: unpleasant when famous

! To a friend: “Life’s a
playground to these
people. Totally
unrealistic view of
life.” [snorts line of xanax]
PREFACE :
Wallace Stevens is the shit, Hart Crane is the shit, John Ashbery is the shit, T.S Eliot is
the shit, Soren Kierkegaard is the shit, Friedrich Nietzsche is the shit, Harold Bloom is the shit,
Emily Dickinson is the shit, William Carlos Williams is the shit, Ezra Pound is the shit, Octavio
Paz is the shit, Samuel Beckett is the shit, Arthur Rimbaud is the shit, A.R Ammons is the shit,
James Joyce is the shit, Virginia Woolf is the shit, Kurt Vonnegut is the shit, Franz Kafka is the
shit, Percy Bysshe Shelley is the shit, Walt Whitman is the shit. Mostly poets, but these all and a
few more I would wager have caused me more than ever to see what the nature of my connection
is with the world. A Romantic lyric poem works with the five senses - and imo, whatever chosen
words - with lyricism in mind - work, really, as a sort of divining rod to detect those lumps of dirt ,
as if set in burial, and what is buried things in reality called assurances, telling the poet to dig up
that corpse, where is lain the lies perception greets us with as smells, tastes, touches, and which
all but too easily deludes us into confirming the reality of these things. what is the point of
reading works by these people ?? to reveal to us an undercurrent of senses, maybe even just as
thickly there - once we urge ourselves on into that realm - that while peripherally in us most of the
time would in this case reveal, in the case of poems or even just le mot juste, a universal and
absolute ‘perception’.
D.C - - - - >we are : born - -> work to be aware of ourselves - - >
discern that from recognizing awareness - - > find purity in what results from this distinction - - >
fall in love with memories - - > find it is experience that builds us mentally, but memory which
builds experience - - > discover obvious yet revealing thing about ourselves that is simply apart
from us but as a leaf is apart from a tree, and which somewhere in the hermeneutical narrative we
always knew - - > realize that at the root of this epiphany is a chemical released before death - - >
horror - - > ? ? ? - - > profit / fall from grace and begin life once more as punishment.
PART I : : pomes, chiefly lyrical
[NONSENSE-SHIVAH]
.
The wind—lives—
To be captured in
Its truest form
…
So thn all air is,
Has an aim
To be possessed
If it has the chance—
…
Within one
Lungful, at least,
That you might take, o small
Life. for all the world’s order
Is in your inhalations, o Samantha;
…
And disorder, of course,
In their absence, whether forever
Or at the time.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
: RED MEANS GO
I have nothing
to say to drugs except stay away from
my house. giving it up couldn’t
have happened had I not been
scared shitless by heroin.
left to hang in the gutters go
what hatreds and perniciousness
I had spent so long scraping up.
I scrap them. I adore how much
I know they aren’t real. but I
wish I’d done this purge earlier.
best time is now I suppose.
best time is now I suppose.
best time is now I suppose.
best time is now I suppose.
I wish I had done this earlier. I was
going to write you a letter, dear
anonymous: I was going to tell you
I have nothing to say but miracles
now, no I will not be pissed o" if
they call after I’ve turned in:
I will let them in my house, and we
together can talk about heroin.
this anonymous miracle will listen
to how the drugs lied. they did.
they only simulated wealth, a pain
or millions following. I wept
too much once. I had a fear of
not being able to accept reality, if
given the chance, well, would
I not recognize the chance in
time ?? the best time is
now I suppose. the best time is
now I suppose. but if I was too
early, as well, would I have, well,
nothing to learn from, mature
out of ?? is fear then precipitate
of maturity, does it fell us to
the ground, leave us coals on
christmas, cut us shaving, bless
us not after a sneeze, sneak in
uninvited with promises of
great requited dreams, great;
satisfactions, big ‘ahhhhhhhh”s
at the action took’en on
red: go: but is that all there is, that
is, refusing acceptance of
reality simply bc you have a
notion in your brain you’ll
not accept it but in fascinating
dreams, which aren’t real
anyway [possibly] and so then,
the whole thing becomes a
criminal, false lucidity,
that one is on the penis-tip
of discovering GOD : dreams are,
at least are a di"erent nature :
your face never forgets a cry : like
trace remnants of acid in your
spine: that’s what Yoni
Wolf say: he’s a musician:
and as am I: let me just burn
down the house : then
nobodys would want to
come there : but first : well:
I’ll invite all my woes over, trap
them in there, trap heroin in
there: trap depressive states in
there : trap despair in there : : : :
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
: EARLY SIGNS OF BRAIN LOSS
I. gonna go out on a limb here and share just this:
hell in shreds could no longer sacrifice
a bleeding kiss
to something brokener than final destruction
a meter to the thinker’s function
driven to display a pact
riven to proceed, his act
to slay a rhythm, bends the ghost
all others manage perfectly to toast
to, with lordly glasses, wine-filled,
and in their mind is ever-drilled
a passion equal to the greatest nothings
the world slips under thunderous rugs, that kings
forget to honor, that impaled rights squander,
emitting blood like gas to wander
through something spoken, something gained,
furtive in the depths of what had reigned.
That is not what I meant, at all.
That is not it , at all
II. Winter is what we are at
The nearest bone, it flavors the veins
That rally closest to our hearts.
It is how we are when we
Are alone in time or
In presence.
No, not even a browbeat
From that Winter
Face.
No, nothing but bulk that sinks
From time to time into something
More compact than it was before.
III. And it is fast
As looking at a mountain
Or something
Or hard as moonlight.
It croons specifically. A few
Unknown sentiments
After the wreckage has
Dutifully unfolded are safely
Encouraged, like a big
Nudge knocking you o" your
Haunches: are doubts
As safely bland: about not
The purpose of dreams but the
Meaning of one; about
Not the meaning of life but
The meaning of your
Life; about the feeling of a form
Unlike any, the way
Somebody might spend hours
On punctuation, banish
The alighted story, already
Alighted from you and
Your focus, - watching you, sitting
At the end of a temperate lake
Of symptoms. You landing a
Observation on the
Ground is an attempt only
To encourage your cure see
You outside for a smoke.
And: so: you go putting it in a bottle before
It drowns bene ath the
Arr ogant rainfall: slush es o f
Mud is of the grass anyway,
Round the memorable beetle drowning
In it, -
Near the driveway. And
You are stupefied to trivial
Death, nearly scaly is
The memory of a wandering
Piece at the tip of instead of a
Tongue your scary,
Throbbing index-finger. You are not
About being so blind about
All the run-on sentences, thinking
There is a memory of some cost here
To the narrative but you
Cannot approach what
Gave you this idea, recollection
Being a place in code,
A recycled image to death
So pushy especially for it being
Flown away already! You
Can’t grip it to zap it. And yet
This somewhere it is going is
Fabricated, having never been but in
A true daring to burn down the
Least smell of what is to come, to
Send me blurry pictures
Of pastoral farmland: andyou o" to drain
The hutzpah from empires of fuckingcrazies,
Who got retired in the eighties
For being tirelessly
Accursed of the pointing finger
At them poised and always to accuse
His beauty being little a chance
The dove might shuttle
In fuller grace: a surprisng
Preamble, a warmth
In the knee,
For example.
Gross gloves, feigned human contact
That happens but does not,
To show the world.
What is not there is there
But is not because it sometimes
Is. If it were not,
It never would be, if it were always
It would be always, anyways,
If partial, still never.
Things tend to not exist. That
Is the tendency . For if my lover
Sways like questions, what if?
Daft, carefully daft, carefully,
An insanity is pictured
As a field in the middle of this room
Filled with brooms. Filled with rocks, stones,
And considerations.
IV. Bathed in the continuum
I spat myself out an embryo
And thru the wall’s
Respectful transparency
Saw the empty WORLD gleam
Its ghost, a victor for unseasonal
Night, a languid apparition
Hunching in and out of reality,
A poor monster, drift-swell.
Gimme knots
Boldly, drift-swell, I said, and light
Absolved me again
By the tattered wind-squeals,
Route lost for night’s sequels:
Penitent roosters waiting
For the morning to caw:
And me to gaze again, folly this
Again, frown at the frame,
Our damages on the mind.
Equal soaked plenitudes, these,
Diversions, these, wishes
Storming through the pen like blood-dawn,
In the ailment spent like hooves
I am an old horse, I am
V. death is forgetting
the di"erence between
inhale & exhale,
by entering
into it: let’s see: as if it
were a house, a hovel for
the doll to retch in
and she to retire the
whole
dreadful bogusness of living
to just choked-on hairs, in
the throating of life to
the guzzled gallows’ macabre,
tasty brilliance: lack
of exit insists a
place wanting to leave from,
in this case, a shrugged-o" game,
failing to breathe as you suck dick,
the least of the smegma
from your uncircumcised
dick is the left living: injustice: in this house
your soul the visitor, gone of body and tarnishing
and flakes of the truth, jism, etc.
VI. you have what you have and I don’t what I do
and what I don’t have I can’t really see
as anything material, more something
better than anything possible to have
or that at all
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
ahh hh ------- -
AHEMYour Mom is characterized by erratic imagery and overt
parataxis; what one might consider jumping subject to subject, or in some cases, half-subject to
half-subject, perhaps to the point of incomprehensibility. though Your Mom is not like
Surrealism - in that there is not a preconceived goal towards the unreal or fantastic nor is there a
general golden rule for rhetorical devices - such as for example the behavior of words, whether in
making an argument or describing a scene. this 'behavior' is called declension - of which an
example that comes to mind is Breton's Nadja. Where Surrealism will most likely be
meandering, dithyrambic, and fantastical, that is, Your Mom might as easily make sense, or be
linear, as not. There as of now are a few things I know to be true about Your Mom, almost %100
of the time, and no surprise, Surrealism employs similar techniques in two of these things Your
Mom does: [1] calling something something it is not, [2] something that is an extension as I see it
of what is the Whitmanian 'tally' - or what is taken as his 'sprig of lilac' - for the deceased Lincoln:
an honorific paid but through an immense laundry list of - mainly layman details - that is - a
repetitive, list-making quality but that throws aside the biblical pathos in favor of bad jokes,
Buzzfeed,and general naiveté ; which brings us to [3] an obsession with cornfed things or
irrelevant things as being meaningful, which is the case with a lot of Your Mom's meme art -
regardless of its depth or aesthetic value, in fact to beautify is the least like what Your Mom
would do. - in fact, the resonances of reality will, to an artist painting naked pictures of Your
Mom, provide everything needed. things like professional wrestling, fast food, cheap motels, gas
stations - commonly associated with normcore; and [4] the most important one, and one that I
think no other movement now or ever has really had the chops to consider: not taking oneself
seriously at all. A poem Your Mom would happen to write has something more the feel of
something thrown together. even sloppy. structure is nonexistent but haphazardness,
ambiguousness, formlessness, are not really prerequisites either. for example a line in a poem can
extend to two lines or more based on where the thought is ending. little editing is involved or
enough editing to give the appearance of the haphazard. the same process is the process for every
piece by Your Mom however : just work, and remember to pack away your inflated selfregard. it
is exactly why a work of Your Mom's calibre can easily be sensible, crazy, disturbing, grim, weird,
or absolutely milquetoast that all these things are true. we see these days always an extra layer of
significance, there or not, - precisely because in the internet age we are exposed to more, and
some of that - more - we do not understand. Your Mom's writers would apply the same level of
ignorance to obvious, concrete things as more subtle nuances. in this way it is useful bc Your
Mom has no patience for the lofty or grandiose or even the sublime and in a way these things
proponents of Your Mom - might see - though as to this I am not sure - as detractors. the
endgame is to be earnest about how little we are and yet how futile it all is not. it's a celebratory
stance, really, as was Whitman's. except we do not aspire to a national ethos but shrug at the
mess such attempts have made of art in the past. one thing is for sure and that is with this age no
longer is there a proper metaphor for nihilism besides flawed, whimsical, stranded viewpoints
seen as the individual artist's truth or a sort of 'found art' - simply because they must make it in
the moment, throw it together, edit little or greatly. Your Mom cannot be defined because it is a
nihilistic endeavor yo, which in turn means it cannot support the postmodern ideal of the void-as-
symbol. it must scrape up its meaning everywhere, through any guidelines. the lack of a stationary
idea of it, oddly enough, means that there will be similar ways it is approached. Your Mom is
creating ?? great !! Your Mom's creating when more people can create and voice themselves. ah.
maybe that's what Your Mom is. I don't know. I just know what I want her to be
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
: TAKE[1]
well you hear about it: and i have said it before: the atrocity happens, you question god.
i had three bad things happen to me in succession
1. jumped thirty feet out of a window
2. lost the love of my life
3. had a manic episode, which was so powerful i do not remember the three weeks after
i try and satirize god as a way of domesticating the word itself
the universe is my playpen sorta
bc I saw something that night
that was not me
like a void, nothingness, idunno
and attempted to record my thoughts but it all came out garbled
on these bits of newspaper
so i have attempted to reconcile all that by figuring out the meaning of life, a laughably hilarious
declaration for its breadth, especially if you succeed. hence the inherent satire
and absurdity
i deal with god
but god as a very very very abstract thing
not christian in any sense
what I view as what god might well be
so i trash the questions of ‘whether he is’ and stick with ‘how he is’
as in how are you doing god
why are you doing
what is your method and why, inversely, are WE here
by starting with god as something that exists we can use god as a platelet for informing ourselves
it becomes trifling to consider whether there is an existence of god
rather examine: how would it be possible, to a near-scientific degree of rhetoric, to mimic at the
least an accurate blueprint of this metaphysical thing
and then you ask yourself
well now that’s out of the way
how can i even know if ANYTHING EXISTS
well of course
like any sturdy duality there is a juxtaposing ‘contrary’ that is dependent on whatever originating
concept.
God Is Nothing
nothingness
it is a void which once entered into englobes itself and becomes a womb, to borrow from Blake
existence cannot be without nonexistence
grammatically certainly; in terms of reality definitely
which means nietzsche was right
god IS dead
his ghost haunts us as death itself
mortality is an everpresent theme in life, everybody’s life
you could say it ‘gods’ over us
and a metaphor, after all, is all we have as to an attempted conception of whatever absolute ‘thing’
that has created reality
so then god becomes a metaphor for my own mind, i say it does and it does
on a psychological level or intelligence level or any level i can never know something like this
so then sensu proprio it is absurd debased and ironic
hence the comedy
and a flavor of futility too
i write because i actually want to find this out, but downplay my own e"orts
which is the glorious flaw
it is serious business.
like stevens’ own askesis
but it’s also humble
bc i can’t know but i must know
so i renege to futility and turn myself into poet-as-clown
that sir, is why i write. to say that.
and i stick with how god would exist, what the attributes of god would be, because one might as
well be creative with a thing these days so doubtful anyway
. . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . : KNIFE FIGHT IN THA CATHEDRULL
"the disquieting muses again:" - john ashbery
an attitude there is, these days,
to see as common sense, reasonable,
the choice of least amount of
e"ort paid a thing. if so,
this man, armpit to extremity, is as common as a
packmule, and with nowhere near as aggressive a haul
down the unlimited canyon-space, you refer
the place-name. his father comes up to call him,
'the name on the deed for The Reasonable fucking Estate, really!'
if this is how he is going to act.
this man he is driven by his laziness. you can see it in his eyes;
he lives to preordain all his own events before he dies.
to have someone else do it all for him
before he thinks to do anything of them, with them. or this might
as well be true. like badgering natural beauty for a title,
nay for the grand canyon to reveal itself. i mean really!,
the father later thinks, during a gru" hike,
up the store aisle, for sealant, after the altercation.
how can ease be so distasteful, when one has
their head up against a window glistered
with rain ?? how can this mongrel pressurize
him so: does he and why does he get so readily to
the local manipulative haunts, dwell
where all the subtleties of guilt grow ornery,
have knife fights every friday amongst themselves ??
has his layabout son sooner looked up to crook things
than the father thought; has he been waiting to
sneak it in around the heels of this silence his father made
with a single comment ??
well really - low pressure’s usual for this weather -
the sky cries. it cries like it had to. like a cork aching
to shoot? say the father. maybe, but that sounds
more like a description of the situation’s-
-‘ease’. then a new embellishment, or, like, something
that the kaleidoscopic vault possibly thinks is hilarious.
or is he just of, and likes
the miserable weather on the panes where
his head sat, by which that
flavor of wretches are made to find
themselves: that, or a
halfass at the least as needless as his son,
that man himself: so, he goes mumbling - and all he did -
mumbling this and that - an aleatory observation
or a few his father could not recount. -
a truth at bad timing for it, when everyone forgot it,
wasted when not used at the smallest hint of its completion
as a truth. what to say then to the circle-
-of laughing, black children that surrounds us and of which
we cannot name one a canyon, one a person ??
it is as if he is there. with them, in a certified place for mules.
he is hanging by the bureau of usable oddity now, dangerously
close. coaxing knife-fights i bet,
say the father. so:
fearing this, the father leaves , angrily flicks o"
the light. scarce are the scru"s taken ahold.
and what are get unhinged rapidly enough. merely
a hanger-on, a finger or two, remains of this.
of this. but untanned are the hides. and
there, in the tinted - dark - not quite come barreling,
but useful enough to the lazy prick, lights up a spotlight
on a stage for quietus. caroling infants go on caroling
loss, a loss, filled with a strong smell of
downy quilts and shampoo. in the layabout’s
stinking mind. feeling
his last wit shrivel up the rind,
as his unkind father closes the door.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
: MAN GOES TO BED FEELING BAD
- BEFORE INFESTATION OF WEST NILE MOSQUITOES
There is the guilt you receive
And the guilt that abates.—Receive a famous trip
From nowhere: trying to settle into a
Successfully known knot felt afraid, felt a tumor.
By not its coming. Also nothing too ably
Seen; only by its going, a big fucking surprise!
Surprise! surprise!, - in good faith. It will
Grow up to miss you. Father settled. So’ll ye.
He didn’t take to the country. Hated it.
The farm came and went and afterwards
We looked back on it as something
Not like a pipe dream, as chiding folk,
Our friends, would note, but more,
Something dream like. More and more
Images of us glided through as
If waves meant thought. But there
Had been something—very
True. Of a hustling by the mind to
Bridge depths. There
Was no more equivalency exam
We considered. As it
Was, actually, that homelessness
Was the best option here.
Despite that it was bad
For the children. We moved into
Our memories and they
Made obeisance to gather us all up.
Up. And divide us up
Into thirds of men. While our dreaded
Imposters ponied up.
Cash you see. to help us stay within a
Pitiful creaking house.
Within our means.We egged on any
Any spectator to throw his
Lunch at us, so hungry we were,
Ere finally taken and hidden
Like lifeless toys. Hidden from
The most painful of ambitions:
ITEM: he was a dragon-like
Surety … incubating big plans,
Greedy schemes, hot for
Breakfast [teacher]. Big Ideas
Or something always
In his mind. Conniving and
Lucid, a regular
Straight-shoot of convos.
NAME: lucidity, it was,
Fresh o" his haircut and pillaging
And dire straits. I never had again.
But you did. You told me about
It. Said it was the most
Beautifullest thing,
When the doctors came
And lured me into a night strangely
Arbitrary, as if it should
Not be night but something
Like a billiard table. Commitment,
Dahhh, who knews and
Knows and here ye go. Never
There had been
A smartypants so thoughtful
As to live us forever in
Pajamas, shirtless maybe, a
Smudge, there, here. But there is
To lewd earth nobody
Taken with us yet. Adopted
The wrong brainstem,
Everybody supposed, and as
If suspicious of the
Rote slingshot-advance
Of some harlequin we managed
To close down our eyes and greet
The world as actually awake people
.. .. .. .. . .,,. . .. . . . .. .
.. .. ..
.. . . ..
.. jk
.. .. ..
.. .. ..]
.. .. … . .
. . . .. ………..
.. .. / / . ..
. .
..
.. .. ..
.. .. ..
.. ..
- AFTER INFESTATION OF WEST NILE MOSQUITOES
There is the guilt you receive
And the guilt that abates.—Receive a famous trip
From nowhere: trying to settle into a
Successfully known knot felt afraid, felt a tumor.
By not its coming. Also nothing too ably
Seen; only by its going, a big fucking surprise! Sur-rrrrrrrrrr
Surprise! surprise!, - in good faith. It will
Grow up to miss you. Father settled. So’ll ye. No worries.
He didn’t take to the country. Hated it. klfh h4%V$%vJ
The farm came and went and after all the blood
We looked back on it as somethingI:#c3Yclizr/c4HIRVT
Not like a pipe dream, as chiding folk, pah,
Our friends, would note, but more,$F:UVXIY&sg9xo;sizu
Something dream like. More and more
Images of us glided through as jfk jkhglhiog4htou4h
If waves meant thought. There still isss,
Had been something—very glsg j l jl kl kghroih
True. Of a hustling by the mind uhhh to
Bridge depths. There’s, was no more
Equivalency exam for the faint o’ heart.
We considered. As it
Was, actually, that homelessnesss
Was the best option here.
Despite that it was very bad
For the children. We moved into
Our memories and they
Made obeisance to gather us all upp.
Up. And divide us up
Into thirds of men. While our dreaded
Imposters ponied up.
Cash you see. to help us stay within a
Pitiful creaking house.
Within our means.We egged on any
Any spectator to throw his
Lunch at us, so hungry we were,
Ere finally taken and hidden
Like lifeless toys. Hidden from
The most painful of ambitions:
ITEM: he was a dragon-like
Surety … incubating big plans,
Greedy schemes, hot for
Breakfast [teacher]. Big Ideas
Or something always
In his mind. Conniving and
Lucid, a regular
Straight-shoot of convos.
NAME: lucidity, it was,
Fresh o" his haircut and pillaging
And dire straits. I never had again.
But you did. You told me about
It. Said it was the most
Beautifullest thing,
When the doctors came
And lured me into a night strangely
Arbitrary, as if it should
Not be night but something
Like a billiard table. Commitment,
Dahhh, who knews and
Knows and here ye go. Never
There had been
A smartypants so thoughtful
As to live us forever in
Pajamas, shirtless maybe, a
Smudge, there, here. But there is
To lewd earth nobody
Taken with us yet. Adopted
The wrong brainstem,
Everybody supposed, and as
If suspicious of the
Rote slingshot-advance
Of some harlequin we managed
To close down our eyes and greet
The world as actually awake people
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
: DEMENT
FIRST DRAFT ::
I can tell you there is something di#cult,
If someone could get in a plane crash
On the way to celebrate a religious holiday.
But that is exactly GOD is it not?
Something nonsensical. Whose motives
Can be at times contradictory, impossible
To understand. It is exactly this unique
Impertinence of GOD that GOD wants
So as to ba$e - perhaps in favor of the
General good. - Maybe that he does not
Work all the time in his own favor is bad.
SECOND DRAFF ::
I can tell you there is something di#cult,
If someone could get in a plane crash
On the way to celebrate a religious holiday.
But that is exactly fucking GOD is it not?
Some[thing] nonsensical. Whose motives
Can be at times contradictory, impossible
To understand. That’s what I see this abstraction
As . It is exactly a unique
Impertinence against GOD that hellish GOD would
Want . So as to ba$e - perhaps in favor of the
General good. - Maybe doe, that he does not
Work all the time in his own favor is bad. who fucking knows except
nothing comes from the sun anymore, and most is gloom and wares to shrug us hunchbackingly
away from bathelehem SHUT UP YEATS]
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
: BREAKING INTO HEAVEN
This is my mind and this is my gun,
I discharge one and the other I make fire,
Fire in flames is of it, both are dangerous.
I wonder if my gun exists, or does my head.
I am sure one or the other has killed, maybe
A thought has killed, or maybe someone is dead.
But something quotable happened: my run
Thoughts, exacting their pain, made a liar
Of me: the empty thought so languorous:
Someone knew that I knew not myself, had done
Out, then, an identity of me worse to most the world: ire,
Wickedness I saw there, then he spoke as wind that angered dust:
"I said a thing was true" it said, "when it wasn’t finished;
"however marking it as my own truth too early, didst inspire
"To think an accosting other some other, naked limit
"And of caesura. It came like a cramp, a stun
"Of particles that swelled out of miscarriage,
"Made ugly rites before a wagered fuss-
-“Of you.” I left him standing holding his flowers
To no one in an empty hallway, getting better soon
No on the menu for this death, this curse
Of a behemoth cranny suddenly into heaven’s illegal fun,
Snuck into by the kid, past peter’s oaths, hearing choir
On choir : all around, sequined balloons lingered: “trust
To soon limn out a glory, furious and infinite.” he was persuaded:
Droll human spleen a laughable occurrence to the child!,
To this nasty kid of an other, pardoned and dissuaded
By some kinda GOD the other angels to attack that one
Kid, with huge, magnificent swords: what comes then of this dire
Circumstance, disrupting heaven’s daily angelus ??
What good could it do, what sample of reason
Is needed to make rapport with myself and speech
Without also thinking myself out of style, of season ??
Only heaven knows. What stalls, ceases can be young
And merely out to pieces of eternity, this waif himself, the mire
And confusion me, but where and who is that cramp ?? I lust
To know what heaven knows. this judgment as a pause: possessed
Of abounding others, laconic, tapered words, are surely bidden
To cause a spell. Blame symbols for distressed
Meanings, for it all is in my head, I dread that drum. The gun,
The gun is left at the scene. But here I build a pyre.
Some kid got shot. And the World is mean. Unjust.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
: STATUS POME [?]
ANSWER : Fer Uut and Uut’s Love we may now give thanks. I wish to convey in this, that
inanimate structures possess higher cognitive developments than has previously been assumed.
Also felt like playing with age-old theme of Jewish-humor-writers-turned-extortionists. My
reason being that as a very gangly resident of the upper west side I can safely say that there is a
Hasidic gang, - tho I will not name names, terrorizing the neighborhood. They … did things … to
my neighbor’s eye. That being what it is, good old Je" won’t be going to Red Lobster anytime
soon. Because they burnt’t. Now a store’s der what that sells draydulls and all dat
gawblygookdancesong. [says obv High Kali" of KKK] . Wait what did I imply again
[FAKING GAB TOGETHER] [logopoetics] :
The station says about him that
It does not matter. It is a beguiling sort,
That comes from enough money
To pay for jokewriters whom will later extort
Him, hold him by the legs over the side
Of - The Verrazano Bridge.
When that happens, one can
Be sure the twilight will be
Bananas to see whether
The bridge likes it,
Approves of the drop :
Would it start a chain of events
Too bleak to mention, that is,
Without these mouthless
Things gagging on
Particularly reticular vowels
Like an allergenic in
Hay-fever season ??
Shames, lost causes, a
Guy in his monkey suit dropping
Cid in the back of
A cadillac: are such things
Mere appeasements, lowly rentals;
Doesn’t anything matter anymore ??
You might ask yourself. Maybe.
But the bridge back over
To his loft’s tricky, once
Somebody phones in a mortal
Fear - ring ring - at your house.
So you kick him out. As.he
Has done so oft, the rich
Bro saith . So long to
Cheerses, eyes averted
- This so very vain a thing -
To the cu$ink’d, veiny hands
Our glasses grasp . - saith .
If only another one of me
Was made .
- Saith . And he so
So sorrily long
Unmending with miserere .
What patience of him his own
Friends have given
Back to him they take
'Way again; of him they
Complain in hushed
Tones - he - he . well
Not even out
The door . Some crummy,
Dead-black sun’s bleeding out
Across a horizon, and
Certainly chu"ed, soon as
Well the moon gets
Pissed o" and kicks that
Fat fuck out of his
Place too, though the
Moon less fearing for his
Life than anything at all with
The capacity to actually
Be out, to wit, being
At all : though tides
Change with the salt
Hay’s whisper [Poundian]
Yet more is an
Assurance that this realm
Changes color by day,
By night, so then if one
Let himself have a being
As assured as day,
Night, - well then might
He be more fortunate
Than this man,
Whose incident hung
By the everloving
Bridge awhile by himself,
Testing it, tossing it in
His hands like a miserable,
Round girth, that
Though round he could not
Call the sun, nor moon :
Was doubtful as to that . perha ps,
His sucking-dry
Complete, - richguy etc.
Could console his
Friends’ reflexively changing
Colors; could find it in
Him to find their espoused
Despise not for his own
Doubting vessel. - As
Happens man
Is in store
For incidents galore,
More terrible - more
Girth to the round nothing
A tosser handles. Day - reneged.
Get home. - Saith him. - OMEN :
Danger, danger, danger
Multiple dangers^
Wracked of brain, Them,
To poise soon upon this
Failure - of a chap.
Phoning in as the rich
Bro, some more elaborate
Anger than was quite
Necessary to move
The sun o" his
Couch amongst clouds
So he could fit his
Much cooler
Friends there, the stars :
What of it, rich man
Commiserate to
No one . He is a leaf
Amongst leaves,
He thinks, which isn’t
Much : I mean,
The bro thinks, too,
Just like anything else
With the capacity
To be a regular pathetic
Fallacy for the great
And grand also .
For the sake maybe
Of lobotomizing
The turd-like past to
Greater, grander e"ect,
The richmanguy
With the balls to
Wear his suity garments
After clocking out of
Sitting at a desk
And being important
For twelve hours,
The broman, seemingly
The veritable chalk
Of petty pith and bromide,
Sings unpraises, to
The dirty Jokemasterjews .
[awkward?^] Whom
Have not, it seems,
Been doing their
Job . After all, he told
Them they could
Call and threaten
Whenever - whoever,
Even!, it was
None of his business -
EXCEPT when
He, - the ‘rich man’ or
Whatever this
Figuration’s decided
He/she/it wants
For his/her/itself -
EXCEPT WHEN, for
What is the point,
If ol’ broman couldn’t ?? -
Bc he/she/it is quite
The insistent, polymorphous
Cunt/Dick/Massive
Eddying Vortex,
ISN’T he . she . it … -
EXCEPT WHEN
The pushy nonentity
Was utilizing their ‘work’ . -
"The best guys for it."
Said faceless therapist
Upon hearing of
Social anxiety within
Said personage, signing
With excruciating care a script
For Clonazecet Sulfate, a
Kpin/Perc/Morphine
O"-brand . Let’s call the
Prick who apparently
Is the hero of
Our story just, like,
MALE . AT LEAST. at
Cocktail [cockbarf,
Cockateel, stranded,
Fruitless junctures
Language doesn’t follow
In his head, can’t well
Stop rich guy bro
From rhyming all
The Nothingness
Together . Nullity, a
Friend who is left or that
Shaky feeling about
Your morals you
Get, you know, when
You fuck dead
Bodies, or fart in an
Elevator, et cetera :
Now then
Words are things,
And, ”he”, “has”, “too” and “leave,” all
Deny they are anything but
Their definition, yet
It is so that they depend
On the denotation, it is worse,
UnbearablyUnhealthy
To be defamiliarized sooooo mch:
Whereas humans - can
Hazard chaos, the world ends
When humanity is finished.
Lose a language, the world
Will not lose a drop of weight. [Ammonsonian]
Significance is an abstraction, one
That seems to be wigging
Out at me, for providing
It no mercy - at least
In these few wwierd line . So go the wOrds,
. Themselves[words language ETC],
Do they really think
They have the right to have,
HAVE MEANING ?? HOW RUDE
Of words to be given
That pleasure of existence;
At most humankind
Just has pitiful, p i i tyful . . fr ee
Will , it isn’t evenPROVEN !!!!!
right : so bromanrichguypersonword
Wants, uhh h - to go
Out : like as - BEING - does,
Or was that theSun a nd .moon
as a rich he a dcase, he says
He is .:The picture
Of wealth ! : but, o so
Crucially: is -unfunniest of his
Unfunny friends : the
Most disturbed of them,
And oddly the most
Boring ‘mongst a gang of dour,
Predictable magnates,
They already pretty sti"
As a Libertarian’s tip .
As a druid stuck in sand, and
Called a world-wonder. As
Vocal as nature
In its way of hurled hushes
At a canvas of naught
But inanimate brobdignags,
Gigantomachias, Illustradas
And especially the pitch
Of zippy spools
Of thread, or metal ground
Into patties of noxious meat .
Think about it . The bridge would very
Well wander back to what
Happened to itself, all those years
Ago; might want revenge, see.
That miserable fuck
Wants to hug and kiss me
Again … ? Says the bridge,
To himself, as most
Bridges are unpopular
Amongst that unsung empire
Of inanimate objects.
But whose content with
Their character in any case,
Head or no ?? Shall a small man
Sailing the brackish waters
On a Sunday come
Across a body bitter with
Urchin, in need a good dose
Of lye, to absterge the many-footed
Ganglia of inhabitants upon
Flesh : curlicues, watery mite,
All the dole of a man who just
Wanted, as he wanted
All - so said his station - one
Last draught of acid -
Had one last good fullblown
Hallucination, before
- and absurd, this - he
Dismounted from anymore
Royalties to the puny jokemen,
Ran towards his
Bedlam, being followed. He,
Knowing himself
Done for, kissed his childhood,
Infinite Plaything : the stone beside
The bridge, making up
Its founding principles, scruples,
And most of all liberties.
He thanked the
Bridge for showing him love,
Compassion - a
Veritable easel on which not
Only to paint a mimetic
Of his complex force, but still
Emotions to a silently
Lapping tide, with even greater
Force, as it pops into the rich
Boy’s head, only for
So long. But how timely
His end !! So greatly important he
Felt to be not anymore at the
Hands of his mask :
Thinking upside-down he took
His flaws to task in those
Last minutes, sans an external
Originator, jokester or
No: those jokesters that
Did not care what became
Of him, nor his station dropped
Him down to that lovely
Silence the water made of even
The loudest foundry’s
Ruckus. His only flaw, of
Course, being : the man stole jokes from
The wrong Jews; don’t define
Yourself by amounts of green paper;
And stay away
From hallucinogens
That make you
Think that bridges and
Other non-sentient
Things can talk
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
heh . . . obsession, an unhealthy one, helps; it is also a source of mental laceration, terminal guilt,
and ire directed both from and to others. i am an insane revisionist. or rather i am a revisionist to
the point of insanity. i live breathe bleed words and no 'movement' can change that. some people
want as i said before the label - which and pretty funny this is exactly a non-label - but this is quite
sinister. i used to think people being fake was a cliche rather than something to take seriously -
not in the sense of omission, like, what you tell your coworker vs. what you tell your wife, or even
hiding oneself out of shame - but like literally not being yourself. and, moreover, that people were
generally sincere and wanted to be sincere and work for that etc. but now i know people will not
only be fake unawares but consciously be that way and leech and leech. and this is not even lit i
am talking about just fucking life. you see. i have worked harder at the written word i believe at
the least more than anyone i have ever met irl. i say this as an objective fact and not to gloat as the
whole damnable bunch of it got me nowhere and nearly killed me. like obsession to the point of
basically destroying everything. so i have learned brevity, honesty, sincerity. i have learned to not
see this online variorum of mine as anything special at all. bc my friend it is considerable. utterly
unknown and unfamous i am but that is not my aim and good luck at getting noticed in the arts
as my father is an actor and has been for around half a decade and holy hell you will have no idea
who he is. but i will continue to be me which means writing all the time among other things,
because writing is fun as hell and conveying something is. i think this whole movement thing is
fun and everything but at the end of the day i write for no man but me who is man ultimate. i wish
to stir people. i want to throw the small swarm in my chest back at the hive and do good words.
for it is an action, a penance to my god. or a prayer even. all it is are prayers. the elliptical nature of
Ammons' dispositional axis proves that something does stick around tho it moves and this is
called transcendence. time passes but it takes awhile for the e"ects of its discoveries to take hold,
similar to the psychological imprint of a horrible event. that being said i know i have a long way
to go still which is the greatest doubt of all, a most positive doubt. and in examining myself as
eternally infant regarding understanding anything at all much less making something artful, i will
- and funny, this - unknowingly stumble upon perhaps what might not change the world but
tweak it maybe. and it'll be better for me not forcing anything. like conrad aiken i am determined
to be minor and i guess i would force my insignificance. which does not necessarily mean i cannot
start at the keyboard with a great idea and wish to change nay the universe itself. that is how i do
it: i think, this can really shake things up, write and say to myself - ah what garbage - then decide
after reading it incessantly editing and whatnot that maybe it is good tho what i thought was
good at one point or the best shit on god's green earth three years ago i barely spend brainspace
on nowadays and maybe tao lin is blablabla who knows i have not read him. anyway a movement
is something else like an ontical nature bc its being is outside of language but also a product of
language or dependent on anything one might consider absolute or permanent. i am not saying
that language is permanent and we have hundreds of years - 'whan that aprille with his showres
sote' etc - of proof of that but its attempt is at permanence which in a funny way is a thing like
'sense' or 'reason'. there is a core to things outside of what we name that is maybe a name before
the flood. i like Your Mom cuz she is impenetrable, as like this primeval definitionless state of
being [dasein]. but any movement, no matter if tao lin starts it or fucking voldemort from harry
potter [ whom coincidentally that is to say - in the books - hankered after immortality ] will
unknowingly incorporate a prior zeitgeist that in its way is too an attempt to return to that
impenetrability so as like it to become impenetrable, absolute, and so then immortal. i am sure
you as others will see the concentric reality here. we want what we cannot have so arch our spines
to look at our feet and deify the impermanent so as to dialectically remove that permanent,
restless, shifting core, which is death itself. anyway: you are correct the most important thing is to
work at it and work at it and to not let other things get in the way, not of you aping an influence,
but of you attempting the sublime. knowing you are fated to eat up the ghost of what people have
already done. heh. " everything, everything, everything is poetry:" [A.R. Ammons] artist is artist
man. i am no writer, just DAN. myself. art is getting high. being higher than ever putting
together something getting slowly clearer in your head whatnot. paterson Williams etc. laundry
list note on the refrigetor art. all's art. someplace to put it is art rather. people'who call emselfs
artists are putting themselves in a place where dey should not well go man. that is where art goes.
in a perfect world youd be albel to say your name and peeople would go, oh he artist'. but na no
dice there really. you see. there's names for things and there is sporadicism. i would call art these
days sporadicism. completely faithless. art is me calling my gf bc she tell me had bad dreams.
unthankfully theres a name for what art is which means it can be scrutinized developed ee&c. ia
m just writing noew. people get obsessed too obsessed with names for shit alt lit alt lit alt lit i see
as even if successful a sort of fight club syndrom. starts with people who fele cornerd in world.
they lash out and enjoy fucking eachother up. then it get all corporate cuz it is still called alt lit
and the alternative is gone and there's this army of folks. if this shit ever goes mainstreme it would
lose all creditbitly presicsly because it is an underground uncareful and uncraring thing. it is all
about no point no point, once you get a pop opiinion of no point people make ons up, it won't get
big alt llit won't get big cus it cnt' it iwl will just be a scratchmark on asshole of histry, bc it is
more a lifesstyle than way ofart. its artist not autocrat, its DAN, not artist. hm artist. I don't
know what that means. heh
PART I : : [bracketworks]
[Another measure taken against the soulless rakes come upon his already erratic feelings like
invaders to make fodder of that delectable sphere spelling tones back at them like a saber driven
to wound and kill, and make of the chaos a pure, inviting rhythm: for that is the only weaponry
there is against those evils: self.]
[yes I am embittered. yes I tell you I give my smallness a run for its money. yes like a fool I pu" out
my chest and you are given the pleasure to groan at me. yes, I put my heart soul and blood into
every bit of my mythology, and for all I care you can call me conceited. but lemme ask you:
would you not be proud of something, to which you gave your last e"ort and your life ?? would
you not hail your own children ?? AND,
would you call yourself conceited, that is, for being proud of killing a man ?? no. and that is why
such a poem is great. I have killed something very distinct, so distinct, in fact, it will exist
continually now. but it will not be a man.
in all seriousness … would I say this poem will live ?? I am certain of it. If it doesn’t, one might as
well cut o" all my limbs. I am proud, and stubborn, and obtuse! o for the love of all! would you
like people to look disparagingly at you for proudly moving a muscle ??]
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
[it’s funny : my mind plays tricks. before, time would pass so quickly when I wrote so I never
thought I spent enough time on a piece when really I was scribbling shit for hours and hours
now it’s like,
time passes mad slow
so I feel I accomplish a lot in a small space of time
it’s not reality for sure but
I think this perception of time is really caused by having a sense of brevity all of a sudden
that is an odd phenomena
so I think more about what I put down
the more I think about it the slower time passes
which has cool consequents
yeahhh like when you become aware …
not always cool mate
well, the ideal sitch-
-would be the zone
your mind is blank and blissful precisely bc it is working too fast to have the time to complement
itself with an impression in the head
yeah I can hear that
the true state of being, the real true one, I feel, is quite literally to be a step ahead of yourself, or
what Kierkegaard refers to as “Before God”
which as well is an excellent pun!, like you know, praying, groveling before God for forgiveness -
in this case actually just the closest step before entrance into a sort of ‘Godly’ state of mind
but I don’t know if that’s what I specifically want of my mind
it’s a peaceful state
you are thinking but not reflecting. it is by definition living in the moment, at least as regard the
whole “I think therefore I am”
the more one thinks without reflecting, the more that is retained to reflect on once you are not in
the zone
yeah but all that thinking in the moment just hurts
I am at the point where I no longer want to think OR reflect,
I just want to exist …
but that’s exactly my point. you mind is empty in those states when you are a step ahead of
yourself. you are existing because there is no arbitrary need to make sense of things! you already
have the thoughts in your mind but do not actually recognize them as being present! if you walk
along next to yourself, you reflect and form thoughts and feelings by that standard of
simultaneous processing and recognizing.
an idea can be a thought but a thought does not necessarily have to erupt into an idea. to lag
behind your thoughts is even worse, if that is to say all of this is bad in any case. it is thinking you
are ahead of your mind but really you are stuck and stumped and strung-out. you chase the image,
the shape, the shade of something that is walking ahead of you but you are solely processing that
endless grief of an ideal and neither are you in the moment nor are you processing anything to
reflect on. you are stuck on an imaginary structure, a heedless futurity, a castle in the sky. this is all
to say that - as you say too - more thoughts make us work at a slower pace. we think slow when
we have to break through that clutter, we sort thru the darksome and detritus to find some small
illumination - a scarce gem, an illuminated gem. ideas, pure will-less knowing, according to
Schopenhauer, is to bless a thing that already has been in other minds with not needing uselessly
grope because the mind retains it by proxy of retaining nothing else. this is to be, that is, one step
ahead of yourself. to completely clean house in your mind so as to fit - and this, you are completely
unaware of this - one important thing, or a few. it is to retain by a lack of awareness, askesis, to
ignore the blessing and keep your soul vigorous and unbruised, tho the heart lags. abolish the
futile ideal that doesn’t exist and you find yourself suddenly thrown into the moment, seeing no
abstract futurity, no wealth but in the immanence of peaceful passing minutes. and once you are
there, allow your mind to rocket forth into the stratosphere, and leave your body to the fealty that
it is existing purely for itself. and maybe, just maybe, remark on that concept, having retained
what you have processed thru a kind of wisdom of intellectual exodus]
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
[nothing or few things are as shockingly powerful to consider than the idea that one is
hammering away, at work, working, working, working. it is the idea of duty, a duty to say, do,
think. it is the idea that one is mournfully fated to declare their own peace, and merely die trying.
but it is not that nobody succeeds. it is that life is too long to not succeed, somewhere: most rest
complacently on their laurels and perish. some, however - and this is the magnificence of the
hammerer - continue on, bemused at success, as if that were not the point. that the only point was
to fulfill your duty till the end of your days, and whatever apoplectic rise all but a distraction from
the endless point to be made forever and ever.]
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
[the need to care of something more than art?
problematic assertion, as we all have a family, or someone, for whom obviously we care, or some
higher ideal. if you don’t simply put well uh you are in the wrong profession. hell i do not consider
myself anything. barely person. friends, experience. this statement^ is applicable basically if you
are living in a room alone and writing. which i won’t deny i have done for years and years. but ‘my
art’ is not great; no, no, i am not magnificent!, i accomplish little, i find awareness insu"erable and
must dispose of what hasn’t swept into the oblivious grate. there is no ‘my art’ more ‘a thing i wish
to formulate’ and indeed this is always higher than whatever i myself could call ‘art.’ i do not
fetishize my work but it is all i do which is somewhat of a contradiction. i work for the higher
thing though and will always attempt and attempt and gratefully forever. i will have massive
experiences and take note of habits and stu" and people and expose myself to as much as i can.
but i have nothing i value more than words; but i have nothing i can degrade as much as words.
myself? as for him, what is him? what is it i see in my mind’s eye; where hath been no shadow nor
weariness in the mirror? i see in the young parts maybe something to fetishize but those i can no
longer discern amongst the pile of expressions whether of my own face or any other. if you have
considered yourself art you - well - you, i cannot relate. writing is all i do but it is far from the
greatest things i take note of with the coming and going of the sun. i suppose there must be a
supreme otherness if that is i can fill page on page and devote my life to something i do not see as
anything ‘great’ or ‘supreme’ bc after all the ideal is - supreme - the sublime is - the words of others
are - as are conversations, personal flaws, other people generally, or observations, the universe
etc. and how absurdly ironic that i have said nothing in this fell swoop of a paragraph but that
would apply to myself only! oh folly, folly, you rock, you stone, you worse than senseless thing!]
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
[fascinatin. john milton read in context of ezra pound's haphazardness improves my own sight of
milton. what i see of him. funy bc his haphazardness is a miltonian invention, tha lack of
consideration for time and place shits all over eliot's objective correlative etc. definite sense of
these that is sense of place and time but not within an odd discontinuous scheme ,veritably.
extant as a solid narrative. appearance is not everything. pound does that -hates milton etc. so
thats funny. but if i read at large older writers i find if i apply the poundian context th words start
to really jump and move and have music to them. so maybe pound's got immense respect for
these writers he shits all over thru apoplectic [and definitely beautifully written] critixcism, yet
they as regards form shit all over him- definite askesis, as definite as milton's subtleties and points
become thru rereadig and gaininrg confidince in what you understand.]
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
[if there is any way i stick to my guns it would be for the sake of- aesthetic irreverence and
heightened artifice for sometimes I feel as though my mind runs faster than speech. I speak slow -
barely say a thing eh but when with pen, hand go faster than mind, - synapse fire, central nervous
system light up like a rudolph. so in a word am always before christmas, getting there aptly not
because my mind and hands in unity but cuz can sense three or fourth - step ahead. this inner
hermeneutics I look at as a type of great coquette, an away-dance in the rain [dionysuz] dance of
water that williams - and I say this deliberately - attempted, yes attempted, to IMAGINE in his
epic, Paterson. stevens remarked once in such a way that the brain’s reality was actually a reality
of the eye and this is consistent with his array of speculations/qualified assertions, that is, tapering
surety, that the best source of The Complex is a mind on fire; when brought down to its
functions - nay even at a base more unidentified, more chemical, more thoughtless- there is really
a devoted simplicity to any meditation or idea, however wordy, blowhard, rank, sempiturnal, -
one’s gotta well uh think that maybe it is all apparent and objective eyeballs impossibel. this is the
play : to show me that I am still of the ability to write well enough the reader drop book mid
phrase somewheres but choose, instead remain inert. so that if i am of the redundancyy of
emersonian sphinx [’ ”he who knows one of my meanings is master of all iam” - at least i am surely
stuck in my simple place, thereby leaving poetry to get so impatient as to swerve into me and
wreck RED, OLD JALOPY. It wants to be alive, and the dance, the play, is like the style that
poetry must possess as to stoke the humors. Listen. I don’t believe in taste. I believe that there are
people who feel potently and those who are immanently detached. the poetent-feeling people see
infinite space where the place to say ‘just the ceiling w/ crack in it ]hmmm so yeah more wiggle
room to ironically entertain by means of breadth and beauty. play in writing is the dialectic of the
spirit. it is us moving, diurnally, from ghostlier demarcations to keener sounds [WAllace
Stevens] .]
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
[obviously masturbatory language beats a rude deception of such.
that is when it is already there, of course. verbosity shrouded in schoolmarm rhetoric and -
meaning meaning meaning - do never, never do anything but blast apart the vicissitudes of men -
the aim, of course, being to leave a comprehensible flatness in place of any dynamism, any ba$ing
natures - not to say anything as to the honesty in facing such vicissitudes head on, which no
amount of rhetoric can teach.]
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
[here is my theory about beckett’s novel malloy, and I am pretty sure of at least this : malloy is a
later moran. they are the same people but yet not. moran forgets who he is and becomes malloy,
wanders senilely away from his job at his reports, a necessarily arbitrary action, as arbitrary as the
characters assuming di"erent names, which, interestingly enough, is the work of who else but
beckett himself. it is never fully explained why this happens. in my opinion, the “reports” become
“papers” just as youdi [the man who tells him to write the reports and collects them] is at the start
- though perhaps not originally - an unnamed man or even merely a presence referred to in the
first paragraph. this marks perhaps a decline into forgetting oneself. I believe that in malloy and/
or moran writing these reports/papers beckett is signifying himself writing malloy, as is the “voice
telling me things” that moran hears is also him, that is, beckett- as like in his other novel - how it is
- which employs a similar metaphysical strategy, a sonorous voice blaring from the sky,
disembodied, the seeming only hearer the man with his sack. in this it is a perfectly executed self-
perpetuating novel, as the end resumes at the beginning once more. the reports/papers are
important to consider, of course, for their value as clues that might hint at this, since the novel
starts with some - though scanty it is - reference to them. the dormant symbolism here, of course,
being that one must escape a wearying, indefinite, redundant stranglehold, - through perhaps
conscious wiping-out of the mind [that of course a first reader might feel, unconsciously] that only
resumes the story over again . . ]
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
[Sorry if it came across as if I was being horrible. I am very cautious of people today and every
day. Sometimes the wrong people initiate caution when they should not.
ahhh no problemo
you weren’t, just hard to figure out, but i figured that was purposeful
which is why i responded with nonsense
I did understand. And there was some of what I said for you to understand, or at least I tried to
say things as such. That you may well understand already.
i am honored
hmm i thought i hit the nail on the head with that one
i am glad you liked it
The words spot on. The style and reciting all brilliant.
i work myself to death
basically
The metaphors as well. The jumping, the harness, the story of not knowing.
i am actually quite ill todiey.
yeah. based on actual experience,
i jumped twice
Don’t jump without a harness though.
hah too late. once was an attempt on my life. the second time i was attached to a harness. it
was some therapy shit
. .
I am happy that you are here to mention the words I hear.
see i am somewhat di"erent i share most of myself wear heart on sleeve etc. but maybe that’s less
to do with trustworthiness and more to do with me not caring what kind of image i project
To me it that is sharing oneself isn’t a matter of trust and if it involved that it too would involve a
distinct focus on whether or not the person judged you, caring about that etc.
maybe you have a friend in me. i have always tried to be open, and with that idea in mind …
right so,
goddamn what a horrible day
sorry i’m just like, everything is taking an extra step
just more more more
and i feel like garbbage
I love writing. I am bad at performing. I see you have insight and performance. I
often dish out too many compliments when I am overwhelmed with knowing that I feel
something similar to what I see.
you’re style of writing is indirect
it’s dank
i like puzzles
Brilliant.
Good morning.
i assume you are a writer,
or at the least enjoy thinking
I write a lot. I don’t know if I can call myself a writer.
i love to think about things and translate them through writing,
it is all we got sadly. they remain miserably ephemeral without directives, points. a big
philosophical system involves a priori and a posteriori thinking, intuition and experience:
that’s on my mind constantly and i am battling to find an answer: what precedes what:
existentials say existence precedes essence therefore a first cause is useless to consider as the
fundamentals of anything are lain after the thing itself has been lain in a somewhat murky ontical
value
but how can the core of a thing exist by the directive and yet is something there before we have
given it a name
I feel that trying to be anything is in reality narrowing your perception. The idea that one thing
leads to another (for example an approach - posteriori or such) is in fact asking a lot of yourself.
you have to know first not what you are searching for but how you are searching for it, the
patterns come later and reveal this and that
and it’s not necessarily in order
so i agree
anything linear will lead to a linear answer
examine the process to manipulate your result
that’s the best anyone can do.
But to be outside of that … then you have de construct.
You have to de construct any given idea, even for the sake of no idea at all.
from that basis of concern … ah!,
concerning yourself with naught to feature naught as all things, reductio ad absurdum / it’s
humbling
I guess so …
but it works for a big picture that doesn’t necessarily need a first cause
my interpretation of what you’re saying …
is: looking for meaning from an objective viewpoint, whereby all things must be de
constructed based upon a focus on the idea that the ‘no idea’ is what you are after: or is the
consequence of your searching
I don’t really study ‘around’ the idea. I would come across as very stupid, given, I am a learned
person. Although that phrase you used does sound kind of fitting, reductio ad absurdum.
yea
i mean you could figure it out
reduction to the absurd
taking the most practical known things
given things
and revealing some manner of arbitrariness or needlessness in them
for example, take,
*restaurants*
it’s basically working with the idea
that people don’t want to move when they eat
some chef makes some fancy bullshit and someone else takes the fancy bullshit to a table,
and the people who eat it pay so they don’t have to work or move
and the more frills, the fancier the bullshit, but it’s all just attaining sustenance.
which in the beginning, like, you kno, hunter gatherer societies, was all about working for your
meal … or whatever,
so it’s completely backwards.
you can lure a hooker into a car with a wad of cash and then smack her around.
is money not just, well, mind control?
they might as well be having some little person in their head,
with controls and buttons.
and that little person is need
we are all in a trance, based in need
u see?
the irony of course is that people are needlessly hurt in pursuit of need
and the hooker’s ribs get broken. sorry i just watched american psycho yesterday
I see what you are saying but that is all a construct within itself. The idea of ‘being’ anything is in
reality only applying a meaning to ourselves. We give ourselves meaning. Some more than others.
I feel that the idea is greater as an act within society. Rather that than to be apart. That our take
upon ourselves is to apply ourselves to a construct. An idea given to us rather than our own
meaning, but from us, made of us.
For ease more than anything, that we take and say we own.
well of course it is all a construct bc it is trapped in verbiage - and in an understanding of
ourselves as important enough to be in the right, that is, in growing sick at our su"ering etc.
the only outside value cannot be gotten: because it turns inward and is prideful at
the heights it has reached rather than looks above at the yet-heights
Yeh yeh.
but there is an interim in getting to the next construct discovery box
etc.
where people build up to something
an understanding of limits helps
But what if there is nothing? What if there was nothing to understand. That simple existence is
all that there is.
well there you go!
i think that’s beautiful
I would say that being good to others is the only advantage of an outsider sort of abstraction.
Yea. Our sense of morality is entirely up to us to build.
but nothing naught void nada = beautiful
i’d say if this world was the only world ever
and it just fizzled and died
and nothing ever was again,
well
that’s amazing
that’s the most artful thing I’ve ever heard!,
I doubt anything is as likely to be true as it is untrue. The infinite reality is that at any one time all
is true as all is untrue. As someone or something somewhere is thinking / living / creating that
belief.
and wow it perfectly describes the fleetingness the doom everything, it’s a cosmic metaphor tied
together enough to suggest a higher creator
things will tend to the logical holes:
so what to do?
bless the holes.
inhabit them
Fuck them! Everybody! Who cares?
So what!
make something grow in that goddamn petri dish of possibility
I want to be happy!
yeah
i will fuck the hole my girlfriend has lol
but as for others i will see them as magnificent flaws
better than a clean neat bow
I could not care less for anything than what is beyond my own interpretation of a reality that has
no definitive, and which might be those things I remove from thought, i.e. care, consideration.
But such a removal makes for the simple, daily perspective anyway.
I believe that a persuasive argument is only something to agree upon. That in reality arguing
anything revolves around the idea of giving another a reason or name that is not their own, yet
that the discussion pronounces like a sta" to the dirt. Or even just taking something to be true for
a set time when all is in motion.
hierarchies, in a word
systems
thinking systems
do you read beckett your prose is kinda like that
I agree that there is truth but I would say more that I would fashion myself out of how I feel. I
would look at the connections - the interlinks that link me to you. How we connect rather than
why we connect.
How i feel. How you feel. That is more important than why I feel. i believe you …
but my feelings often get in the way irl
i think better typing there is not the same rush of something on pointe or improvised, however
But if we had this conversation irl I would be truly amazed and astounded and feel great. You.
But I feel nothing.
I shall never remember anything from this
the lack of a set of eyes
Where as irl I would remember all the beautiful details, make contact with them, feel them.
agh who knows
this is therapeutic for me
but i see what you are saying
I am enjoying this as we speak.
But it is not speaking ha ha ha.
This is a truly great conversation but in a mediocre setting.
yeah and the sad part is,
irl i would probably say much of the same things but if i captured you or you i, well,
joyful: - yes.
my anxiety gets the best of me,
and i block my tongue
but with people who are willing to listen i don’t disappoint
This all something the World should be trying to understand.
How to connect better,
but i am around indi"erence
Not the next THE BIGGEST the boldest and most outlandish, but a cunning orbital
I only have apathy for those who don’t at least try to understand,
widespread truth is religion; edgy nudges at something there, subtle, scary, fine, small, lurking
the di"erence is clear
placate and placate like everybody
never be comfy and be like none else or absolutely mad,
i have the gift of desperation
so i climb my way out of madness
I have su"ered from many mental illness situations ha ha …
and yet I have just the right amount of mental stamina to say something.
yeah
no kidding
me too
Maybe all the greats do.
eh, greatness is dead
fizzles exist,
moviestars exist,
It is not nice for the reality that it is but it has taught me some things.
to flay your mind?
Demigods exist.
I think I went far too flay,
with my mind.
demiurge, penultimate spaces
yeah laceration etc.,
but that’s beautiful
loss is
something you were showed that bc you were showed lost a part of what it came to u as,
reality is apparent merely, only,
If there was a god then who is the god of god? As he is greatly as open to question and as
questionable as anything or anyperson I have ever met.
it is on the path to revealing something. it is bruised somehow: probably the result of thinking
oneself already knowledgeable before the thing or god, - has gotten to the end of the path, into
view, your line of sight.
i believe god is nothing. (there are flies buzzing around me, evasions.)
it is the only thing that doesn’t exist
it exists as itself for itself and is apart from everything
but by the juxtaposing nature of it all things CAN be
bc of this grand, dumb nothing.
which also means that things can be unreasonable,
a nothingness that exists relationally is a sort of composite eternity: ever-rectifying.
i know this bc i saw it,
i had a massive manic episode or something.
and in reading philosophy: it, it has only proved what i saw over seven hours.
i don’t remember like three weeks after the night,
and what i wrote down was absolutely ridiculous,
nonsense.
i lost what i saw by seeing it
i lost the ability to formulate it correctly
so my endless searching is entirely a satire.
a ga"
bc it’s useless
I would not say so.
Although, why search for more when you could be happy with what you have. The search for
more only reminds you what you do not have, or even allows others to keep it from you.
ahh, once i indulge, even once, anything about what i say of god or whatever as even slightly true,
i lose the sincerity and it becomes a preaching
i am happy with what i have because what i have-
-is endless to speculation,
variegated, full, life!
so i search knowing i will lose,
implacable.
That is great.
I do.
as well,
i love making art of my life exactly bc i think reality is a metaphor for what it is, a literal metaphor
yeah
i figured you would
i like lurking for now, like u
just on the fringes
creating for absolutely no profit
I have written some things that when or if I read back over I may never understand. In that
moment they made sense and I understood. It is my lack of ability to explain them in a manner
that I now understand. It is not that I did not understand them at the time!
i understand that lol
you could explain how you felt writing it i bet
bc that you remember
True.
yeah,
a lot of things i write in the moment with something in mind and which when i read later with a
di"erent brain chemistry mean or appear to mean something else,
it’s a phenomenon in poetic theory called discontinuity
content and style speak di".
I have certainly had that issue …
yeah!
vexing sometimes
Yeahhh …
a strange one
i find tho that it’s kind of cool to experience doe
just a rad thing of the mind:
that: happens, -
Sometimes. But, when you want to get that point across it can be frustrating.
like it surprises me, it is in a word delightful if somewhat yeas strange. well yo,
you have a shape of an idea in your head or you’re just writing bollocks!,
I have written so much that sometimes I can predict myself now. Even know what I am writing
before I write.
yeah
inevitability
also a phenomenon in any sort of writing
it becomes a practice
like an oil change
but you think of nothing beforehand,
merely process and experience and live
Sad in a way. But, somewhat goes towards a theory I had. That maybe there is only one story to
tell.
which is?
I would say the portrayals of light and dark:
In all contexts:
God ,Devil
Good, Bad,
Although I WOULD CERTAINLY say that this is not it. Like completely. The only thing.
That somehow we have been lied to.
ahhh
the old complaint,
that we are latecomers
Forever.
haha we must be,
the horizon is the horizon because it is over there,
not next to me
To greatly consider the worth of anything as a polarity is in reality a nothing of any and all sorts.
so our statements about dualities like good bad etc.
are too late for accuracy.
we lag
Yes!
I certainly believe so.
what we see then cannot be what we are
I agree to that as well.
because what is in front ain’t what’s within, simply put.
That is why I don’t try to understand the reason for or how or why or because. I try to
understand it within relation to me. I,
I want nothing more than to feel it - to have be with me for any amount of time that it is there.
Good or bad is irrelevant - it is the experience. And yes explaining such is an interest but not an
understanding to the full extent.
leaving something consciously undefined in that sort of way would be the perfect bastion
but ah we do that anyway
But the world as it is is proof that the idea of polarity is in essence insanity.
I would say that is a great freedom to have no defined idea of a polarity, as like it is insane to say
that something so complex, a universe of which we have no idea at least beyond this planet, is
insanity.
Simply put - one day you are God the next day the Devil. You end up one on the wrong day at the
wrong time.
You would constantly be doing the wrong thing - or the right thing possibly. But then again, to
boil it down to such absurdity is insanity!
It would be exactly what a deluded God, a God caught in a devilish-like delusion, would do.
. .
what some actually do is proven in history books only.]
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
PART II : : [bracketworks]
[and it’s always some sort of fucked up metaphor or like, something that turns the tables. you
wonder why you didn’t su"er enough. that something would come along that wasn’t stressful. but
i can’t have that can i. because i spent all my peace. i am out of coupons. so i give none out. i take
as little as she does. my counselor said i should write about this. but i wouldn’t even know where
to begin. it doesn’t have the trademarks of a good story. but it leaves you feeling that it is all not
necessarily pink inside but a thriving satanic gaol. which i think is if nothing else truthful. look. i
don’t mind a chance to suck it up. i try and put things in perspective and remind myself that it’s a
treasure what i have. but like. something is imbalanced in the universe. i got tossed on the
fuckload heap.]
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
[ v ] the following down there is an actual apology letter I wrote to a teacher,
[ v ] who kicked me out of class for blurting
[ v ] out some racist comment with my
[ v ] stupid mouth. NOTE : I am not racist, was just looking for a laugh.
v ] Shameful I know but I mean I was a kid I guess. Eh, stupid.
v . . Anyway. I was sorry. And this is something to think about.
v .
[When Mother has had too much wine, she starts talking about something called “culture of
irony” - a term she obviously has spent many a sleepless night deliberating over - most likely for
the purpose of stoking a lofty topic of dialogue about culture and morals or something between
whatever milieu of loft owners at her numerous cocktail parties.
Moreover, she makes it a point to bring up the fact that I am not only a part of this “culture of
irony” but that, invariably, I am a prime example of its flawed motives and nihilistic self-
a#rmations.
But what do these words mean, exactly?
I always thought it was just Mother’s standard mantra, some conversation topic on reserve for
when the room got too silent. But recently, I have come to understand why Mother lost sleep
over this idea. More importantly I have come to understand that when Mother starts jabbering
about this irony and that irony nowadays embedded in youth culture, she is not so much rejecting
the ideology of that culture - which most parents tend to do in an attempt to downplay an
encroaching, strange sort of flaccidity their advancing age has unknowingly horrifyingly and
perhaps already relinquished to at last. But, instead she is trying to tell me that my specific
demographic tends to bash hopefulness; opting instead to engage in trajectory cynicisms that
spray like vomit onto everyone’s face. See, to Mother, our “culture of irony” represents the
obsession that most people under 40 have with extricating the worst, most degrading and/or
most inappropriate meanings from things that really are more innocent than one may realize.
You could say that this whole shuck-and-jive started around the time of the Watergate scandal;
which, as you know, plunged the entire country into bitterness and instilled in the American
people a near-instinctual necessity to second-guess that velvet glove, those omniscient, doppler-
e"ect diktats of what had - at one point, maybe even now, eh? - but, certainly, not then! - been
sturdy government .
As the years passed, people took this anger towards the dirty dealings and power struggles of
World politics and compressed that peevish animosity into a small cube of rage, which then was
fitted into the smaller cube of their lives. People stopped listening to Roy Orbison and started
listening to The Sex Pistols. Then, people got bored of The Sex Pistols and started listening to
The Clash. Then, people got pissed o" because The Clash got boring too so they all said “screw
it” and bought Nirvana albums instead. This “culture of irony” that Mother speaks of is based
around that exact phrase:“screw it.”
See, that phrase encapsulates the modus operandi of all disa"ected youth; well, disa"ected youth,
or just loser twentysomethings who play X-box when they’re stoned, go paintballing, and bitch
about Bill O’Reilly or really just any and all Republicans. Nowadays, people rarely are able to
organize their lives enough so that they can actually develop an opinion about their actions, their
daily rituals, et al.
Instead, people just put all their problems into a clump, like dirty laundry, and regress into an
infantile mindset that pretty much writes o" one’s entire life as a wholly positive or wholly
negative occurrence. They say “screw it” and then think that, because they have no value for life
and thus no value for anything, it gives them carte blanche to spout whatever non-sequitur or
over-the-top remark that comes to mind.
This is especially dangerous when it comes to race.
If a person has no value system, how can they possibly filter the things they say? Assured that
there will be no consequences and that everyone around them will immediately understand, one
can end up saying things that were never intended to be joked about. That is the downfall of our
“culture of irony”- folks today who spurn faith for the sake of non-conformity will end up never
taking anything in the World seriously, not even the words coming out of their own mouths,
because taking something seriously would require the type of devotion to an opinion or to morals
that could wreck a person if compromised.
Folks today are prone to sco" at any sort of firmly held belief, any stoicism, nay even a perceptible
level of true character. They argue with scowls that all beliefs are transitory and that anyone who
subscribes to a specific opinion is just setting themselves up to be a close-minded bureaucrat who
will soon be proved wrong by either the evolution of science or common sense. However, this is
bad because the World needs people with conviction, because those people will always mean
what they say - whereas someone more apathetic could end up doing more harm by carelessly
flinging racist comments around a room like so much confetti. The demographic of our “culture
of irony” - who they are, what their opinions are, what they stand for - is made up of people who
cannot make up their minds, and so they stick everything in a radioactive potpourri of dirty shirts
and socks, either praising the laundry of their lives or dismissing it as useless and out of season.
The thing is - if you are one who has succumbed to apathy towards the laundry, you may just end
up hurling your old underwear at somebody and pissing them o" without even realizing how
important every single item of clothing can be, when it comes to dressing up for the World.
Anyway, I’m sorry I flung my proverbial dirty underwear of frivolous racism at you during
Economics class the other day, Ms. Vento.]
" what word have you, interpreters, of m en
who in the tomb of heaven walk by night,
the darkened ghosts of our old comedy?
do they believe they range the gusty cold,
with lanterns borne aloft to light the way,
freemen of death, about and still about
to find whatever it is they seek? or does
that burial, pillared up each day as porte
and spiritous passage into nothingness,
foretell each night the one abysmal night,
when the host shall no more wander, nor the light
of the steadfast lanterns creep across the dark?
make hue among the dark comedians,
halloo them in the topmost distances
for answer from their icy elysee. "
- - - Of Heaven Considered as a Tomb, [by] Wallace Stevens
[we barter parts of ourselves with others so as to receive the parts of others, for whatever voided
place therein we had to stifle, to death, or bruise. . . . . . . . . . . .
this appears selfish but no one would argue the earnest determination of a man who tells a drunk
woman he is an astronaut, to get in her pants. he has sold out his truth and perhaps lost touch
with a personal sense of honor [honer]. he is lying to someone momentarily impressionable in
order to touch her boobs. that i suppose is the more negative side of it all. it doesn’t necessarily
have to be even that bad. it could be we pick up from other people certain mannerisms we find
e"ective in communicating something or are fond of.
like an inside joke people don’t know they have with everyone else. we are not only imprints but
we imprint. in so many words. like, as people. but as well do we as people lose whatever original
gestating thing or vibe in ourselves that would have grown in place of another’s posture, vibe,
movements, way of speaking. one wonders if ever it was even there.
i think if it is it is tucked away, refusing to budge from its place of hiding, inside of us, maybe only
to bitterly acquiesce a single crumb, now and then, from its supposed, vast individuality: a
personality sans a need for imprinting or to imprint, sui generis.
i would think if there is such a place like heaven it would welcome nay use as a gauge - that
somewhat abstract part of us, - that we in turn would possibly become, enter into, upon entrance
to heaven.
insofar this taken for what it is, that is, that we would become - our truest self, our essence!, in the
afterlife: one might consider, then: if one was never true to themselves, there would anyway
progressively be littler and littler of themselves to give to that place, crumb by crumb, lie by lie,
less of a self - let’s just call it ‘soul’ - able to ascend and divide the pearly gates, - something to open
forth only upon considering, sensing, purity, or energy, or pure energy, or some compact state of
being like that in whomsoever approacheth.
so then it would not be a manner of banishment or casting-down but a matter of literally nothing
there - no self, essence, daresay, soul - to inhabit that liminal zone. this of course presupposes that
lords of horror are not truly themselves in any case. which makes sense, if you consider perhaps,
they have no self to begin with. a sociopath is without any identity or sense of self at all. which is
interesting especially if you wonder whether perhaps a sense of self is all we have between a good
life and complete atrocious fanatic insanity. maybe, maybe - and how terrifying - if we all were
mere dumb droning vessels, there would be quite few of us left to be blessed in the afterlife. but
then i think to myself, there is a certain ingenuity in sociopaths. they are not dumb droning
vessels.
they, unfortunately, can reason, or appear reasonable at least. they have a mind. so then the
problem becomes whether it is more or less destructive for humanity as a whole to have minds.
fortunately i am convinced of the latter, if only for the immense creations of beauty we have
erected, depicted, carried with us, summoned, hauled, deliberated over, etc. and the endless
sources of perfidy we have squelched like an apple held in place between the forearm and a large
bicep. my guess is, you don’t have to believe in heaven to know that the musculature of the self
and selfhood is what gives us our souls, so various and likable - most at least - that we bother even
to restore our sense of self with the aspects or attributes others possess. but then i shudder, and
go on to think with fear and trembling that it is very possible one can - despairingly - never be true
to themselves, and by possessing a self be absolutely harmless.
do they escape the vaults of heaven? well it depends. maybe there is such a thing, maybe there is
such an idea that if one possesses selfhood it in turn is indestructible by dint of existing at all in a
person, as i said. -
maybe the bu"er between good and evil is made by this distinction. maybe in order for one to do
things worthy of a judgment that one might su"er for eternity, hearing forever the miserably
ringing tocsin sing their error, throughout the halls of Pandemonium, there must be from the
beginning either no - well - soul - or, the soul that is has been destroyed by a misdeed so great as
to usurp its indestructible nature.
but then, to destroy the indestructible would take a significant hand to accomplish. it would not
be trusted the laws of conservation to release some to safety and others to hell upon death.
more absurd notions there are than that really. maybe, then, one might live and commit small
minor crimes against themselves and their soul, chip o" a few bits to languish in the crud of
karma, su"er the aftermath in corporeal life - but never be utterly un-self’d and soulless.]
[What is often mistaken for pride in a bad deed might well be an ability to not take oneself
seriously, to know one’s truth and make then a superceded joke of what might have been years of
criminal malaise, flawed behavior, anger inflicted or spite inflicted. Or whatever it is. It is to steel
oneself: to prove that so much of one’s life has been wasted: especially in that we afterwards laugh
at our rock bottom. This procession of jokes told in turn might reveal one’s necessity to lift their
ego, but almost never, in my judgment, is it something to mistake for optimism or positivity, as
regards the wasteful acts, deeds, themselves.]
[ CRESCENDO : : sensitive to criticism. . ]
i was to get on a bus from ny to storrs two years ago, say early evening. and the gloaming was
penetrant and very much ample. and as i was downtown and by a construction site, mexican cops
were everywhere.
that is supposedly what happens when you wait for the bus downtown at early evening.
but somehow i remember it getting dark pretty quick - so maybe it was late evening. memory’s a
little hazy as we are speaking of a twoyear gap between me there waiting, so unaware, so hapless -
and me now, a creature who sometimes can feel the skin of his skull shrug around and who
knows now a deeper hollow into his temples that had not before then been so deep. before the
beginning of the single most insane period of my life, a new age, - an age either still unfolding or
still to unfold.
so uh this is two years ago. evening sometime. megabus - maybe doubledecker but not sure. i had
been talking to an old friend on facebook. i had recently come back to ny and was pretty sick of
being there and living in my parents’ crib.
so there was the old friend: a sceney kind of girl i had met in college, when i was in college. which
was a few years from the point of time just described - a girl whom relegated the nature of my
absence to some rather moribund things like, ‘dead’ or ‘kidnapped’ or ‘dracula ate him’ etc. before i
contacted her once again [and she relieved], - at that point innocently and somewhat
halfheartedly mining my soggy, useless friendcave for ways out of whatever groanworthy spleen
or situation i thought i was in - and how funny, that as i recall this, how could i have thought
myself desperate at all ??
she told me she was getting what was called ‘white lightning’ or MDA which is a similar
compound - obv. - to MDMA or ‘molly’ but trippier. by then i had been o#cially out of rehab for
a few weeks and had been kicking around my parents’ country house in gloucester. it was boring
there and i took a surfeit of my own prozac one day and got serotonin sickness and it felt like my
head was splitting apart. i had started to drink booze occasionally but now was looking for a
place to stay that wasn’t home.
what of the period wherein i was absent you ask ?? well this rehab thing went on for about two
years. i still don’t see how even a six week program kan work considering i spent multiple years
getting help only to throw it out the fukking window.
anyway i want this to be a bit odd. i want this to be a bit like a homebody who alienates
everybody through a remorseless morose attitude at parties or even by himself, sco#ng at himself
to no one, but to know himself ?? - not so. i want this confession or crisis or whatever it is to be
like criticizing yourself in the mirror alone and yet i too wish to dig up some gold. i am gregarious
in search of an end to pain.
but i want this to be basically useless as to that and rather more like a mere spiting myself for no
good reason outside of being able to laugh afterwards at the cruel wankjob of a thing that it is. o,
pity pity pity. but i get sad at loss - and wax melodrama tirelessly. for example i cried for a good
few hours when i saw this toy motorcycle on the floor as my parents were walking past it,
ignoring it, ignoring that poor soulful vehicle like as it were trash.
i suppose all that would be like what the gunman feels looking with rising anxiety at his shotgun
shells hissing on the ground, yet fresh out of the barrel, the body of christ on the floor. for i have
spent years trying to kill my cross; for that is on my mind so i mention it here, maybe to provoke
oddity, maybe to o"er myself an urge, a necessity - to follow honesty first of all.
too long the sense of being a martyr has softened me for i am only a man and actually prodigiously
selfish. perhaps, and how disgusting, i make that the reason i consider myself crucified : because
nothing redeems me, besides pitiable circumstances that shaped me into this asshole i am at
present.]
CONCLUSION : : hm well
morality doesn't exist in the grand scope of things
if that is everything has already happened
a vast neutral, staggering, a nothing. that is what i conceive of a universal reality:
like i lost my cigarettes for example:
i will just say: i lost my ciggies: me and my father went searching for a convenience store at liberty
tree mall in danvers. we came across an emptier section of the mall. my dad notices a place we can
go to purchase them. as we are walking i notice a dmv. i had been meaning to get my permit. it
was much closer than any other dmv so it promised a more - convenient - drive. so i say dad hey
look. he sees it and all is done as i have told, including the bogies. so if i hadn't been addicted to
cigarettes - which is unhealthy - we would not have found a more - convenient - place to get my
learner's permit, thus making it a - more passable - scenario as to my learning to drive, which i
have for some time avoided doing either out of laziness or other things similar to laziness. so then
it is quite easy to say that if everything that has and will happen has already most likely there is a
mix of all and every good and bad within single personalities, events, incidents, acts, friendships,
complexes, et al. it is a mix that has no hierarchy on a cosmic level. bc it is already done. the
endgame has been met and i might as well be the reincarnation of kubla khan for all the sense it
makes. if there is an artful higher consciousness it is something working towards the good. it is in
a state of repair, its aim is repair. but it is outside of time and so then a simultaneous everything.
in a metaphysical way we are always finished in such a way bc we are always begun which i
believe has been the point. to initiate without knowing the threats, come what may etc. so then if
this be true there is no good/bad merely just good. like all of it is. the horrors in afghanistan are
good. the syrian conflict. russia and the ukraine. all of it is good which only a very powerfully
shrewd consideration of a grand scope could mesh with. come to terms with the pieces, the
shatteredness, brokenness etc. if there is an artful higher consciousness, whatever it is would be
all about the endgame, something unexpected maybe. like losing a dollar and finding a twenty. or
listening to horror and smiling for the love one has for it, as equivalent to the love had for the
loveliest of things. or searching for smokes and finding the dmv. only something totally
indi"erent to struggle, totally neutral, but shrewd, mathematical, distanced, and most
importantly THERE - could handle this absurd contradiction; for it is not sadistic. for the world
is beautiful, only.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
: MY NAME IS NOT BORIS [this is a twitter poem],
does a belief disappear once it is made fact or a#rmed at the least if this so then perhaps like
despair god is aimless.
reply reply reply
I’m nothing but a mountainous nothing nothing. ayiieee
reply reply reply
my life hates myself, as regards whom it is the total practitioner and i the needless body, the study
i make of myself,
it takes over my livingspace like a hand.
shade, parad,e
despict rug neck foreign
better master try
lucks the choir chorebranraisin
^flat blather booms over interesting voices like a mountainous nothing
is it true that saint roche refused suck on sundays ? ? ?
. . reply . . . . . .
man of forfeit discover what i mean,
quicken the views up by being another line
for this my simple isolated habitat,
for this creation, i spill.
i am dickinson without the genius, in a word a dreamy, high born spinster, lost in a whirlwind of
absolute failure, stoking [stroking] itself [myself] always.
the more eyes on me, the more eyes there will be.
i don’t disappoint an audience,
eh for now i stand at a podium
staring
at empty chairs. REPLY REPLY REPLY
i really am incensed with passion at least buy some milk and toilet paper before coming home to
lacerate my already shattered brain
i feel i am in this very small world of writers and yet it is mindbogglingly huge to me at least based
on how few really care, of the few
obsessed with just really big huge silence
nowadays a track to straight hellfire
cursing the dragon for a pretty pair
of wings, lightshu$e
i am so unafraid how stupid is that
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Daniel Cox DeMarse @ChauncyAmes · Jun 25
diaphanous hominids drooling to scratch his aspect out of subtlety by a positive rip of a fartwhi"
nobody noticed his relief but smelled it
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Daniel Cox DeMarse @ChauncyAmes · Jun 25
things are so speech involving so ham it up with craters pulling missingness into definition or at
least a nasty problem su#ces to hangoer
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Daniel Cox DeMarse @ChauncyAmes · Jun 25
i have cheap fat carnations
step in line with nothing
get something for waiting, something
unfortunately rather hollow
a badly droll plant.
fir trees at the fair chomp down
on unconscious goers with backgroundish
the sane distance of stairwell
the ugly and the beauty also
and the really big
are all in the silence of
a smallest leap
just one inch , , ,
blush the rose is of and counts
for sadness welling into a petal’s cheek
because like williams i make it necessary
so important
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Daniel Cox DeMarse @ChauncyAmes · Jun 25
: Rotary: notary, nondescript building. Windows
Ahead of rooms. Dark, all coldness, inhuman
Wanting, frustrated, sweating through sheets,
Later waken upon mattress, wet, before that
Am asleep something in reality bumping,
Possibly stubbed toe, open eyes because of—
Bump, open eyes to slits, eyes close again,
Almost asleep again, scavenge meaning from
Former dream ten minutes pass then half
Awake another ten minutes eyes then
Slowly open however mind not completely
There, hear people walking around possibly
Roommate remember parts of dream however
Do not realize I remember this and wake up,
Fully forget dream completely completely
Completely lay still in bed. Mind is tired, vacant,
Looking at ceiling. There’s a crack in the ceiling,
Should get that fixed, no money goddamn economy
Life shitty life think think think head on pillow slept
Uncomfortably back screwed up now rest of day
In pai,n probably, think think think put left hand in
Pants scratch nuts stick index finger of right hand
Up asshole wriggle it around take out put finger to
Nose funny smell, yawn inadvertently, feels good,
Yawn again, on purpose, not as good feeling,
Rise out of bed look forward forward with eyes at
Overflowing hamper good shirt crumpled when I—
Stuck it in while drunk think about various idiocies
—Of drunken behavior can’t even make cereal when
Drunk milk spilled everywhere that one time, get up
On two feet, scratch stomach, cramp in foot bounce
Around saying ah ah ah, want to shout expletive,
Good feeling to shout expletive, even when I don’t
Need to, it is a good way to vent frustration, walk
Around in circle in room put weight on cramped left
Foot mother taught me that cramp goes away if you
Do that…stand in center of room put right hand over
Face, take it o" put it on again take it o" put it on,
Hesitation, fear of enabling dramatic gestures sign
—Of weakness although no one around to see, then
Close right eye di"erent angle of vision, close left eye,
Objects included in vision not before included camera
One camera two think think think think think. Now,
Need to take shit move to bathroom open toilet leftover
Piss in toilet, flush it down wait for flushing to stop sit
Down then realize I like smoking on toilet get up rush
To nightstand because bowels beginning to loosen rush
Rush rush grab cigarettes head back to head sit down
Begin to shit latter part of shit diarrhea bad constitution
Worrisome sometimes light cigarette after done shitting
Too focused on shitting to light one beforehand think think
In silence think of something funny hear self laugh at it do
Not like sound of laugh suddenly slightly depressed wipe ass,
Then get up go to medicine cabinet, grab bottle, morphine
Sulfate, makes feel dead but in good way, do not like sad feeling
Sad feeling not good swallow tablets simply by this maneuver
—Of esophagus swallowing makes feel better take drag
—Of cigarette look at nothing think of nothing sad feeling
Worsens however truth in it becomes apparent instead I celebrate
Truth of sadness become happier, free of artifice, alone, still
Sitting on toilet, by the way, buzz of cigarette, get up o" of—
Toilet chapped ass slight discomfort decide to return to bed go
Back in bed lay down, suddenly horny, decide to jack o", primitive,
Human work, slight disgust at primal secretive self, pervert,
Am now old man nothing but dirty old man, climbing age, more
Availability of nice pills, sixty and still living with roommate,
Think of these things then cum on chest, think of young ugly girl
Met in bar fucked fucked fucked some STEVIE WONDER playing in
Background barely had to say hello young ugly women are sluts,
Sit up in bed after orgasm, think all of this whilst picking nose pick
Too hard, nose begins to bleed, let it bleed, lick blood o", wipe o"
With forearm resume picking nose look at old wrinkled thighs more
Feelings of regret coursing in blood go to medicine cabinet take
Three pills, this time, three more good feelings ah ah like that like that,
Think think think. All thoughts become inspired because of high,
Think of fucking, want to jerk o" again, do not do so, too much energy,
Elvis died while jacking o" on toilet, after all. Look for pants
In messy room, hard to bend down to find them must hold breath
To keep from feeling pain in spine doctor is quack think think think
Think too much thinking lose track of what am doing so go to kitchen,
Pain in knees due to arthritis gone—due to nice pills—make bologna
Sandwich masticate in silence—roommate is gone—why is he never here,
Wonder this while finishing sandwich. By this time high as kite go to chair
Open laptop start up laptop, try to write, cannot do so, write gibberish
—Feeling of emptiness—by this time, overwhelming, decide to go back
To sleep not high anymore think think think groggy fragments of opinions
Sleepy very sleepy lay down in bed but not on side of ribcage where heart
Exists, any pressure or weight on heart is painful—prone on bed—I turn down my eyes and call
this completely everything I look at toes sticking out need to cut them more painful thoughts
think think think find another bottle of dilaudid on nightstand take five pain pain pain soon
unhealthy drowsiness drowsy fall asleep have dream that tells me life is joke wake up forget
dream get out of bed make co"ee wait five minutes in silence pour co"ee put cup to lips—black
drought—look at liquid coughcough think to self that life is joke