It would be, nor how beautiful the
Untouched word would
Remain. SO MUCH
Souls die each day each die and enter the
Menace of GOD, adorned in chaos,
Rife, ugly in passiveness: that which it has
Towards its own confusion: is confused, still
In the realm, somewhere: GOD, we speak
OF, regarding the degradation, holds back the release
OF that evil it must keep from women, men,
And yet nauseously
Attempts attempts to be freed, escape
From itself, like some existential, redundant
Fold: feeling the fold thus here, the birds its ears,
The bear its mouth, the lion its eyeball, the left
A snake: all this would by the dimensions
GOD follows be as much pathetic fallacy, to the things it
Perceives inhabit the WORLD, as we as humans
See the doll, and feel
No sentience, get creative,
Give it pains: in such a way of bears and snakes
For objects of the senses, I feel
GOD-it
Would have related to Judas seventh nose, much
More, his private humiliation, but for the fact the it
OF whatever GOD that still exists remains as beautiful
As the word of the soul it gave
To women, men: it is become now though
Its own inhuman, unorganic
Pulsar, itself on itself, a mechanism of escape, Id
Wager, and still yet to destroy itself in blipping back-a-forth,
Yet left not infinitely meaningless to torment
This horridness with what it still had been. Yet
As infinitely pained, yes,
By the backwash of that wasted meaning, remaining
Only a house to keep the disgust, transposed,
Man between
All men, resentment, liesbut not this, merely
A lacking of the human in this, this
In seeing the humanity there, becomes
Something sweeter from the place of hearts;
A heartless lie, resentment, opposing is
Beyond any reckoning, is like zombies, creatures
Made for havoc, the closest thing to hearts in
Them, these demons, is a mercurial drive
To hate and perverse, mercurial sans
The rage, compelled blindly to destroy, and not
Accepting, condemn, since, forhell
One must needs fodder. One must needs
Intolerant of knowing, an ignorance;
Intolerant of ignorance, ignorance, dearth
A shade, a common too much the petty gripe
And soul for this dead GOD to never have,
Though it live on anguishing,hell,
Heaven indeed is hell, and we are lost but
On Earth, the restitution, soul, is there,
Yet so much the glower,
So much the pomp expressed and not restrained
By sermons to hump the youth into their own
Adult pain.
No choice to move, no choice is made by it,
And yet o for what the sacrifice, for what testament,
Forged by careless history a brittle thing to die itself by now,
O what concretion of blessings could bless enough?
No man could handle this girth of distress,
Not even JESUS.
Ugly in its pain, too sick to look at. Noses, horns,
Bacteria, the maggots themselves sick in feasting
On the living, unnatural corpse, devoid of anything
But gross shock, like an animal gutted, o what
OF what this infinite being had been before religion made
It LORD, a thing*, by making it a man for men to see, and
Ground themselves in in benumbed philology?
When my skin* is dusted with lye
When the bottom falls further down
When I can no longer see thru both eyes
And the WORLD drowns, for the last time, in a peaceful lake.
When the eclipse is broken, when it
Subsumes itself and includes
Both sides of the sun and of the moon
Rending both from both
The WORLD flips like a galactic acrobat
Twisting inhumanly to fit the form of an inhuman judgment
that sizzles in the common mind
As an egg of the apocalypse
Fractured, the pathetic membrane left
To bleed out and fry on the pavement, scorching
Under the heat of some distant,
Powerful star we once had praised.
When the ellipse is deranged
When the seasons go quickly flat
When the WORLD is no longer strange-
-To those who see it as made for a reason
And, finding no reason, implant strangeness
And imbue the ageless
With screwball delineations, DEATH,
The idea of it, of dying, shifting frictions
In our heads, as like
The crepitation of old leaves on the floor,
Each fear crackling beneath our feet on the path. No,
When I am dead, the WORLD will be dead
I will not be happy I will not be grim
I will look for her
And find Myself in the spaces
The spaces where I did not look
While I was alive, and while the hook of the moon
Turned back to a circle from the eclipse too soon
?MINUSHUH : All alone you search this place
which seems all answering
for questions about it
for example
should I ask where
is time and
what is its velocity
does it move slowly
does it move at all
in this place
with the wind
through a stillness of
thin trees long-lived
and bristled with dry
underfed moss
where is time in
this chamber this paucity
untouched by rain
for many days and moss
turning slowly brown
as it climbs upward
before finally stopping
for lack of minerals
fodder of dropping
rain not yet not yet
slowly things get brown
time is in reverse
it seems it is
a void engulfed by nature
[I did not have the otherness to eavesdrop on my own deceits like thistried defending myself
found myself. The sooner you discover what you are, the sooner you can learn to convey that to
others in a positive mannersuch is the mantra of factitious people. When I experimented with
that particular idea however, I was not fully comprehensiveI became both disgusted and
enraptured at the sound of my voice, so that while unease would persuade me to demur from
simpler thoughts more confident in my mind as being true, I would attempt still to amaze youwith
the complexity of wild, belated, undeveloped guessing. There was, we both believed, a natural
evasion from the true stuff in uswe could not provoke even a syllable to be spoken or written
rightly without coming back to our own magical assumptions, our own loaded affinities, which we
held in high esteemand soon this book will be closed, and when that happens the words are
kept going by the air between two pages. The statement of air is afflicted with contraries to us
though in ourselves the more frequently exercised thinking deals in contraries, and the contraries
of such, freshly ordained, and waiting to be promulgated. The statement will not go onlacking
gumption, it is ineffectiveand so, the words are kept in place, for now. [Anything understood fully
is understood linearly thereby. Anything worthwhile in the field of logic and reason does not disdain
these but is a purgation of these. The upbuilding of an argument as to the bounds of sense will
inevitably surprise one, if in the breadth what does at first not make sense, later on in whatever
stultified text, becomes an expansive requirement, whether in the retreading of ground not
properly tamped and flattened into a thesis in the earlier remarks or perhaps even one discovers
half-ideas that label the rest of the text, coloring it, and that despite whether that argument is
reviewed might change the readers understanding of the work as a whole. A layered work of
genius inevitably will not be linear in the strict sense, by which I mean not able to be worked out
beginning to end on a single string of thought. By this, one comes to the conclusion that an
absolute is immanently not a sensible, worthwhile ambition for logic to take, especially if it is
something not understood fully, as it is not, such a thing becomes then a ghastly contradiction. The
linear is simple; things as they are is permanent, perhaps, but complicated definitely.]
: where is this place
of exquisite vacancy
fodder itself for a safe
mind to fill up with
with elastic manipulated
imagery bending like moss
towards a waning
the base of the trees
green still the trunks
red as clay
gather altogether upright
to make a maternal woods
sweet in the chamber
as the burning of woodshavings
fleeting redly into consumption
into the pop of the fire
I sit by watching this.
Where is this place
it is in the
place of infancy
I walk
as a child amongst this
I walk down
this littered path with
brush and pebbled
quartz and mica
broken materials
small spawn from a
lithic bigness trees broken also
by lashings of the storm
a stroke down the center
whiteness split black
down the core of
fallen trees
where is this vacancy
given loudness in
speeches of thundering
of a gone storm
of a safety sanity
in the fractured oak
sitting in the present
timelessness absences
and vacancies of thinking
in the sun
and the quiet penetrated
softly in the sound
of a brook out of sight
of a timelessness
collected in the running sound
changed peace from silence
like the split oak fallen
lying still and defeated
lying sustained by two cedars
from hitting a
populace of brown leaves
a city of dead leaves
placid on the ground
place without wind
without rain for awhile
where is it located?
?MINUSHUH : In the weak noise of the brook
unseen and timeless
it roars
when I listen to its song
and find answering
in closing in on it
watching the nimble screws
of an infinite carpet
of fresh water
I put hand to mouth
I look upon time finally found
in the settled debris
nature at its smallest
and the fallen oak
sustained above ground
by two cedars
immortal time held in place
in this place
evaded without
centering upon the moment
the quiet that broke
by a brook that roars
seizes me in my proximity
fights to enter within
an empty quietus something
absolutely immersed
in vacancy and ending
declension of timelessness
pursued in the unending
moment the unseen moment
and struggles vainly to be said
before the mind enters
that core that chamber
spying the
death of the mind
in the searching waters
and immortal peace
in this death
the thundering of the brook
of an ultimate fragmentation
unspotted and
clearer because of it
because of
this place
of water and dead trees
Slowly, forget abandon, I charted the span
Of my own dismal path, again.
With youwho knew as much as I, when it would end
Again; I felt redundant as a ticking clock, I could
See the portals in my head, though we could
Find no portals, throughout the time we spent, looking
Down the gape of that barren, dismal path, to somewhere
Fertilelocked behind distortionsand, made
Terrifying in the smash of its mystery, impending
For so long, for too longso that, minutes
Began to slowly dispel
What you had hoped to lie about inventing; and, in the end
Your words are sapped of amazing fluids
So that the cold shock of your words
Regarding what to do, and what to do
Seems to need no parallels, in order
To livein a brain that is hellbent on communicating
One symbol to another, of the like. You said, in a pissedoff way
That such a chase towards an end would leave us
Full to the brim, and yet without a summing up of things
In the grace of a travel begun and ended peacefully.
[I hope what leftovers shrug themselves off
The range, I hope
Your laughter permits me again
To close the tunnel and deny the space
Of one who lives beyond his hope. Lovely,
Buxom one, muse, who are you, to deny,
Without knowing what it is-
-That you deny. For my friend, you are great,
They have magnificence in themselves
Who live this lively death with me,
And yet I treasure the simple and the human,
So would deny the tunnel its passage through
To the ends of greatness, greatness-
-The circumference of a one in the midst
Of something much within his handling, though beyond
The thought, a caricature of one,
Before the thought a blessing, a relief,
A praise to the only lord in a man I know,
In the hopes they take the treble and the bass
And make of this, a connotative power-positive:
Most brightly obvious and most succinct-
-In guessing, most the animal of language in
The love one has, the animal the trope,
What is conceived of what one is meaning
Has nothing to little to do with what I mean
Outside of love, the love for this
Lively death I spend to the need, with others,
This encincture round a broken tower,
Better for the passage: and a fine relief, in hope,
For what is positively meant in saying]
: My soul is bile. So I have left my scrutiny of atoms of
Sensations to their skated boards, have denied the useless
Denial, tried to, anyway. And still this hanging head.
: This stiff
Neck. All of it so tinged with reflection, not a thing
Better Ive gotten out of it but a thing worse that
Is my body, have not so much time left: I bother
The tremolo of evening thoughts and wagers, let
The soul try and eke out of the murk, but not a
Thing doing, a thing not doing, never, a dud of
A bomb, a perpetual rocketing into more space,
An empty fart on the bed, and then some snores.
An old canister of spraypaint. A pretty dog. A
Lefty in the righty, speaking vicious things, not
Docile, never, but in the read spread of generals
Somewhat sensible, a cashier rolling his eyes,
Pockmarked in his apron. And the mind of winds
Upon a dark beach, little feelings like asswipes
Hooting in the night, aching peace, the soul in
Pieces, tied to the least fecund, the least moral,
The essay against me, the trial times two, and
A fiercest cat in those receding deeps, those
Prickly generals and cavorting snobs on their
Skis taking a night ride. Ill spraypaint their
Car, steal their dog and sell it to a Taco Bell.
Then for sure theyd realize the hell their lack
Of interest with life persuades, at least, from an out
Siders view, akin to the Airdale in GATSBY,
: Though why am I bitching? My soul is as much
A thing left behind, not once returned to by pricks,
: Amoral. Fuck it, fuck all jives. Fuck
: Fuck this fuck that
: Eat the winds. Terrible skateboarder. Fuck. Hah! Pools and pools of doubt and living
with it enough to just relish it and appreciate it even though half the time its a source of
intolerable misery the misery is however wonderful it is a thing I cannot escape so must perceive as
wonderful and therefore despairingly struggle alongside as like the third one walking ahead along
the road with his staff of leaping flame, Eliot a few yards back in his own despair of peevishness
and I just trying to make my legs go forward with him I suppose to catch up to the behemoths and
maybe one day shoot forward no no no I cant he says resignedly, pandering to this religion of
doubt, I cant, he says, he says he cant.
: I suppose my religion is doubt, just as foolhardy, yet in my case it was no choice to befit my life to
doubt, as it could be a choice to be religious. However one knows: theyre both fucking ways to
cope. And so then I waste my time being happy with seemingly inescapable unhappiness rather
than realizing I need not escape a thing to ravel out into an ease ofwhat?self?
: What selfs there? Zooks, you think you see a monk Robby Browning saith, so Ezra Pound saith,
gimme my Sordello! Its mine DAMMIT! like a child. Like a dog, as if the pain of it should outlive him.
;kfdfkfdsfre jtjerit etreioth
[Hmmmm. The fascination with voids. Those're all a poet can hold on to, in my opinion. Nothing to
strike a voice with humility like a sum of infinite nothingnesses, doubt's correspondent. A poet
especially, living in eternity if he or she is a true one, needs to feel his feet on the ground without
taking root. Where they are they will remain, and spread their eternity in the oddest places, fix
themselves in it. Voids help us as poets remember how to move one step, that even to take one
step would be a dialectical leap of faith for the spirit. We collect those notions of doubt as we pass,
situation to situation, all those voids, so that we make speak their difficulty in sitting down in our
static universe of words, their true place, though perhaps not origin.] Well,
Fair enough. Maestro,
Tick a center out of melancholy,
Make it sprain out sounds. Each a frequent
OF the bar, milling fathers away
From home, centering themselves with drink,
Going high way out with Smitty to the ballgame,
A torn cap slumped perchingly on the head,
Fasteners to cashcows little tickets hands made
Of knuckles . Broken flask . During highlights,
Made film, watched film. Broke and needy.
This guy judges. Fool him. Bring outside every
Cuticle's curl, make it big, all of it, big
As the hide of the moose, a rug now in a
Fancy house, the head perched with glass eyes
Above the fireplace, Moosehead, Moosehead
He screams . :
^Look! Look at all that nothing. Its too big
To not mean something, you might say. But
Thats just a game of logic, isnt it? That there
Is a given place for this. No system of philosophy
: Could beat the solar system, much less the
Universe. My friends? Have
: You an ability to see the vast collective
Of stars, and ascribe not a thing? That,
My dears, is the greatest majesty. That
Moreover, we as people cannot do this
Ourselves, and see the honor in that
Delicate, huge nothing. That
: All can be, and be, and be, without a
Second thought to its purpose: to be,
Just, well, nothing! A big fucking nothing
At that. The volume is the universes ace
In the hole; that we are so small and have
Yet a precondition towards meaning, is
What separates us from the universe,
Could this dichotomy then, be the system
[?] For I am none of what you want.
So then you turn you head and there aways you find a new love more willing, perhaps an inanimate
scene I look at through the haze of dispassionateness. But I only reflect on myself; the demands
you hear are perhaps a lingering too much eye-to-eye, in the literal sense. For do not look me in
the eye too long: you will find I stare, and you will think I know something I do not. So you look away,
off to correspond with the nothingness of myself, turning your head, perhaps, because the dream
has tapped you on the shoulder. You have little then that tells you to stop looking, when you look at
nothing.
[This WORLD is not an unlistening, judgmental contagion, a fraught place, but rather is quite
humane, and a swell place, really swell, made by whoever, a place in which to put the soul of the
daily, anxious horde, and not a suppressant of individuality, especially in the fact that this WORLD
itself is the only one we know of, and ourselves the only selves we know, together.]
My current here turns aside. It isnt for me. It sins. It pleases me. It denies resistance. It blows hard.
: I know, I know, you cannot even hear the word anguish
anymore, without feeling that it is unrepentant;
: dismissive, volatile. In other words, useless asagonist
to the humours of a person. But here is what I mean:
: that you do not dismiss me, and I not you.
That we are important to each other, and do not feed
: what should starvethat isabout who we are.
You could only have such a feeling for strong words,
: who has experienced the extremity
of their meaning. And yet, and please, call me not
: dismissive of that meaning, and yet, for these
pink realmsaureoles around a falsity of grimness,
: showing them thusfor that indefinable,
wordless love of self through youmore importantly,
: the love of you through a love of self, and loving
you as you, and me as me, and enjoying it, together,
: concomitantly, . . . for this I do not feed what negativism
should have starved itself, too much for that
bright soul of you. Believe these words, . . .
. . . . . . . . . .
THOUGHT : Nonsense is the definition of GOD.Tho I do not repeat the string of letters, and if I
did.This is not to say that there is no logic . this speaks to the ideaby those standards
someone who comes across the meaning of life independent of his life and environmentsuch a
thing would be highly nonsensicaland yet, if such a thing is the ultimate truth it is not
nonsensical, rather it is an idea not come across yet. Nonsense, then, is not the absence of sense
it could be a great truth that does not, comprehensively refuses, to adhere to any form of logic .
We ourselves have created this idea, that truth incarnate is unreachable.And thus are able to
accept it, as it, as it is our own invention and thus separated from the reality of the matter . If we
realized truly our limits regarding thought, I believe no one would ever try to think again. Shit shit
shit] ? [The cult took shape slowlyover ten years, surviving on one scrap from the thousand
of our concentrated scriptures tied together with twine, and found as ages afterwards between the
differences a similar legend hidden underneath a loose board in Blakes room, for a bit of an age. I
suppose the piece of paper in question had slipped away from me somehowor, had fallen out of
your briefcase, when in a rage you had stolen my notesstuffed them deep inside of therewith
the intention of chucking the whole thing into the monotonous and forgiving HUDSON. What had
happened was what you were afraid would happenthis makeshift had assimilated together all the
very tragic denizens of culture and society: dangerous fanatics, and misfits with bad hygieneand
sterile, though eccentric nihilistsand parasites, with much money, and no brains, and they really
the ones who gave shape to this kind of slapdash of how heaven is what hell iswhich had been
discarded, appropriately, after we worked so hardgrew fractious towards others and ourselves,
in the tireless duties of causing a life to be in itwe were taken from our homes in the night by
large and faceless men, brought to an innocuous room, chained to a furnace and asked politely to
build an argument from the tacit proof behind our formulae. You spat in their faceless faces and
said to them you wished, more than anything, to stomp each silent notion down to decisions, little
as dustbut could not, refused to: what is left unexplained is what makes our assumptions
granderandgrand, is what we wanted the universe to be, whether it is or is not that way. You
tell me, after they yield and let us gobut not before tuning us upyou tell me: well, at least that
gives us something to work with. We had long ago done away with conclusionsdespite my
attachment to them. The thing is we both knew the tacit stuff as useless useless if we wanted to
draw up an appropriate outline for all the strangeness of the indefinitewould we ever finish this
stupid rhetoric??? In terms of our brains, the depth is plural, and the catacomb catacombs.]
. . . . uh. .
Of that elusive, agonizing,
Plymouth]

: Feat here is with nothing
More to say to have said fucking on,
Found nothing in what tells to continue, nothing here,
This place that simply is. Tells own a place of words,
See sculptured meaning from it, clue in like a tell.
But how can I will it,
How, let me ask the void, my only friend, how can I,
Despite my best intentions never be able to scribble
A damn word anymores? What feat is that? Have I made
The Feat? Will people think this vaulting enough? and
Will, if I continue, will I will what paramours of
Meaning sway a single calculated sentence, that
Is, the sentence of the void, my only friend, my
Only, starker lover? Has life become too complex
To make for feeling it right?
Isolemn and diffuserepeal my case, yet again
Too to a solemner jury than before,
I did not have much time to close the door
[ . . . . Young secret, tell me in the ways
Of sense you know, fine emissions
Of the bleak, and stars as pocks
Upon an unbridled scene, where
Maze-like instances fell
The graceless hand. Scene of power,
Where things all fall
Into a state of living forgotten,
Soul of the eves, ugly stars
To feed the gaseous
Monster. What secret here?
What mess? What freedom!
What, what freedom in
The corners of dull, dark
Eves, a secret chasm for the
Meaning of night, an instance,
Driven like the pegs of obstinate
Reflection. Do me well
In the numbers of yourvery hell
Up to monstrous heaven. Speak
In gases for the sewer-maw.
Speak for freedom from this mess,
This hammered star to suit the ugly sky.]
Without a letting of the blood
That could have thrived to bud
My emotions core, out of
A sensitivity not yet so deep.
I let, instead, the steep
Appraisal of what I am, inlaid
With pretensionsfollow
What was more callow, in its
Loving creep: the linnets
Tweet, cannot save the blood
That gushes from a fallow place,
And so I feel it is a dud-
-Emotion, carried out,
Carried out, carried out: I think I understand now that,
: The most powerful form of humor, is solemn,
Like one resigned to an absurd duty, though
Perhaps not senseless; the duty is absurd, tho,
Monumentally important. And this importance
Is the source of the humor in solemn obedience;
The absurdity of that, is perhaps humor herself, but not
The source of it others see. In the importance lieth the power,
And without which the joke would be a half-witted coquetry
For no sake. Solemn humor springs from dignity, and
This cannot be had without the intellectual moment
Of awakening to a strange duty, perhaps,
To daylight. And we live. Existence-
-will tend to dismantle itself over the course of the day, though it is bound to at the slightest
provocation, as anticipation is bound to race forward, waiting, for the moment of anxiety. Of course
we race, for we need a solution; of course we wait, for we think the solution unthinkable, or rather
unknowable. We cannot but help to dismiss the lesser meanings for things on the way that though
of the mind seem to apply a larger, external bourn to their reasons. The lesser meanings take up
the anticipation, as if signposts for some horrible event; the big meanings we cannot handle, and
all become frivolous, and the race towards a decipherable end the moment of anxiety we dread to
come across. But at least we can still awaken, refreshed, to the meaning that is at hand, however
our minds go about destroying it later on in time, and reality outstripped of reasons throughout as
the sun goes down, and the existence of those small things, lesser meanings, the existence at
large. Farther away, but never disappearing, we will to chase after the smallest meaning possible,
as if if and when we approached it it revealed the antidote to whatever horrible event we ourselves
will inevitably live out in the searching-for-answers. But this atom of relevance might just be the
subject-matter of our minds, upon seeing the sun the first time, again,
through the window.
That exuberance can chance to waken death
HA
HA
HA!.AH! Would that this old object-
-Be susceptible enough to a modern carnage like you,
To just flatter thus the sweet,
Primordial brine. You think:
"When he grows old"
Whenever that happens, and then
You become someone you were not before.
It is like that in the business of death. We are
Most assured in who we
Are at a young age, and, endeavoring to
Find things out, regarding ourselvesyou shake your
Head at this, knowing of vastness, and
The tricks it playswe see that we can
Only take the personality we are
Given, to a certain point,
Beyond that lies another inhuman specter that,
Inevitably, is articulated in our heads, as the final draft: who we ought to end up being, not at the
edges but within. This is a flatout deception, caused by the need for change, when we have run out
of things to changelike a mother cleaning the house for a second time. Such a specter as this
might well prove to be unfinished only to be finished, in the life afterwardstry as we might to live
our last days as another person this reduction of the self is soon realized in our dying hours: it
closes around our brains like an existential nightmare. [Good morning young and-
-hilarious, hehe, and if only you knew I knew. I
provide my function: what I with ease do. If only this poet here could still
not think it too great to not in blusters lay in
the final laws with everybody yet, waste the secret; for, what sporadic King of Junk
Could literally in him feeling for his friends
Deny them their simplicity? None of us are
Magnificent, yet at least. I know at times there
Is a matter for history to be had,
Hard won by me, that something will come
Of all I have written. But as of late the dream
Has grown cold and what little inspiration
Eking through is never enough, anymore.
I needed a place to share the ideas, had it in
Hartford, long, long ago. You guys are still
Dear to me for this cause, and I place the
Ideas here if only for lack of a better one.
But then a space
Permits me voyage into the lost conceit,
The iconoclastic rabble, the resurrection,
This the treble and the bass off the beat,
Around it to its end. Within, a spare knob
For a broken door, a location, give me the
Location, a tower,
Give me the mileage. But whos to deny his
Own sense of simplicity? Surely, myself.
Its the philosophy texts that did it. Now
My head is filled with rhetoric rather than
Metaphysic, and I cant get to a place where
I utilize both, and see blueness in the west
This is what I wrote last night:
Aesthetic might be just as inescapable in a
Logicians writing as a poets. If it is an argument
Especially, philosophical oneor a belief, the beauty follows.]
: He speaking for me he did not would apologize.
: He always did.
And when it wasnt necessary, quickly, did,
Made light of fervent beggings for forgiveness
Later, made himself the glib for living sorry.
: But he always did, wasted no time apologizing,
Wasted no time, for the morals have no time
To hazard their trick in the heart a beat off.
He mad to correct his heart, concealed the
: Creator of it, that was himself. Muscles break,
And bones hurtle into the message. What
There is that is to be sorry for is this, that is,
The feeling of a beat that is off, a context
: Clipped, an effervescent shooting off into
The song itself, until it itself becomes the
Song. Apologies for that, it happens, is a
Portrait of the sticky hearts bludgeoning
: Death, is the blurred vision, the wine of life
No liquor made of bones but softened belly
Rather, of the grape. Let these morsels clip.
Apologies, the hearts run haggard with morals
: Expecting relenting, and immediately goes
Resolving itself in thing it has not to do with,
Yet that surrounds like fire round the muscle.
The difference, that and bones, is that I sorry.
: The bones rattle recondite to be heeded, and
Ask me to drink a few shots with missing
Heartbeats. But Im the belly of the matter,
The close context, close as a lovers breath,
: Denied at apologies too swift to really be meant
But for the soothe of the anxiety of the man
Who wishes to apologize for living in obfuscating,
Living chancy by the hearts stone, blurred
: Visions dusk. I wish him well, deny the lover
Back, make a fashion out of beggings, like
The mire. I have not something out of mixes
To dry, mixing bone and muscle and with
: Liquor wine, to tinge the drink, quaffing audibly
From the muses still. So apologies, that linkages
There still. And I am no master-dullard for some
Sort of introduced ghost, he does not know his
: Place, and so I leave him ghost, a symbol
For the ghostly meanings, itself less ghost,
Since I have given meaning to the ghost. Apologies.
Apologies. Apologies.
[when we observe flaws in other people, flaws that we ourselves possess, we view those people
with disdain. Why is this? Because we hate ourselves, and cherish other people, in how they differ
from us. When we find one who shares with us the same qualities that we hate in ourselves, not
much can be doneexcept hate that person, for challenging our wish to escape from who we are,
by attaching to the differences, negative or positive, in another. This notion is one of many many
theories I have, about the spitefulness of humankind.]
WHERE CAME THEE HERE?
come up to that liminal place.
youll need me here.
?MINUSHUH : With the wanking of afflatus to become
A Rock of Ages, a never-ending relativity
Collected, and here is GOD: in this scheming unfathomable
Face of abrasive stone: and him the bludgeoner of an object, itself,
Hoping not that in those stillness moments
Would the object ever not
Be so aspired
: I cant go with you. Youll need me here. I cant monologue the shit out
of drudgery, must leave drudgery that, desistingly
give in to my human corrosions. a sensible choice,
: not liminal place. thats too much for my smallness.
you can take the reigns. take the liquid cynosures
the mind trails to; loops light on to like a wrangling
rope, on jellyfish in the sea perhaps. Ill be there.
: but you go to the liminal place, you. Ill stay here.
you can do it, you have the tools. Ill remain this
deep sea of the mind, admixture of pointed tangles
up to the sky despite my base mind is really base.
: I am for the magnified atoms, the smallness, an
earthly wager, the jellyfish billowing amongst a
few particles; you are the rise of fingers up to a
place, pointing there, to the stars. significance.
: you take the rope with you even. snarl your livid
living, brush away with fingers the sea-particles
that are the makeup of this lively nucleus, this,
this rocketing magic, this impenetrable jellyfish.
: leave me to my monologue on space, on time,
on the billows of form, though I am not billows,
go you somewhere up in nameless stars yet
and find all the words I have written there, where
: I cannot see them, and let me dream of creatures
of the sea, let whatever pathos made by me make
no difference on this planet where it matters: all that
hindrance of earthly eyes takes away in turning away
: from. let it be in the liminal space, where you go,
witness it there then. maybe, if you can, tell me when
you come back, that I have made a difference for the
stars, have lassoed heaven with the rope I would
: have used to hang myself, thinking up the billows
for the lumbering jellyfish of mind. throughout, the
particles of family and friends. and you, a careless-
-grazing of my leg against an oozing, cosmic wager.
: let my two feet be on earth, instead, and tell me
my significance, for the sake others might turn
their heads up, away from particles of care, and
find my emptiness at root of all beloved hydrogen.
?MINUSHUH : If allegorical we lose
That space between
Our ears; the mystery
Livens us, what is
There or not we are
Content with questioning.
If it is just a story, well
We have faith that it
Happened. This extraordinary
Case of man, this pounding
By the priest his sexy plectrum
Against the strings doesas well
The music
That you wring out of your ears
And find the dance in with your feet, does
Much to unctuously preclude a need from needs;
The real need, an abyss your unctuous
Mind fills. The one gone,
Never needed to be embraced,
Is erased, and, well, the modest
Score settled by ones religion
Causing cricking of the head:
At a pigeons glide maybe, far off
And barely seen, flapping into
The cathedral, an emission
Of dreamy oddity in how aways
It is, just a second.
. . . . . . . . . self-allegory, that for the history of you, now passed, now back
again, as the welter of waves, the going back. and yet all I hear are the meanings of wings skidding
in and out of the waters, the need for flight into new futures, new skins to shed at least. these
earnest wings of the crane of my heart, the loose battle to make a line through that abstract
history. we fly too far, and find to have usurped the horizon, that haven of the earth, and the
waters way far off down the curvature of the earth, and ourselves the very waters we make push
with the moons pull. allegory, the ultimate retrospect, the made story, the lines delineating, the
crane athwart his balance on a rock, resting, bending one knee to the past, one leg stiff in the
story of the now that is both allegory and noble something-else: a crucial wish to bend and mold
the waters like a sculpture for the life of me.
. . . . . . . . . And, there is a more sensible way to portray this majesticness,
absurdity as yet unaccounted. For the most part the pathos behind any skeleton of connective
discourse, anyway between benignities, quip to quip, brief, confused articulations of a pang of a
fear sans its reason, caught in time, passing forth and for the sake others catch upwellfake
characters in a fake play. This all loses value in the context of a narrative devoid of its usual
comforts for the sake of focusing on the pathos itself, and outside the furiously intimately perceived
heard and most importantly observed but not observable humanity of didi amd gogo. The point of
a shape of any sort, if leavened to an aesthetic of being the lesser, denies the existence, the core,
nameless issue for the sake of a clarity and a source, either/or, equal fabrications. If nothing else
take with. You not that the universe is no joke, but that the audience we are of ourselves perceives
too broadly what hopelessness means; that is
I am in the place of frames,
Tho my grace is tamed, I am
A part, member of the conniption . .
The little gyres of a pendulum
Without balance, with insight
Not balance. Balanced frames
That make like blinds over a window
Each is a stage that morphs the Globe
The eye sees thru the blinds.
: The eye is a dislocation,
A judgment for the prosaic . .
Living it as what it is is
Not the way that it should be
Lived as, and is on another creep
Of the Teeth, and I am unable
To follow the brunt
Of whaht you weer trying to say
Beyond reprimand beyond chastisement
This murderous qualm unchained
And placed on the ground
In a glass ball. The violent soothe
Penetrates the question, leaving it
Blank in the spaces where
It need be blank. You will
Convert the question into an answer,
Rather than attempting to figure
Without figures, only, the seeming
Transient host feeding on the
Curd of your discharge, beckons
Pompous postulates! I see it,
As like the cave of an aeon
A reduced rubble. An insidious grey
Quag of understanding surrounded
By an aisle of wasted sedge . .
: How bleak this is. It is
Beyond chastisement. It is
A follower of the idea!!
They say of some flowers, they must
Form hearts, so shall ye love to form
The heart. The dialectical difference
Of what lies definitively at the core of
This statement, and the statement, YOU
SHALL LOVE, is the statement: that
Is, ye shall love, not as a command,
But as an eternity, ye have no choice,
Commit to feel it, not condemned, ye
Place that stray beating into the sped
Connivance, once ye make it a condemning
Or command, the finger pointed, then running
Along the glass of some frozen window.
Once there is not enough in power to
Keep the doppler-dialectic up with the hearts
Clench, build, clench, that is, that
Ye shall form oneself in love to love
The form of ones heart. That shifting,
The gears heretofore placate it, give
A surprise beat, or two, a poets dependence,
And this yet does not ameliorate, like
Frost on the sill outside, on the shingles. Hear me, now, see,
As S.K. had bleakened the leavening, meaning
Metamorphose, now here in this work
Of love transcendence.
I have not lefty here, Mr Frank, I have
No choice, the same way etiologically
The flower doesnt pick its form. Neither
Biologically. Its similar in terms of the
Meaning made, its me, she says to me,
And as an independence I create what
Always was: that I love her independent
Of needing her, and have one too that
I love and need, yet this is not dependent
On the love, the need isnt. I need
No righteous need, perhaps just some
Gentle fugues; I need me, myself,
I need to form hearts within me, beating,
Like flowers as the rain falls on the petals
And I can make an earnest place of love
From this, can make from this a done hate, done. THE GLASS
Is dry, the sill is dusty, her eyes like flowers on me
And some other, more malevolent eternity draws back. It is
: Predictable in viciousness! Irregular
In the magnanimity it professes to
Have. Surprising, since
: What is offered has no chance to
Be seen as positive before you
: Crush the sensitive side. You,
I am speaking of you, to you,
: Who? Disorganized. Where have
I gone? To the place in you that
: Tries to deny favors given already,
To me: favorable favors,
Disproving your disproportionate evil.
[Good pain is just a clown, scaring us
out of our wits with his printed facetechnicolor. But
its still just a clown. And what I know now
is mercy. Being merciful towards a trivial thing,
like the anguishing side of love. It is not more
than a splotch. Read this
as positive; read it and know that there is no
'concrete' definition for a word, despite the-
-personal history that that word has. It can be
made the better positivea hard one,
that is, because it isnt immediate. But a worthy
one. Wein my eyesshould anticipate
the pink feeling, the lovely one, the lovely one-
-I have for you, lovely you, you have for me. I get so fascinated with it that
I curl up into my own brains pleasance and
forget who brought me that eden. Well its you, dear ?MINUSHUH.] So,
What eyes have seen these eyes the way you have?
What frankness in those eyes! Are yet they mine?
Have yet the sitting sirens quelled the sound? Of this
Fey click? Click, with each closing
Of the lids a spot that yields
Both more to learn and more to still find out.
[My likeness is a poetry in him, to you it is
The thing I camp these intimacies in. Sincere and
Broken, broken, and not to be bled out but by him believing
Too much in shards are shards and launch across the floor.
I open one then close another door.]
: So I have wrought to life pedantic words from this-
-Almost to be majesty: the distant expression sort
Of: old epic songs ageless comport and/or rally cry to bring
That past into another grand mistake,
Another door to close. And you have planned your way before the king
Of clouds that stress the vapors in the air, in mites
Of tireless unrest, wicked thoughts, the mites your lids
Click to, that roll on down and say they are not mine.
The feeling burgeons, grows, and leaves our blood backwards.
So feeling is in this. I have gone back
To blinking in the haze. The rhythm stalls. And yet
Sense in the questioning makes questions
Plain, so the answer is yet plain. Clear.
And all that can be seen in eyes that are yet mine-
-Yet not yet mine are poetry in brokenness from
Some fragment, she from mine, mine from hers.
This sloppy sound is all my mind can twist.
Our puzzle closed, we make a fist.
We, she and I, we live in sweetness tried. So,
Consider my reply^. I speak your words,
You feel my thoughts. Communion, reprisal
Of the feeling, thought away, and quick returning:
That is: once we are once again alone
In ourselves: that is, ourselves the faces and the clarities
Between each sundered recognition of
Clarity: that quoting of that sum, that
Ill-required pastiche, thought the single.
Or, singular the copy if known finally-
-And for all time, besting what was first. That
Struggle to get out
Of reason, reason feeling, and commit
To some unquiet sum, some sum. Yet no
Such damaging I am to what occurs, keeps
Occurring, out of order, first, till
Occurrence is made an aggregate and it is briefly it: and it is
The man walking outside: the figure
Swallowed in fear, empty with hate: with
The dead wind a thing that flies well and shocking-
-And yet like trouble as it crests, and feels itself,
Departs: as if it had not been there, had-
-Been the scary entropy of departed others walking , , ,
That you, I, hear walk down, who walk down
Towards us, a thing: a sum too broadly great,
Too willingly small, to be anything but a threat:
And, yet, sure thing, the dark is as much a thing,
Danger is as much a thing. We are nervous people.
But dangerous is love. And dangerous is
All threats to love, all things-
-In the dark: the whitest clearest
Dark of dreams: so much a distance, so much a forgetting,
Reprisal,a legitimate persuasion, pushing
On the words to write me out of-
-Anguish. So instead I write myself out
Of love. To you. No doubt, reallyyou seeinfinity
Is interesting. It loves and loves
And loves, it loves and loves. There is
No limitlessness so powerfully imagined. Its-
-Called confidence, knowledge of the
Unchangeable: fresh, electrical, persuasive,
Daily, forever that, that is, forever
The same, every day, in love in the same way, my dear: get it:
Its right cracked down the essences
That drift ghostly right and-
-Left across each motive, each synaptic shrug,
Each fire in the pentecost, each ice,
Each fury, beautiful and kind in wonder-wounding,
In the faceless face both see in both,
That both know the other as, as not, and not-
-At the time, at all, but after the time. We
Are anything, yes, anything,
Purest nature; we are anything pure, naked;
Elastic nature; we are the nature of a ramble,
A forgiveness, too rash, too quick, but honest,
Because: we have that hope, we have-
-That wonder, that wound,
That pure, collected aspiring towards that great-
-Cherishing, that wide feeling, so cold
Because cold it is in spite of blazoned days.
And spite it is that keeps me cold that way.
You healer. Your touch heals. O O O Your touch, your hair
As we kiss our mouth together, and folly words, and overall
Not care, no, overall, not feel anything
But love, heal by it: feel only that, as if we were sociopaths.
No, not that, not that at all. As though we cared
More about the other than ourselves, which,
If we are talking of raw human things,
Means the other is quite literally the other.
?MINUSHUH : People are egotistical.
We are not people.
Or at least, we are not like other people.
Because the only way to care for you that much
Is to be that person, all the way through,
Down to the bone. Beyond empathy.
It is knowledge. It is my knowing you
Myself; that down to the instinct I am here to protect
You, reveal the stars all blinking out their mythy little minds
In yours, that mind of stars, that blinking
One: that goodbye to that sleep before reality came by-
-And gone swift as a gaze not expected to be returned returned:
This gaze I have perhaps, that I make due
With. It stops, it stops time. And you remain.
We remain, and love, we lovebecause it is due.
[If I do not understand anyone save myself, I am insane.
If I understand everyone and myself, I am plain.
If I understand everyone but not myself, I am a fraud.
If everyone understands me, and I do not, I am a god.
If I do not understand myself nor anyone else, I am a pest.
I am, I guess: an insane, fraudulent, godlike pest.]
: THE PSYCHOLOGY. Metaphysical perspective of a mommys boy: totally detached from sense, and
all of it appropriated wastefully in the female in dissection I should have left for poetic ambiguities.
A senseless godhead is in what works practically, which involves recognizing simple, daily ablutions
as able to coincide with the guilt of needing their immediate figuration, not their immediate sense.
In other words: a swift sense in going about your day: leaving what pieces on the floor, for the sake
a man might not be crippled by his own thoughts. Such is a mind that respects its control. Mix the
mother and father in what is a deepest psychological identity, beyond the truism of who or what the
philosophy might be in a lifeblood. For me it has always been in knowing the philosophy of man on
an intimate level, without shame at allowing the grandiose to peek through. It is in a philosophy.
Slightly dangerous.
: One obfuscates the purpose of memory who thinks it is purely for the reassurance of his own
humanity, completely outside an immediate relieving of discord between the meaningful and the
frivolous. In the resonance of no discord but in assuming counter-acting strands of care. To wait
for it, for the reassurance to present itself in the unity of knowing ones family as anything but.
: might in the face of an incredible potency. and there is no space equivalent for us to see, between
the might of power and the might of a force.
: deride and understand the ineptitude of any deterministic. it lives for us to live and grossly begs
us to in the force of our personality. that is what about us makes us livable with ourselves.
: psychology begs the determinism but once recognized puts more value ininstinctual emotions,
which are exactly that. the randomness of a beating heart is all that keeps me now, and no will but
to stay in my keep. to respond, sparking, and fuse it like a bomb, and to deride the keep however is
no way to live freely. and this is in no way being committed to freedom but committed to a pleasure-
action: involved, heavy, thanatos. that tendency is the force we unravel in willing it away for the sake
our own individuality speaks, but not our freedom. for in the mind, casualties are not casual, and
when the goddamned lord speaks to that, one can feel a bitwellinsane.
: but it is not up for us to know. in fact who we are breathes the freer in acknowledging both
tendencies of the soul: to affirm itself in will, and acknowledge itself in pleasure, upon the swerve
away from one or another axis that to god is but a carnival. in that something could know only the
importance of perpetual motion as a pleasure either way is not human, less so in that, despite its
discardof the discord, the pleasure in the human remains.
: in a person who, perhaps for one moment, feels out of control, they should leave this here and
see only the lacking figurative. to be out of control is the blessings of god on us, in that it is not
fate.
: that, daily, contrarian loudness^ precludes our fate from achievement, which is in all, in those who
ifcontemplating it as a psychology are entirely, affirmatively figurative people, is no sort of literal.
[my lowercase bourn from whence^ is in no need
necessarily but in one of losing a fear of god in depriving myself of swervings.
for the sake i might give some carnage to him. but in this i deprive
myself of the will to really speak.]
: [sins of the father: that the son wants to be like him in a latent spreading of
consciousness. sins of the
mother: that she wishes to kill him.] ah ah. AH.
? MINUSHAH : for it i deny nothing, she says, if only we had just had juliet,
without his other romeo. no spirit either. it will happen to the both of you and you
will deny nothing as like. if in the end a dread, one of listeners held up to this
cacophony, DAN, youre a better man than i for at least explaining it well, for
christs sake, cant a shaking be more than that. i can imagine you laughing at all
thisand see no fangsfor at least respecting your own brothers enough to nd
them in this tasteful lion. well yes, my hands have conspired existences against me:
quite fun, dont you agree with anything anymore: why do you plague me like this in
an ultimate inexpressible: but of course it is what is the ideal yo.
and if you cant see that then you should see no respect in shrinking away from
yourself in solitude when years of it have given to this ineptitude with my digits. am
i some sort of puppet master, or just masturbating where i keep my sputum for the
jars.
and no im not afraid to say that, its a quietus i was supposed to have felt years
down the line, and when i left my heart on the ground.
: [for that is ANXIOUS. the presence of a change in retrospect at all. in such a way
we degrade the mind enough to not be prepared for, in that cataclysm, a moment of
relief. and at times, an argument made as to the necessary furtherance to see,
cannot become anyone who believes them all. peace made its way with me anywho
since ive been around. Whats not to say this feast of bad language mightnt piss
off the father enough to show his own balls and throw a month or two of tormented
normalcy so unlike whatever ennui i thought i knew, being a lunatic. and in my
despair i assured myself of the perfect painted picture, but no picture for god]
uuuuuhm
ACHERM.
.
. . . . . . . . .
: THOUGHT : The semiotic drench / of each minute a trial of spores commits
Suicide, as each gear shifts a new / black donkey / a clock who
Grows a minister from charcoal / bleeding green hands commits
Larson of the minute and the day / of a more killer consequence
Grown / itself from coinages drafting of the piece, a filler layer /
A mite upon the lonesome breadwinner / and his team of seconds
: THOUGHT : fuck all for the sake of minimal / this marigold beckons / its suite a plane / of
rendezvous and flowering sympathy from that / for anyone without a goddamn editor / and who
loves poetry enough / to keep writing . in the face of invisible tells to stop / who is really there
/ to tell my hands to stop
: THOUGHT : commingling pedestrians / towards-line / gone bit smashed . mechanism / loping mind
and / grown / likely individual . one within winds of word-ratio the / the divine life flowers tomb /
your dead everything rescinds public-all / pains using itself / square-brained whitened weather
itself / simulation said it was staggering each motion / verily was all of fist / rogue heart said, Why
did - - / said, said, brilliant my eyes / know my made benefit Id have anyway: death / soul horn
that / finally into
['thought' : oh poet you. also this practice to me is absurdly meta. look downwards, find upwards.
see that as a command, not a statement of truth. were no epic grace. were no folly either all
were trying to do is be fuckin writers / / and peacekeepers. honesty / / sincerity / / hope / / who
knows, I'll give you what you want] AHRM:
Answers often t w o
Of them one high style one
Low style leading them
Into your hands Answers
Living toys Answers picking up
T h e A n s wers like toys often two of the m
Squirming now in your hand you look
At them and smile, ah, p art, palms, let, t o ys, fall
Right into it, for the hell
Of it and they hit the surface
Of it and go be ne ath the surface
And do they so caper downwards
From the su rface downwards in
V e r t i g i n o u s pairs of aureolas and
Do not they and they cannot
Agglutinate respective
Nuclei, Into a single fo r m one thinks of the
Endless prostitution of amoebas and
The Two Answers are bodies
Of different private integrities
For the low style has an argument
For the high style does not argue and
Are they both con t ai n i n g
Thorough whole of structure and
F or, are they both answers to their own
Qu e s tions and thusly thusly they
Float in the solution and soon e m ulsifyyy y
In the solution just as oil
And vinegar would and
Are they floating now floating
As two independent s ch em es seemingly murk in that of
Failure Solution murk a solution
Made failure by bathetic the tropes of t hat and
Verse cursory kook philology passing energies
Like neutrons barely a l i ve concepts choked
To paltry, by this burnt yahwe h of clouds this
Clog of any dumb air infamous rex that of
The black effluvium around them ef f l u v i u m :
F o g :
Usurper, of
Every flesh of God that may
Be stuck to ribs of men who risk
Transport, of flesh to pen.
And all the c r e tins hate the fog and
Slowly are they wizened like
A lem o n by the fog, and
The weakening dominion of
Intelligence ingenerate of sparks that with
Each birth lit feebly once in howl vacancy
Of greenhorn inspiration that moiling to produce again yet
And ever did not have
The chance to gr o w , the fast egresss ssss s
Of tro glo d y t e s away away
From the cloud away awayaway
Towards the trumpeting of harlequins rather
Who call for the sound of imbeciles who
Rant in a v o i d , to lost symbols long ago
Vacated by their fathers and
Loaded of dead pi t h and only the image
Remains as a fraction of its mea n in g
And all together
And all together cadavers of this
And all together c a d a v e r s of thi i is
Dodo species of dodo thoughts ectoplasm
Of stank doctrines parturient
Of no new score, no better new wisdom
Though many claim to be parturient of new
Wisdom and and and and a n d
And all t o g e t h e r all and
All the neutrons wizzi n g of mediocrities priking
Their kismet like begg g gars to The An s w e rs often two
Of them Answers who may
Vulcanize the slack plod of the neophh yy t e s
And save them one high style one
Low style and together these ghosts priking
Of the useless bilge out into
Black space useless bleeding resultant
Of the classic creative jilt in the wouldbe
Upended creative endeavor perpetrated
Either by the man or the thought,
All of them feeding
In the same corrupt petri dish of
Literary incest: a l l mediocrity feeding itself
With itself, while the cloud gains more
With the weight of the sparks that
Would ha v e g o n e o f f f f
While two opposing clarities
Decide to solidify in a place
Of such closeted figments. They place
Their glowing tangs on corresponding symmetrical
Points steadfast located
Along the fringe of the ambit of the black effluvium the
Fog P r e s s i ng from the middle out w ards to Destroy;
And The Answe r s catching bi ts s from the
Broth through a cheesecloth, and as bits of nadir
Try to escape from the Beast, old cadavers
Of this species mingle in the manifold of unfinished
Business, of morons and jukes
And gambits of purpose, just like
The live ones.
: Start the indelible cycle! Start with the stranger blood of distant colonized thoughts, string them,
make loose the valve. Death sleeps, a euphoric formheld to dream by a suspending deep. That
mark of unseen chance that clogs the passage of life with useless maugre, doubt. A blot on the
course. But where goes it? Life travels on, sans the gingerly prod of deaths finger. It is too strong
to be not lifted above some over-subtle drudge. So life kindly follows along the track.
[chasm-blades hacked a fellow into reality again, following him and then turning back, hitting bits
of universe between thrusts downward of the dagger, splitting still the furthest and like a crack in
the head a fellow, personage, non-space, from that moils begetting from the chasm-blades
ridiculous craft. Much as the hulking missionary behind the slaying blade, slaying chasms, chaos
fruitful made in the drags, the universe dregs left over from chaos, and nothing ever a made fact
from these scrupulous, divergent void-types, like as reality, like as reality herself.]
: The words are the speed of the mind, and represent the movement stirring behind the red velvet
curtainwhich by the kinetic of wind fraught flies upward out of restonly to descend forth and
soundlessly collide with the nice, blue armchair, and the nice, blue armchair had for some time been
inching towards the curtain with invisible disparitywith unheard of stillnessand the curtain
towards the nice, blue armchair, and the first contact between the two was a cause for celebration.
The image here is an example, held between these sentences as a broken forma small wound
to bleed out the poison of a lie undiscovered, and remaining that waypicked out of context to
reflect a distortion of the previous symmetry of a living roomthe reader understanding that
these objects are in a living room, because I have related them to that location. Before that,
however, the curtain and the nice, blue armchair could have been anywhereand in freedom were
located in no spotharboring speculationas to the image of the spot, and as to what that
consists ofdrying out in your head. In doing this, I limit your ideas about the two thingssince
you reader, you understand: a living room is a living room, since it is only that, to you, suppose you
refuse to accept things as being where they are, even after information has already supplied a
place. Suppose you consign the nice, blue armchair and curtainto another place? Assimilate
these objects by the will of your imagination, readerone of both could be the other as equally
Simile: this'll help:
It was like too much garbage
That must be stomped, further, into the bin,
Preventing overflow. Eventually, I would give up, and follow your lead, which made you angry. As
we walked away from the chaos, you said to me that I was nothing but a dog on a damned leash
had I not immediately thought my ideas to be trashbecause you called them trashperhaps, I
might have convinced you about this reality this entirely accidental reality this construct of things
not as they arebut as they were, and as they will always befor the moment now is not
representative of what shall always be, and is in conflict with it. After stating this to you, I dusted off
my pants and fingered my peachfuzz and spat on the ground. You were cleanshaven and were
grave and dark as blackness unknown and you wore a stupid tie: in this waysomehowthrough
the stupidity of your tie and the cleanliness of your shave, you had come to know many stages of
blackness, until by escaping one stage you entered another, and now, because you had ruled out all
black things, to a pointyou became jaded soon by the sinuous and ongoing crosshatch of
motives there were, for the blacknesseach one bleeding into another.
: This was not a problem however you were indeed wary of a reflexive blankto come, reflexively,
upon you, without warning, one dayspiking your headand who knows how long living vacant in
the mind. Something destructive yet blithe coy in the shuttle of itself round the dying circumference
that though the circumference might crumble, like old bricksor perish, like something with a
life inside of it may sustain the relay of parts of it perhaps the whole thing past the hour of
recognizable eternity at least. Yes, yesmore than anything else, you and I understood there to
be a spatial quadrant of blackness, still to relegate the position of our chance to figure it all out, to
some lesser penitence. That was the blankness, you see, and the blankness shrouded over the
extensionsof nature from EARTH and EARTH extended from man and man from GOD. After all, we
made this place what it isbehind these qualified assertionsthis shady dealing of matter in the
cosmos between two events in a room washed in grayis a pernicious chuckle ending without
humor. All you had to do was be skeptical enough, to fear for your own lifeand minethough I
do not know why you even bothered, with eitherdespite our presumptuous getups, our clothing
suddenly went aflame [Which was the idea, after all]. We had striven before, striven to scavenge the
synergies we could from the first stoke, the first lit ember, in the hopes of achieving a perpetual
ignitionthe first flame must be vigorous flame, so that strike of match can cruise awhile on
inertia of lesser explosions. Just as the early harbinger, as he tolls, and tolls, and feels the omen
dripping in his chesthe has the strongest voice, the loudest bellthe omen coming earlywe
failed nonetheless, and after failing were both of us disappointed, depressed, angry, scared.
?MINUSHUH : We felt this at the same time and did not knowit was only after we had, in giving up
all hope begun to pray, with weird/obnoxious sacramental eloquence, that flames burst thenfrom
the sulfurtrilling in the easy combustion of the idea. No doubt, we had synchronized the feeling
of disappointment mutually, by chance, you later said: had we synchronized our beliefs, it probably
would have started to rainthe fire tricked usand, the fire singed the hairs on my chin, and
burned your stupid tie to ashes. These are the only matters of our appearance that were
mentioned and thus, the only parts of us that exist in the imaginationwhich does not exist but we
imagine that it does and that is what imagination is pretty much. This was the first time I had gotten
a good look at your maimed body, writhing on the groundthe children of your sores and the
children of your bruises were in clear view. Beforehand, everything was barely relatable and
consumed in a sort of psychic haze and, it seemed, like you had plannedand thought extensively
aboutthe possibility of your death. You were compelled to whittle energy down to the sincerest
modicumbut then!!! You chose to be engulfed, however, and sacrificed your burning self to
terminal thingsall this was done before we had arrived at the center of the universe. It would
have been a waste if you had not been there.
I found in the swell of the flames on my arms, and legs and belly, the shorn specimen, of our shorn
grief, given us to infer, with blank aspect infer. The fire was our grief, until it go out we shall grieve I
saidit was then, you realized you had come across the final blankness, from which there was no
path backwards or forwards from the sourceit just waswe were left as cindersour
conceptualizations were weak as ashwishing to rebuild, you started first, with what was thought
to be the extreme and the mediocre, and soon realized them as but distractions from the original
elementyou crossed your arms and kicked the groundthat is one image of youI chose to
delve like an animal into absurdity, I saw nothing in obscure rhythms that I could produce
adequatelywith the same verve. Our foundations were something not arcane enough to
symbolize the new freedom of our glossy, though tempered vision, which was an old visiondone
before, yet fashioned by us to look as new. We both studied the work of our peers until we had a
good grasp of it enough to move on to more advanced complications and derivatives, taking the
foggy meaning in them at face value. They were diagnosed as being beyond us, out of our
convenient realm, so we stopped searching. You and I were content to hide somewhere in the
dense and irregular shrubbery behind your house, which had needed trimming. I can hear now your
fathers voice calling in us for dinnerwe laughed from our guts and picked only the flowers that
were dying so that they would die further and the sunlight shimmered through the leaves of the
trees in careless fractures that in reality were not so careless and were important somehow and we
could not uncover the meaning behind the shade. We studied up on what we had started with, and
had soon abandonedonly to find, upon further examination, an obtuse purity that had not been
present in the thing before. So, we dug in, and obsessively broke into the surface, furtherfurther
going finally inside an outside place.
: The sense of basic issues amounted to nasty and perverted conceits, disguised as agreeable and
superficially thoughtless diagrams. The need to create is a sin against the purity of nothingness
from which all ideas must be extrudedand properly mangled. What is ever, but-
-Never, that
Was? Here lies the impersonal contrition behind my delivery of gutted rhythms, in other words, the
gutted language that is exchanged between me and the other peoplelazy dialogue, the exclusion
of conjunctions and articlesthe pealing of wordsspare language pealing as the notes of
base/rural music.
: Such was the result of further probing. There are days when thoughts are controlled by the weal
of their designhow an idea may prosper in speech and word rather than how it is applied to the
common state of things. One day in particular was not up to snuff in terms of this. There was
nonsense in it, and yet we strove to accept the fallout instead of the bomb. Stricter rules are
involved when it comes to proving the sense behind the absurd, just as plain things need little in
the way of science to express truth, and are assumed. We accept the gaps in them as gaps,
because the whole of the concerto seems finished. Nobody, assuredly, can feel this way about
nonsense; there are enough external holes in chaotic patterns to sink a shipI soon learned that I
must realize that nonsense had no internal holes.
[It was our plan to talk of only very spurious stuff.]
: Perfidious GOD approached me with a map in his hand. The central point of conflict in this section
of the narrative involves the the the approach of GODand will be dealt with presently. How, after
all, could you and I expect anything but a negative reaction, after pulling GOD into this? It was your
idea, really. We could not come to any conclusion, and you said that that was GODso no matter
what we did, the solution to our small gestures would spell out the name of the deitywhatever
that ishowever, such tenacity, will not be adequately developed, thankfully due to my own human
laziness, regarding the editing process, in fact, right now, I am explaining the inadequacy of all this,
at length, in order to give balance, to shitanticipating the inevitable rejoinder. For example: I
never try to elaborate on what GOD looks like, or even what his intentions really are. Very little
context is given. This is done for no other purpose than to show the reader that I have little idea
myself of how the transaction should be depictedhave little reason myself for pulling GOD from
the intersticesthat isbesides as an attempt to conjure up a sort of hackneyed relevanceit
will seem offkilterGOD would intend this to be the right effect of his presence on other people,
anyways
: I had seen him across the street as I was leaving the house to buy a gallon of twopercent and we
waved to each other. Having gotten my attention, he shouted to mesomewhat louder than was
neededhe shouted to me, that I needed first to know that perfection, when reached, ended up
being deformed. He said that the most beautiful point was not the last point but a point before that
was conscious of its deformity and thus transcended it. This was the only useful thing he said. It
had no relation to anything else, and seemed random, at the time, though. A gang of cars puffed
down the street and they were objects that separated both GOD and myself into islands.
?MINUSHUH : You saw me talking to GOD and silently slipped ingave me your blessing and
attempted to initiate a new conversation, much to the anxiety and the awkwardness of the deity.
Either he did not notice you or did not care. I presume the latterI guess, he saw you as a third
wheelyou waited to speak, entered the conversation at a good lull, although you hated him you
respected GOD enough not to interrupt and you said to me that the journey would be fruitless and
we both knew it would be fruitless and you conceded that at the very least we would come out of it
as different people than we had been before, because we were human, thuseasily influenced.
GOD, meanwhile, held the map between his thumb and forefinger, slightly impatient, splaying out the
fan of the rest of his digits effeminately, as though in possession of a disgusting thing. He
explained that the map was a way to track the infinite, without being consumed, he knew this as fact
he fondled my shoulder and said I was hearty enough. You stood in the background, shifting
your weight from one leg to the other leg I could tell you were suspicious by the way you struggled
to conceal it by slanting your head and also you dipped your eyes and I could tell some frightening
idea in your noodle was now waiting to be exposed, prematurely, I thought I was the only one who
noticed this but GOD apparently could tell that you were about to voice an objection because he
stuttered a bit over your words and said to me that sacrilege was the paradigm of truth. His
theorem was made ill through the use of astringent profanities. However, sadly, it ended up
distracting us from his more destructive lies and we later realized that that was his ulterior
purpose. GOD scratched his head and said, well, goddamn it it was a gift, no charge, smiling at me
and ignoring you, shunning you, like an adolescent boy caught up in the market of himselfGOD
must always be in denial of his bad qualities in order to function properly.
GOD said he wanted to see us off but he had to go to the can first. GOD went down a sidestreet
and began to publicly urinate. Left alone on the sidewalk, you and I could now speak kindly of him
we were expected to do this. I said that I saw GOD as a mechanism of negation, in eclipsing all
possible purposes he proved the lack of the will of the human species and thus the void of his own
will, since he is, essentially, what he has createdthis theory implies that GOD created man, who in
turn created GOD, but a GOD below the one that created them. I guess you could also see it as the
idea of GODcreating the universein order for the universe to be conscious of GOD, who in
turn becomes conscious of itself, and this consciousness survives outside the rest of the universe,
but not beyond itthat humankind before knowing they had had created GOD is what makes all
this an empty versionrather skewed more than what we could have foundof little bearing to
the caseyou agreed, but only because you were a proven skeptic of all things, and had to agree
to the possibility of all things much as the impossibility of them. Upon completing his task, GOD
sauntered back over to us. It smiled first with its mouth and yet the eyesthere was death in
them. Seeing that I was taken aback, it moved the smile to
: AHERM (said the poet)
The eyes as though the message of goodwill
Could not, automatically, express itself,
: With true sincerity, in both places, it had imperfect teethit lived in its car, which was a
Studebaker: the seats missing upholstery in some places, revealing stained yellow foamit sent us
: On our way, smiling the whole time as though it was not what it had wanted to do but it did it
anyway.
: We took two steps away, and looked back and GOD was not there anymore and then we realized
we were no longer outside of my house.
: We presumed it was fall however, the continuum gave us no clues regarding the seasonlet us
make it fall anywaysstill, we were going to do it, and had everything planned out. A horse
appeared out of thin air and we could not tell when exactly the creature had appeared because we
no longer were trapped within the chambers ofat the very leasta familiar passing of time. You
and I exchanged a glance and shrugged our shouldersimmediately understood the horse as
truth as the animal seemed to fit into the rest of the dream pretty well, anyways, we rode upon the
horse, for miles, quickly succeeding past the berms of the mapwhich we had thrown out
beforehand, finding it to be useless: Fuck that guy you said, and I did not respond because
anything I could have said would have been unreasonable and complicatedsometimes I am silent
if I were to speak insteadhehhno one would understand, or understand well but falsely.
: We searched for the darkness between stars, and were able to gather results from such
presumption. The place flooded with poor light that was stale and wrong.
The light
?MINUSHUH : Ate everything up. This was the first time you had seen the spectacle of perdition
you did not know what to make of itI had already come to my own delicate conclusions and the
conclusions were sheathed in doubt, and the doubt was the conclusion.
The horse chuffed noisily and faltered, rearing up its hooves and shaking its oblong head from side
to side. We soon could no longer control it and were knocked us both off the horse, and the sinewy
and muscular animalgone from metaphor, to actualitya specific intelligencedashed off into
a separate shadow of space, away from us, becoming a metaphor again.
The truth was lucky enough to break our necks as we fell. I could hear the crunch of the discs of
my spineboth of us screamed, with a screamwhat else would we scream with? That was the
final way of itit could not be heard but that was the way it was and the scream was a wail. All
assumptions are variable and thus, weak. We got up from the ground and dusted ourselves off, our
heads dangling down over our chestour spines jut against the skin of our necks. We realized
that, before we could get moving, we had to redefine the limits of who we were, in order to fix
ourselvesin other words, we became vicious in the parts previously kind, dull in our bodies
though hard by the ways of intelligence. This was not advantageous as regards to getting a good
lay
: I was the first to find out: my head now moved freely about its axis and was no longer a part of
the body and yet I was alive. I saw this as vital in attaining a new perspective on things. You, on the
other hand, saw this breaking of the neck as the detachment of the head from the body and you
saw the body as the soul pretty much. You tried and failed to reattach your head to the spinal
column; you thought this a very bad thing to have happen: I did not, and in my freedom relented to
philosophical tendencies. Both of us did not have the right idea.
[THE knowledge of things as they are is a stretch of the imagination. We saw the sun as too
involved in the system and broke free.]
: We made trash of our limits, stubborn enough to deny them. The sun will not be mentioned again
as a result the composition will lose the effect it was meant to have on the reader. The horse will
not be mentioned again, either, I guess, those two images were all I could come up with. The style is
critical, and any critical style degrades itself, in succumbing to maniaanger will beget maniamy
own growing restlessness towards the words I usefor denigrating what brought them to life.
After we made trash of our limits, all we had left was disjecta. We found some good things, but
mostly useless things, in the disjecta. Starting to walk through the place where you and I had been
deserted, you told me that, prior to breaking our necks, we had never feltphysical painbefore,
which was why we had been so confused. The only pain we had ever known was the pain of being
mystified.
[We were the martyrs of only really stupid ideas: we had for the first time been damaged.]
: This was the most important conceptwith snap of bone of the spine pain of the highest
caliber!!!!!!! You said you could no longer feel your legs or arms; that you could only feel some
thoughts, not even all of them, the thoughts you could not feel were involved too much in the
lunacy of tepid, pragmatic thinkingthe need to convert into literal principles the hell of our fall
reconciling the nonsense enough with experiments in reality so as to benumb you to its carnage, I
became a childit was, I suppose, a defense mechanismI chanted liminal references, alive in
the spunk of prayer.
: It soon came to us that we had been left alone in a country we did not understand. We blinked our
eyes at how eloquently the whoosh of the cold infected us, raising its argument to new plateaus
the mercury in the glass thermometer waning squeezed down, and further down, a few words
tuned and tuned and tuned. Beginning to travel on foot, we experienced the cold of the day in the
place.
: We traveled throughout the place, encountering a series of fragmentary GODswe praised each
one and immediately afterwards saw the fallacy of praise. It was pieced together, a patchwork of
the mind, like the fragmentary daya pretense of order that made the spare leaf wiggle in the
wind on the tree turned gold by the raw light of the bitter fall sun. Such was what I noticed about
the only tree to be seen for miles, in the place. We were the only people there there was nothing.
Even to describe the nothingness of the place brings down what it was, makes it hyperbole, almost.
The tree is used in this context to provide the reader with a relatable image, and so on
?MINUSHUH : I coughed up something strange and called it the real deal the real GOD exulted in
the verity of phlegma rejection from the body that was, for the most part, yellow and brown.
That is the only external action I shall relay from the experience. We did not need to do much to
keep alive, as opposed to what must be done throughout the rest of the WORLD. The reality of fall
exuded pressure. Like GOD, it was a misgiving that taught us to live in coveswe shrank in the
smack of judgment coming soft to us in the purl of the fall winds, like a river, we inhabited little
places, without purity, a fast conclusion that made things colderwe bundled up against itthe
cold was apparent to us only after we left the place, to return home, we soon grew bored with
discovery; this seemed like the best option.
When we returned home, we were taken in our solitude by the throat by many ideas. I have the
feeling that such ideas would have been more developed, had we stayed in the place for a longer
periodand yet, if we had stayed there forever, or even for too long, nothing would have come of
it it was good that we left when we did. A blind sort of stratagem was revealed to us. It attempted
to explain the attempt, rather than the explanation. We decided to figure things out, or at least
reach a point of contingency in terms of the information described to us by the WORLD. Whether
such a decision was something necessary is still to be disputed.
: After a brief lunch you went upstairs and fished out a tape recorder from the mess of your
fathers study, and we began to record our thoughts. We exchanged ideas, some of them were
beautiful, some of them absurd, all of them were lies. I came to many conclusions and stated their
significance in relation only to myselfyou did the same thing, in terms of what you were. We held
ourselvesrather than the universein a jar of acidic solution, breaking down the enamel of
ourselvesthinkingmaybe one dayall this could actually be compelling enough to qualify as a
bad simulationrather than illustrating the mediocrity of a wrong voicea wrong, though honest
voice.
?MINUSHUH : Much was left unsaid for me. I still wanted to figure you out, more than I wanted to
figure myself out, simply because you were someone else, and I found that fascinating. Every
particle of meaning that I was able to snatch from the great vacuity was naught but terrible
expressions of myself, and myself alone. It was like a strange picture taken-
-Taken between two disparate actions, conveying no specific emotion, and as a result it becomes
something both beyond emotional capabilities and yet it was a complete blankness a stupid
chaining of things forward smacking against the limits and returning again to itself, yet seen freshly.
We were deceiving ourselves, that much I knewI flapped my gums like a lackey twityou did not
laugh at my ignorance because you knew it was true ignorance, and that made you sad [something
is overheard, and translated inaccurately. The translation in itself is wrong; the idea of being wrong
is beautiful. Thus, it is the idea behind what we do that lives on, rather than what we do. I think of
this, as you prepare your coffee. You are bracing yourself for the procedure. It is one of many
procedures]:
. . . The mind is a prison with a tiny gap between the brickssomewherethrough which infinity
is entered.