: the sad truth of it all

8/12/2019 : the sad truth of it all

1/96

BY D.C

DEMARSE


2/96

all I had to do was take off the dust jacket

and now, Ashbery

o Ashbery

I love your poems to death.

this book. this naked book

I am so glad I have breathing to distract me from

thinking. And I suppose it is odd that that is all I can

configure as to the virtues of being and being alive. I look at

the trees everywhere eyes absolutely-

-Drenched in lucidness: I find out this:

That the random skunk smell is life, the

Cigarette I smoke is life, is fleeting, just

One type of contraband to eat my lungs

Into a killing before I make one on the

Lit Job Market, even the physical award

For being really wonderful is the total

Crux of life, the quietly passing cars a

Ways back as I see them, shuffling traffic,

This physical platelet is life, and if life is

GOD, it too is the motel, an unspeakable-

-Violence rattling us: a neutral spectrum for

Us to have impressive ideas about: for

Example: and all of it blind as hell! I jest

About it all to feel as if I snatched a bolt

Of lightning and laughed at the grace of

Death: which is pretty uncouth: GOD is

Blind, unconscious: and we as aware folk--On even the basest level, even some

Simplistic turd, drudging out one big idea

After another, living for such a spice of

What is in actuality common sense and not

Much feels his timely erhebung and makes


3/96

It as much his as a clueless musical savant

Makes sex his viol: of course there is a viol

Miniature for the miniature petty griefs truly

An excuse to pity a self with remarks that

Matter enough in the head to be never

Rid of. One wills thru hell, whether in

A motel - in a place with trees on it - or an

Urban curbstomp: the latest treat for

Hoodrats since the busting fire hydrant-

-Last week: grim clouds of crime and

Venture I think of: as life provokes me sansSaying or thinking a thing: o to wonder at-

-A spacious universe: par exemplarrrrrrr:

The greatness of this great, blind neutral

Is found in we very intelligences that

Impress whatever and any on it, maybe

Needing to fill the chaos of such a

Senseless kingdom with magnificent

Psyche, needing to have really important-

-Feelings that shake the planet, or at

Least make one feel its massive orbit

Beneath their feet: once again I say as I

Cannot enough that I feel: I feel like I

Am struggling against the turning of

The Earth: my old lover and I and how

Sad! once hugged and teetered to-and-fro,

As if our feet were whelming like ships

At the dreadful sea-storm, to GOD prob.

Nothing more than a nice little rondure for

Her tiny friends that she likes to play house


4/96

With: rondure to stoke fun imagining with-

-And consider as a roller coaster! however

The whole crew dies, sans the craven

Captain, who tells everyone hes and how

Usual, Going down with the ship but he

Really treats himself with too much

Positive regard for being so nastily selfish:

He kills SKIPPER, intending to use his body-

-For food after using his body as a raft that

Did not work very well anyway, so he found

In the distance of the seas now calm surface

- How fast the time flew to drown all the crew! -

A large, a large intact barrel: he dislodged

The top of the barrel, which thankfully was

Empty enough to buoy him, and stuck the

Dead man in there: you know, for food:

What? he didnt know where he was, most

Likely would wash up somewhere really

Far away from civilization, or something,But, how funny!, well, he, the captain,

Not but spent a few hours bobbing around-

-Before coming into sight of Gloucester Bay:

So overcome with relief, he kicked his legs

Toward the first ship in port - forgetting

Completely of the dead man in his barrel,

Who had a series of large wounds in his back:

How frail is life: and how demented:

Upon appearing before a jury, the attorney

Asked why so many bloody holes were there,

And why he had been shoved into a barrel:

And, jumping upon his own momentary


5/96

Candor, feeling lifted, redeemed even, at

Least as far as ST. PETER was concerned,

Said the capt. - I killed him, you know. To eat.

In case I washed up on alien shores. TheAttorney, ruffled, disguised that instead,

Realizing such and such was in the bag;

Reportedly grew way too tickled by this

Triumph at the grim hand of a deliberate

Crime, and smiled ebulliently all over the

Place: the jury was disgusted at this joy,

A disgusting joy, and everyone-

-Vindicated the captain, made him innocent

On principle, thereby forever besmirching

The lawyers soullessly contiguously firm

Record with INSERT FABRICATED LAW

FIRM, MAYBE ADD AN ESQUIRE,

Nice touch, amoral writer as I am: crapola:

An imagination - any - is quite in tow with

A harried MAMMA MORALS, perhaps

From time to time a motion of the head

To signify childish, window-less, bad

Confusion, unable to understand all the

Queer terms and aims: imagination has

Its own imprint, directive, dialectic etc.

Without needing be told foolish stories

About cannibalism: I suppose I project--All this upon a reality of blind GODs,

But then the need to chase after a nucleus

Undermines the meaning of such a wee-

-MORAL OF THE STORY : my minds

Captive really: the captain: anyway:


6/96

Life, yea, is great, bc, well, not only do

We get to be alive but we get to die

After having existed : and so then if life

Itself, blind, BLIND, is GOD, well it

Is easy to see, people themselves are

An upgrade from their very creator, by

Actually being blessed with the context

Of having been, as opposed to trees, motels,

Concepts of shipwreck, mediocre reveries:

If such things are material I would rather

Exit this place: this WORLD:We get to - have known - that the WORLD

Is, at least up until when we die,

Tomorrow: Sartre had it right: thats really

The only tomorrow there is: I want to say-

-My life has been absolutely bonkers,

Unreal, exciting, but thats how it is for

Everyone: things get out of hand, and how

Joyous this is true - things, they get

Out of hand very fast: for everybody: life,

Being GOD, will refuse to bore you,

And then: well: that is why life is a gift:

And I wonder what this fetishizing of

Weltschmertzz, ennui, la noiaa, fuckingg

Sticky-ass feelings, malaise, whatnot, -

Ah many names for it : why do philosophers

Focus on that of all things: or poets:

Why not, I mean, yea, we would prob.

Notice if people stopped talking about-

-And / or analyzed - dissected - ugh boredom.


7/96

EXAMPLE : of why I am so great. That I

Gave suffering a chance too, - practiced so long

To thwart a most bizarre divine Fuck-Up, - bring

MMy hand of Abraham - wielding knife - down,

Then ask if it please may chill, chill, chilllll:

So, uhm, if you could just leave me to

Remain at the end of my tether without cutting

It free: thatd be great: its a skillful noose

Youve made and altogether resembles a

Weir,d genetic braid: so, lemme ask ya:

ARE YOU GONNA KICK THE CHAIR,

OR: ARE YOU GONNA SING? to bad-

-I smoke

.synecdoche, metonymy, metaphor, irony.- those ^ are the four master tropes in poems.Irony and metaphor can explain themselves, but what is

synecdoche, and what is metonymy?

From what I can grasp, synecdoche, in common parlance, means

symbol or something that stands for something else. This

sounds like metaphor or ironyexcept in metaphor, it is an image

that stands for something else; in irony, it is the meaning that

stands for something that is COMPLETELY opposite what its intent

is. Specifically, synecdoche (pron. sin-ec-doe-key) is a part

used to to represent a whole, a whole used to represent a part.


8/96

This trope is favored by expansive writers, such as whitman,

because it enlarges the meaning of the work in a small space, as

well as focuses the meaning in the whole of the pome; so that,

by the end, we understand what whitman is saying, but only

because it is represented in such focused parts that relate back

to that ethereal, incomplete whole. In other words, it is partof something that refers to the whole thing, while the whole

thing cannot be located, therefore giving the work the

impression of something infinite.

Metonymy is harder for me to understand.

In rhetoric, metonymy is, like, saying Hollywood when referring

to the big movie industry. Calling something something else that

is similar to it or rings a connotative bell in your mind.

Moreover this switch is done, as regards poems, to flesh out the

story. Browning is like that. Sort of like an imago: one thingyou see in your minds eye that rightly follows along the path

of narrative?

It seems something like Wallace Stevens: meanings that exist in

relation to other meanings. To cite BLOOM: contiguity replaces

resemblance. wtf does that mean lol

Well, contiguity means, in poetry and philosophy, a continuous

line of reasoning: associated meanings that cannot stand on

their own, because each one resembles the one after, and yet is

slightly different, in order to perpetuate whatever line ofreasoning one might have. So then you see why it is different if

it fuels the poem!

So then a line of poetry might refer to the previous line, but

it is not the same as the previous line. The reference of one

thing to something different, that nonetheless figuratively

elucidates what u had said before, produces powerif that makes

any sense. Kind of like Stevens poetic crossing.

Personally, i think the trope i favor, in my own writing, is


9/96

metaphor..Staring

down a bottle of

expired Roxicet in there, right there, my eyes glued there, my

face plain and stoic and I already nearly under the table with

five shots of Jger and three lines of good shit. Like I mean

fucking fire. But I guess blow and all that liquid courage

didnt drown out the noise, besides the prattle of assembled,

different friends at this guys house, of my minds own harping.

It was like thousand of pianos tapping a variety of keys. An

eager discord, I thought, to drown out with weird half-convos

and I guess a few pills. Yeah, it was reason enough to ingest

that shit, half the bottle nearly, and wind up passed out on the

side of the street at 3 A.M., picked up to my shaky haunches,

heaved rather, by a few preferably [in my mind] anonymous ex-

friends, them all bodies for the carnage, this disturbing

wastefulness, nearly a tale for Fitzgerald to read and think of

abandoned

Airdales. I was green. Froggy. But at least I wasnt blue. But

from that day on I figured out how easy it was to steal pills.

How easy it was to lose people. Everyone. A few simple turns and

you can be throttled forever until you put down the brick. Left

me with a massive headache. The loss of trust people had in me

is a gift doe. And, at least now, I take an aspirin or two,

maybe. I was fourteen.

So. I guess. Much to explain. About my behavior, now and then.

In a word I have started recovering from my own illness that is


10/96

yet too much a choice for me to call DISEASE. Been shattered by

drugs, this time bundles of heroin. Spent four months in and out

of seedy places in Windsor Locks, CT, cultivating this

addiction, ignoramus that I am, who does not listen to his body.

Tried quitting seven times; sick sick sick, unending sick,

physical convulsions, puking black grease, needing water thatyet when I drank it burned my throat. Physical addiction is the

story of Narcissus embodied. Wasted money, wasted years. Now

however a GLIMMER OF HOPE, pardon the pithy saying. I am clean

now and scared of any drug, perhaps this reasoning comes too

late to retain the whole of what I once was. But I pick up the

scraps and call it a day like anyone does. Pacing the halls of

rehab, Mountainside it is called, a strict recovery center. I

have thus been out of pocket, out of touch. No technology there,

no phone, nada. So as of now I am clean. Only fitting Id push

myself to the extremity at the very end. I am doom-eager as

Orpheus, my solitary lady , haha. Carol, I have thirty daysclean and feel higher now than I ever was quenching my habit, by

the coming of the sun, my girlfriend and I driving to Hartford

to pick up and sick as hell.

Every morning that was what it was. Blank sleep, maybe too

disturbed to call it sleep, waking and heading to resume my

disembodiment etc. Ah,

Hell, I am done, I am serious, life is no joke; if one doesnt

take what they have been given seriously life will respond and

turn them into a joker, and their life an exposed punchline,meaningless, detrimental to everyone. A bug is in every family

as Kafka said. But we are all bugs, sweaty, stinking, plain,

thoughtless, wrong. I have in such and such a way quit my

buzzing against the window and resigned myself to dying in this

place, this World, this planet: this imprisonment etc. between

two walls of infinite glass. Its lovely. For we are all

resigned. We as a race of people are stuck with lifes

retaliation against those who do not celebrate the gift that it

is. The positivity here is muddled I guess but it exists here in

the words.

I am staying sober. For good. For my brain. For my body, which

as of now I can make out a few directives without stalling. I

still stall. But I am healing. Just like you. We heal by

affirming the awesome power that takes our ommateum and feelers

to the glass walls and reveal our painful futility etc. which is

grace. Life is grace. So we shall live and continue to live

gracefully. I will try to write you more than I have in the


11/96

past. Truly. You are my moms friend but mine as well, and hope

is for us: impending like an armageddon that is a death of the

old World as the curtains draw for the new one. I guess that is

somewhat a mixed metaphor, but it works best to say for me what

I wish said. Carol you are and will remain my friend. To

reiterate, as apologetic people must, what they think othersmight not understand clearly enough.

I read Madame Bovaryby Flaubert. If there is any book that you

should read to understand the art of novels it is that one. He

made reality reality, but somehow the language/style is lush.

Wonderful, porous identities, gripping narrative, if only bc one

starts to see the story itself is simple and yet full of an

inner understanding of futility that fills everything and

expands it beyond the points of concrete narrative. Everything

works. Subtle yet undeniably florid. If that makes sense, which

it doesnt: which is why such a book is a work of genius worthyof its authors embolism at fifty and subsequent tumble down the

stairs. Le Mot Juste.


12/96

I finally returned home to new york literally every single

pedestrian on the street was welcoming me back, that [and this

still happens] when people speak it is some highly backhanded

commentary or slang as regards my own however slight physical

positions and shifts, that I created a wormhole, that I

controlled the weather, that the apocalypse was fastapproaching, that I could drive my girlfriends car just by

talking to her, maddening, elaborate schemes as regards me being

the second coming, that God spoke to me and got pissed off at me

for calling it IT, that my long lost friend Justin in Storrs was

actually the voice of god, that I had created a new form of

calculus, that my girlfriends ex was a poltergeist inhabiting

the house in CT. Hah. I could go on. For the amount of psychosis

I endured truly I am amazed I am not at present in a padded room

because absolutely everything I have said is 100% true. I like

saying that maybe its a testament to my mental endurance or

intelligence that I can lose so much and still be here and withit. moreover, the emotional blunt fucking force trauma that is

waking life. as I said my body and mind either conspire to stall

me into despair, over the ledge of which I teeter - probably for

good - or lift me up to higher zones and then do that but much

the disproportionately worse than the initiated better feeling

was good. you guys really dont have to believe any of this if

you think no human being can emerge sober minded or alive when

it is, has been a long, hard enough fucking job to merely ignore

a deadly shift of even one small digit. I have said elsewhere

that awareness in large doses is a poison and I stick to that as

it is probable to say that such a wearying perception ofsignificance, applied to the most atomic physical twitch - will

inflate beyond its borders of ever being recognized by someone

else. then I think that people hide most of their anxiety or

shrug it off easier than I because such atomic twitches they

might not even recognize. but to put so much obscene weight in

something - THAT - FUCKING UNSEEN, is not only frightening as

hell, not only gives you a tendency to doubt everything beyond

recognition, but often people see its impact on you in your eyes

and all of it is basically like being crushed by a boulder. I

mean holy fuck! when your sense of wellbeing depends on the

shift of a pinkie! and oh hell do I wish I was over-exaggerating, in fact would rather you believe that first of all

because I dont think such an inhuman spiting of oneself is very

possible to live for long with and bc its a very nice reality.

so in a word I have emotional cancer. now. hopefully I die soon

from smoking, which is somewhat an over-exaggeration thankfully.

please tell me what it is like to not have to fight tooth and

nail to feel good? please. I beg you all to tell me how you do


13/96

it. And if anyone can relate, I beg you to join a denomination

or at least take up a hobby. Admit to anything of this

resonating with you and - well, this is hyperbole, but merely,

to be honest, because I dont know how long I actually could

keep this up - well yeah I WOULD AND YEAH I WILL FUCKING PRAY

FOR YOU EVERY NIGHT. I will toss and turn knowing somebody elsesuffers eternally like this. The cricket brings no relief, as

T.S. Eliot wrote. and as well I imagine a wilderness of crickets

at the end of this absolutely desperate post. again, most likely

people will think to themselves, Hes just in a bad place or

something so misery is his world for right now. and I wont

deny how true it is that emotional states most persuasively

mimic permanent states. but I know this exactly because my life

is run - not all the time, I grant sufficient wiggle room for a

rare case of having an empty mind or feeling truly calm or

peaceful or even kind of happy - but I know this exactly

because. my. life. is. run. by. that. very. evil. despicable.permanence.

anyway,

DC DeMARSE

.I frown

and think about why I can

make something mean what it means in a practical sense and also

imply something independent of that left unsaid in the words

themselves obviously but completely dependent on a consciousness

of the words and tied together with the practical value.

I thought of that and my mind fed up with itself said,


14/96

"Its called WIT, you fool! It is called your dirty WIT."

So like Whitman was a journalist for a Staten Island paper

originally. Leaves Of Grass is a title simultaneously sublime

and throwaway, by way of having this experience it is easy totell. Leaves are the pages of a newspaper tied together, grass

is the editors casual junk filling up the page, in 19th century

printers lingo. It can also be a reference to Psalm 42 or 43

maybe, All flesh is grass etc. The people is grass or

something primal and rough and provocative not a lyric dainty

candyass piece of victorian dullness.

On another note. It is fascinating to consider that Walt

Whitmans rhetorical autoeroticism and positive capability

extend not only from his desire to fulfill a national ethos

based in freedom - the Emersonian desire actually - butpsychologically speaking is more personal, a sort of rebellion

in the face of dour penitence: growing up in a puritanical

household brimmed with his fathers ideologies as a follower of

part-black part-indian Quaker Elias Hicks. But moreover there is

no rebellion but in a hidden one, the afflatus of the poems

completely removed from their goals as poems. Whitman, for

example, was a complete elitist, private, not exactly a social

lion like Coleridge and certainly in no hurry - tho he had

visitors - to invite a coven of oblique self-referential artists

into his home, which of course was originally the manner of poet

he was at first considered.

On a possible homoerotic stance: besides one elegy from the

Sea-Drift - Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking - this view

anyway is taken too seriously but is also too confining for any

massive synecdoche as is Whitmans. -


15/96

PROLOGUE: to this generation of

pontiuses, for the jesus no one

fucks with, heres a set oftampered pins

"Of mans first disobedience, and the fruit

Of that immortal tree, whose mortal taste

Brought death into the World and all our woe

- - - from the beginning of Paradise Lost, John Milton

"Cynicism isnt wisdom / its just a lazy way to say youve been

burned. / In fact it seems youd only be less certain aftereverything youve ever learned."

- - - Nana Grizol

"Dont get stuck on a dreeee-eee-eee-eee-eee-eeeam."

- - - Thom Yorke

I suppose I might as well say how funny it is how often I

concern myself with something that has been around for eon on

eon, when maybe I would do well to give myself a friend inmyself and have my mind follow a normal inner monologue, like,

you know, qualities I possess or something.

that is to say, words, language, ideas I think of, but as if

trying to help these things, explore for the sake of seeing more

possibility in these things than has, as I see it, been properly

taken advantage of. that is I do not think about myself in

regards to writing and absurd as it sounds I do not consider

myself a writer at all. writers I see as people who are

fascinated with the label, name, etc. but not the selfless work,

which I am aware is pretty much a schema as narrow-minded as thelip service of any redundant politico but at least is not so bad

as being an indifferent shithead who doesnt even look up from

lunch upon first word of an american presidents assassination,

as my father once recalled to me of his father.

I saw that as somewhat a vicious indifference. indifference is

not vicious he said. but indifferent people not only assume no


16/96

blame but do not bother even to rattle the cage with the most

polite stance. hell, being polite is even too much a risk.

basically cowardice wearing the mask of disconnection. cowardice

by proxy of barely lifting a finger for someone else. anyone

indifferent, ironically, will not be self-indifferent but very

much delusively absorbed in that. they make of it a regularfactotum, clerk job, assist themselves against a planet

resisting them and their fucked sense of personal specialness.

so as that is to have besides relatively batshit morals a

relatively well-kempt sanity. basically.

but indifference, like the word maybe - usually leans to the

negative, unless it is a coy pardoning for the sake of some

surprise and so then feigned anyway. a serious maybe is a no.

and my fathers father, now dead, lost the chance to surprise my

father. if he even ever thought to do that to begin with.

you all I bet see why I can say such things are vicious. seeing

as we as social media mongrels hide by sharing, it is only just

I assume I am the worst kind of cowardice. I purport, my tongue

is in cheek when I say I am my words written more than my words

spoken. so then this whole spread of language on this blog or

Facebook suddenly you understand. I do not know myself because I

have given all of my identity away to words that in turn I had

felt comfortable sharing, not under comfort of feeling anonymous

but precisely because the congenital source of truth in the

contemporary way at least is that all it is are lies. no we donot have nearly as much fun as we seem, but everyone somehow

knows this and at the same time feels alienated from the rest of

what is a dream anyway, a happy ship that has left port and you.

but the real desert island, the true naufrage, is the

appearance, the FEIGN of improvised speech. because oh yes do

you deliberate what pictures to show and ponder meaninglessly

for hours on not even a status update but a response to

anothers.

all this lost the novelty of being absurd long ago and is nowmostly just hopeless and sad. like, ok, we know everyone is

lying, but somehow feel we do not, because we know our antics,

we know our rationalizing, our tricks, our truths. and yet

somehow we feel sad that we arent having as much fun as the

lie. and this is enough to give the lie validation as something

that is happening in reality enough for us to consider it; and

ourselves o very low on the social ladder, unfamous, wretched


17/96

even.

we then ape the content others shotgun all over cyberspace in a

massive knot of self-treason, and grow slowly more jealous of

our past candor.

as if it belonged to another person. this of course, irony of

ironies, is all caused by other people and caring what they

think. we dwell over our ruin and soon that becomes the lie in

place of the actual lie: pouting over drunk-pics and old

girlfriends in the arms of some new victim of which the relation

is ambiguous enough to be torture, and if not, an unwelcome

effrontery, a scandal. and all this of course is caused by what?

INDIFFERENCE. indifferent to ones own scruples. indifferent to

the idea of possessing good character and good will. because

most people will need constant evidence of this or believeotherwise, which is distrustful and awful but not unsurprising

in this world of bite-sized info and the de facto bloodlessness

of white collar grief. a CFO chewing out his general counsel

only serves to make him feel disembodied which is the most

murderous high of them all. and it only serves to skullfuck

anyone on the tail-end of that situation.

but, however grim this premise, such sadness, depression,

despair etc. might be the manifesto to write as the final say on

such a withered zeitgeist. people these days are into awkward

cringe-worthy comedy these days and no surprise there. butwhile clever today it will probably amount to a sort of

chaplinism tomorrow or worse, baffling maudlin.

yeah, but what is for sure is that people will always be people,

will always contain through the flat-falling of things an ardor

to pursue, a triumph to dream about, an unrequited skill to

despise its inability, as something external and abstract, to

hurry up to you and lose its stubborn desire to remain the pipe

dream. ah, thats a common disembodiment. we blame the skill for

not availing itself to us. that illusion of grandeur however is

less in place. people are not really aristocrats in americaanymore despite how rich one is. people these days in america

are, well, realistic. buffers no longer can keep up - and,

certainly not for the whole life of even the most pampered,

sheltered individual - with the fast-growing availability of

inferences at least - most involve the web and the ease of it -

definitely a forbidden fruit sort of deal - as to how shitty

absolutely everything on the face of the Earth is.


18/96

this is quite inept of us: that in the holes of people we find

something insufferable. BUT EVERYONE, EVERYONE, EVERYONE

is literally pockmarked. what is not ever novelty in any case

are the tears we shed. nor is feeling astounded, speechless,itself - and funny, this - too deep for tears.

this is what makes someone a person. the hidden joys and

intensities and despairs etc.

so, all this is out there. take it or leave it. it is how I see

things after years of deep thought and my own afflictions by now

a regular birthright. I suppose being in my twenties will be the

coolest thing that ever happened to me, but probably because

they will come to an end and I will see this as something

cathartic or whatever. we hanker for change but do not livewithin what changes. I only did this in the sense that I stayed

at home basically bedridden, stinking, dysfunctional, and manic

to the point of a very singular episode that was so frightening,

so harrowing - some literary professors would call it an

intellectual crisis [ahem HAROLD BLOOM] - that it resulted in

two and a half weeks of just straight amnesia. Like Vonneguts

amicable and naive character Rosewater, I saw a burning city,

wreathed in flame, and woke up sometime very much later on a

bench holding a tennis racket.

in my case, though, it was a pen.

uh, figuratively. I mean I basically wrote on the computer at

that time so I woke up at evening some time after the episode

doing what I am doing right now. I just said pen for dramatic

effect. sorry, I shouldnt apologize. in fact you know what FUCK

YOU!!! sorry.

heh. but I suspect these years - my twenties - will be the

coolest part of my life. it is when we can still be wowed like a

child at more complex faculties of existence and ritual and

soul. soulful optimism.

but then I hear myself say to keep telling myself that. for I

say my twenties will be cool despite a definite lacking as to

variety of ass. and despite a crippling addiction issue. and

despite the quandary of being simultaneously looked up to by no

one at all and looked down upon by people you rarely respect.

and despite the cornucopia of meds I have to take that basically


19/96

are slowly killing my sense of imagination. and the insufficient

social sway despite ironically being the most influential social

generator.

you know what I should either kill myself or just invent a time

machine and go back to somewhen like the 60s when being atwentysomething was actually magnificent as opposed to the

vacuum of ennui, pharmacology, mediocrity, weight problems in

summa, the general passive game it now is.

at least you can use a gun in call of duty without your school

guidance counselor shitting his pants. because its not real.

but since when has anything over these past four years of mine

been real? perma-tripping for three months straight off a mere

four jesus tabs and albeit gram after gram of molly, thinking I

could talk to god, and my lover getting so sick of it she gotaddicted to xanax? a few good books. those have been realer than

this cuckoofuck reality I see before me like a slaughtering

dagger. but the spot is still there despite rubbing. its chaps

my ass - and no I wont please you with the dick pun, delicious

as rubbing the angry member soft usually is. but I just fed you

all with my denying you. anyway:

I dont want to kill myself so I guess I am shit out of luck. I

mean I could grow some dignity but then I would have to move my

pot plants. ah fuck it. Ill just make a butter sandwich and

call it a sleepless night. besides, knowing me, the variety ofass wouldnt fluctuate no matter if I went back in time to the

paleolithic era, when nobody was very discriminate as far as I

can tell or forward in time to when everyone fucks everyone,

families dont exist, and one can just click the magic booties

of soma-bliss together. or whatever we need to forget were

alive. shit. kind of sounds similar to the emancipated

selfishness of today, even worse for the civil rights touchstone

of having a black president - not inconsiderably to have himself

made, recently, considerable leaps in climate change legislation

- and, ah, only to lead a nation of lack-tragic, unprofound

people who would sooner shoot up a kindergarten, than lookinside themselves.

no wonder Huxley was fascinated with mason jars. our horrible

doom has been preserved from the beginning it seems.

my guess is, the sound of any regular traffic congestion on the

highway must be dinosaurs rolling in their graves.


20/96

:HOCUS FOCUS- [When mechanism hath turned past departure with tapering

mechanism, finally away, and loose as a banshee whirred out down

the carpeted aisle of a particular minds prospective eyes:

well: I felt as dissimilar to those ensuing abstractions as

bled: from a moving cog to a synapse after next: like: whether

it should be met w umbrage or something: if I was a few shades

from the civilized and forgot a comrades drink, for example. A

raspy fealty with the singers of optimism gives me enough rug to

cut. And so often is it given me to look up at the skys

residing stare back, effectively pouring out the watchmakers

toolbox, and the grass below my feet suddenly littered with

strange, abstract metal.]

[reading the stories kafka I appreciate the formalism of a well-

organized drabness, or something like realitys stupendous

plainness, so much of which I tend to miss, but all of it there.

never abandoned the weave of all things tho I cannot number

every stitch. kafka shows me that words make a story; write the

words and the story comes, perhaps even changes imperceptibly,

and we are sorely shocked at K.s exclamation : Like a dog!

when that drabness on the surface tricks us w its clinical

monotony precisely to illuminate the delineation between what is

happening - the immanent attention to detail that comes w any

drab, plain description is an aid in this - and how it is

described.]

[Wallace Stevens is compulsively rereadable to me. Ya read it

over and over again, maybe the first handful of times you might

even just be purely reading the words [in my case hundreds,

which believe me is not a compliment] and what was a sort of

advancing torpor by its movement as the sun might clock slowly

over pictorial hills from a great distance yet it is of great

speed to those small beings on earth whom might only know its

immediacy in flooding the here and now around their small

places. An appreciation for the stillness that is the coming

winter morning, ends up having always been the true reason

behind the poems of him. Stillness, stillness, somber mind and

tired forms of motion, weary but somewhat as one would look

behind himself and see all how it was impossible to have lived

so long and pined withal a bad throat. Stevens beckons by the


21/96

music, you stay to have what resonates reveal itself to you,

perhaps unconsciously that is why you return to the same

pieces . . The same is true for me w Rimbaud. As for short

stories, Kafkas Description of a Struggle I suspect I could

reread forever and that in a sort of astonished fear. Poop.]

I the pusillanimous am now as much generally weak, and in

possession of no virtues whatever; at most have the good will my

past deeds typify, though I grovel so frequently before the

lightest touch of shade or flaw on me that actually doesn't

exist. Don't be sympathetic. A hint that is itself delusive I

come rather closer to, at present, intoxicated by doubt as I am

- so as to uncover the same fake lie about what I believe is who

I am. Now, well,

I now am left without a sense of being out of time otherwise.

Unable to vacate myself, remove the five senses: and encroachupon that fine, friendly gravity as I had once ago as upon an

undiscovered, moldy land - the same land sans forgetting it at

least upon ending whatever visitation of power I allowed my

forgetting to disremember and pour out of effect. As water

through both ears!

But no I do not ever again come upon such nearly dispassionate

focus, a thing - ironic - the rudder for my passions actually.

Once free of that livery of all that forced habituation of

awareness had me throw aside, for good maybe - I find, I am

still just as absent as I had been of understanding time, atleast.

But it comes about in such a way that my carefulness makes time

extinct for me - or vague - if I am lucky.

I rehearse my minutes beforehand, I dispose of what is almost

always the adequate prolepsis, before it comes - unsheathe

nothing for my battle - a sword of dry tendril and shrinking

calyx and crumbling leaf - before the speech of the clock has

dealt its hand, as the time comes to properly think it, and

thereof instead of a quietism I am upon ruinous anxiety, itselfthe leftovers of a quickening towards the anticipation. But no

anticipation. A sneeze-rag.

. . . Tautology is all-encompassing and therefore a phenomenon;

for it does not encompass all but what it may represent on an

individual basis only. The subjective ethics of Kierkegaard need

boredom as an intended experience of the text: because its


22/96

immanently disorganized, it makes no pretense of a phenomenal

order but instead involves the reader, nearly guides her, via a

conscious, intended effect. It is the words which mean what the

reader feels.

Elvira leaves convent - Trauma is the fundamental mood aproposthe original intuitive glance

More real = Someones effect on another - involves another -

more fundamental - important - than intuitive original - which

is personal - more like a dream.

. . . To set out on a task! - alienating- many trains of

thought, as opposed to emotive writing, on one train only -

infinite resignation - try and fail, not instituting flaws like

a persian rug - a mistake, but more in earnest than arbitrarily

inserted flaws - ironically fuller to follow one train, thancreate a system by connecting many, perhaps many already

abandoned, grassy boxcars - peh - phenomenology is a system, for

sure - the phenomenon is that it must be set out concretely for

all, on a universal level. - Kierkegaard only example of

dialectic as attempt at phenomenal essence. Single train to

represent non-system system. Different from Nietzsche, who was

fuck all on everything.

THEORY OF CHRIST : a vessel for GOD, no character of his own: to

be touched by GOD is to become GOD. And therefore overwhelm the

character of the individual - personality, et al. How does thatplay into faith?

Faith = no room for nuance, absolute; touched by GOD, become

GOD, absolutely.

WE ARE ALL ENTIRELY GODLESS

GOD removes from us because GOD loves our variety and mortal

nature. Faith is intellectual inertia, at least as regards the

thought that its leap is the intellect in motion

It is faith began us

Two equivalent GODs - absoluteness invades absolutely and is the

source of all variety by making possible the existence of

multiple somethings - not from nothing but from ONE THING - the

one thing exists by this same kinetic principle: it is not about

beginnings and endings, finite arcs. It is about that any thing


23/96

absolute already falls in line with thing-in-itself.

Language And The Myth Of Duality

Nihilism As Not A Pessimism

Verbal springs from nonverbal. Language springs from a need toorganize what is an intuitively concrete World, really a

complex. And so then a psychology. A dream.

Nietzsche was a poetic Kant and so then anti-Kant. No origin,

useless to consider.

Experience is a psychology

Experience is intuitive.

'heaven' is merely, and 'hell' too, the result of being

conscious of the World you left. Maybe just that's enough toplague you or redeem.

A SECOND BIRTH

Whoa odd

Freedom driven by skepticism. Volition = freedom to doubt.

Sometimes, we must begin with what we know is wrong.

Contraries feel both sides of balance.

IDEA : Pascal, human nature as a spring set in the center. Todisturb one side is to disturb the other also.

Principles / categories for reality degrade inspired practice -

philosophy, as verbiage, relies on afflatus / inspiration, the

zone.

Different from imposing order on natural disorder. Suppose order

as tabula rasa. Not from existential standpoint, yet the king is

chaos and the mask is liberating void, as of such.

Existence imposes order. Essence precedes existence, the mask isdisorder. The balance is disturbed by insubstantial talking. entropy [Jacobs Ladder]

The order is originating . . more humble to start w order,


24/96

causes as preceding thing, existence not as free radical but the

very beginning for things, solid things, reality organized into

a table, chair, small sharp-

Chaos is the order, is literally more orderly than what is made

carefully sensible in words. It is us who presumed reality wasanything close to what words and discussions could box in, or

rather out.

-quartz.

The World is a painting. Goff,

Goff

[NOTES, on F.N.s The Gay Science on the concept of Amor Fati]We trick fate by expecting it. Tender moments seem more to those

who have them than those apart from them, to whom they are

directed, and whom, sensing the act, define them strictly, and

as a result prematurely; for the acting on it has yet to be, tho

to the definer it seems definitive, for being, in his or her

eyes, fated to happen.

Nietzsches phil. is not quite existential nor quite like pure

hierarchal phenomena. As Blake lasted into the Romantic period

from the Baroque, as Beckett was considered Postmodern while

remaining a Modern, one starts to go backwards in attemptingarbitrary names and periods. And how ironic I say this!

It is not so alienating and more like some scrupulous wealth we

can identify but cant hold in our hands to use or trade and if

we get his value system wrong it is our own fault. It is

especially not so systematic; however the passion is classical,

the logical purge not quite so drowned in terms, yet the result

being, well, pure supernova. A period unto oneself.

GoffMy suitability to life I must compress into the meant words, you

kno, really earnest,go by how I feel, even if it is a weak

twinge, it will be an accurate expression of the twinge, how the

muscle throbs: babe of info: distant datagrown old. Old hat.

But I want to be surprised again, kno the position of my heart

again midst all spacious uselessnesskeyto somethingis to see


25/96

it plain, like an objectdepthless, lacking depth. But where

goes all this spelunking ??

Goff

Relative all

Regarding how I feel, what I feel

Is a dirty pile of rope, jammed

Bits, opportunities to stoke what is jut

From the slit of an image,

Carrion regarding, raising the noose tied,

Riddance of all complex children,

Haunting their rooms forever, how I feel

Regarding what I feel : a tomb

And masochism

To get me there.

Goff

That beautiful, present stranger.

Goff

I would love if love were not a cross,

My heart bent out of shape

To fit a figure for the burden

I have carried in her object, The girl far gone, behind,

Yet tracingmy every step.

How I was a man:

Well, certainly I at the center

OF the crowd, in a huff

Walked off into anonymity, down

The hidden, spidery

Rows I counted, deliberate,

Not to stray, demeanor blank, Eventually cleaner as lifted

Fogs of afterthoughts as various

Confusions, as spirits

Balled in various confusions,

Lifted, the bawdiness of day to more

Serious a light, slipped

Off the hosiery of day, slipped, to


26/96

Reveal earnest legs, fresher

Than before; that yellow

Socket drooled lightit was o o o

An alive sun. And I was one. I

Made me lie. So mad they

Dont believe me. What the fuck.

CONNECT THE SENSES,

Now smell her a little,

And if its gettable, well then, let me know,

Comrades. Let me see that you understand

The stark raving madness of the universe.

This isnt smug talk, I know

This shit is dense, and hard, and sometimes

Rough around the edges. Maybe evenStraight up boring. But

Try and see works I work to work into pomes as

Anything but mild, see the fury in the words as I

Do. Maybe I beggar the concept too much.

But I aint changing anything. Its a vision.

Visions you do not alter, they give alter to

Your view of the World, by assuming a shape

Unexpectedly, perhaps at first only in yourPeripherals, but soon

A smash into the eyesocket, right there, without

You even knowing whats hallucinated and

Whats out of your control to see as a realness;

A vision, something, that is, that is

There for to make you know that you arent too

Alone, maybe just a littlebut if you

Think about how The Vision

Came to mind, you find it is an amalgam

Of the thoughts thought well and concisely

Enough to produce a phenomenon

Completely outside of your ability to have

Shaped it consciously. Thats


27/96

What I mean. Something of an OUTSIDERFORCE

That perhaps is relic: a depthy gratitude

The universe has, in giving one that

Pasty shard; is seen in that

You are the part of its delivery to youOF something very much from a place

Where you have not been. This is

The literarily welcomed plague

OF hallucinated vision. And I wont dare

Sully the gift of something to me given

By something not me, in my head,

Nonetheless. So sue. And find, well,

You sue your wishes for being wished,And come to a place

Where nastiness is, and then judgments

By others louden, thinking it is merely

A peripheral expression, the bad tautology

OF a contrite hollering for

Meaning to give its chance you,

When, really, it is all a polite

Grace of the sky and the

Cosmos. And I would not be happier

With my little shrugs

OF nothing, my little weaves,

My million-swervesat ease, Mr Talker

My celebrated illness

Of the disease.

It isn't that one could not make this up.

It is that speech could not write this down.

. .. . . . . . .. .. . . .. .. . .. .. ..

The philosophic dame

Makes

Her refrain, and then

Pretends: an instance anew: that


28/96

Of fear, feeds fear, sees it in

The lucid breeze: which gets

Thrown back,

Attack on the wind - thrown -

By the wind, and descends it all friendly.

The stillness like A veil, on the

Stockstill trees, on it all;

Drawn from the rapier,

This sword is a broken man

And delicate the season

For the weaponrys plan,

Dismiss this uh kiss of the stokers stick,

The blade in

Your back,

And then filter it all

Like dirty blood From the bite. Spite

Licks against, punctually,

A bathos: surrounds

The grounds in smoke, before

The last minute plays

Its crudity, the lost joke, a laugh

At the path, and a welter for

The ringing birds disturbs

Some objection, a cough before silence

. .. . . . . . .. .. . . .. .. . .. .. ..

. .. . . . . . .. .. . . .. .. . .. .. ..


29/96

A SORT OF

MASSIVE

POEM,Into the practice of a given meaning for the gulch-

-As if it were there in thirst, no masquerade,

But dryness, no interminable neverland, but

Writhed in lye, already dead but whispering,

Feebly, into the nastiest ear of them all,

A tough ghost, sinister as bones, mendicant

For raveled proxies and cheap spasm,

A novel broker for the currency of spent,

A bizarre gerund, doing without the verb, a field

But seen deserted as an axe to rust, a lethal

Prescience and a faith in grievance for

Coronation, what that is that is left to make

Sense of the doom, the test off the text and

Making speech somber as a prelude to

Exotic nothing, speaks but doesnt, walks

But prepares for the cardboard, when EARTH

Gets all alone within a mind a gulch,

A spare livingness redeemless, for she is

Smoking dust and without a filial dread for

Her, is left hopeless, is dry as the brain

Of a random klutz bleeding harmonies onto


30/96

The floor, she dont, she cant, shes preaching

Matters to herself following mortal dangers

Already passed thru, mortal dangers,

Yea, like you care, like you care so much to

Leave and regret leaving, spy on your

Own feelings like tearing up a science, deep

Cores, lost, breaks not given, slack not

Given, shes a desert, ah, shes the

Ghost, you just justly dont tell me, poem,

To spare my antipodes their lack of relation

And rising up of futility like something of

A birth, a happiest cause to bring the dead

To a life already decided to end, I hope,I hope she lives, I hope the canvas her

Mind makes empties before the portrait

Becomes picture, herself unknown as a

Gulch in the hot barren heat,

Afterbirth, worsening, eking mind, thoughts,

Laceration of a hairsbreadth of decency,

A moment of karma, irreversible,

Tuned to the carnage of tomorrow whenAsperities lead her here to scream at herself,

While loving me, hating me for love,

When like a despot I have tried to rise her,

Thwarting her, ranking her, qualitative,

She makes the qualitative quantitative, ah,

Poem, you go to many places, poem,

You go too many places, you find your room,

You go mindfucking, you fuck like chimps,

You illuminate a dram, furnish trash,

Glum partitions, dreamy cloudless day too

Blue to get me beyond blurs, naked sun

Burning the gulch to pieces, senseless,

Carnage, I said that perforce to drown it

Out of possibility, for I have made


31/96

The morning psychotic night, found friend

In whats not left, resigned to the nothingness

Of what is, what is and dreams like

The vault of sky opening upon a stupid world.

. .. . . . . . .. .. . . .. .. . .. .. ..

HEARTACHE

126,I used to smoke and pace outside of the motel room.

It was 126. Right next to where my lover and I stayed.

Once. This was minutes ago. How funny I see it already

As so long ago. As if a deep intimacy forded time

Out, to leave the event in the minutes that began

It. Ceasing to be real, the moment hinges

On chaos. So many thoughts can draw out for hours.

But it is the ego not time that nuzzles a lackluster

Commonplace out of puzzled fragility, and to freak it

Thence into something, perhaps, more positive.

More like you. Who is her. But she might as well

Be here for me to see all this beauty everyplace.

For example. Item: man with natty hair descends

Into gates of hell, his favorite. Item: some mother

Eats a sandwich looking for her sons monsters.

Item: fat guy gets thin, thin guy puts on a handsome

Few. Item: writer relishes the nicety of balance

As its own eternal commonplace. But then,

And I guess I will make this a bad thing or whatever,

But personally, I think its the oddest and therefore


32/96

Most rattling ITEM: A flock of birds quickens

From a tree thousands of miles away. The flock

Of birds however, I am learning to my horror,

Is right next to me, sitting its casual burgeon

On the motionless sheet of this motel room

Bed. Remember that time when I wrote that?

Yeah. I dont either. I do think though that

I am lumbering, lack true gesture, lack even

Too little to mourn what I lack, which somehow

Makes me humble if that is I can see the

Nitpicking of myself bad and thorough enough

To actually trick myself into saying something

Nice about myself. No one else is though.

I was alone hundreds of years ago, back when.

I was made of strings. I was a haunting piece of

Artwork. Or the sound of a garbage truck at

Four in the morning. But now I just really smoke,

And pace, thinking, well, I should add some

Different thing now, should be as one who

Will smoke but never actually doing it. This

Stasis is most comforting to me, that I canMove forward by staying still. I should just

Accept that nobody is subtle all the time.

There are moments, moments we lumber,

Most of all hamfisted, and I cant believe

How obvious Im making this even now.

It was never a matter of being deliberately

Abstruse, reality says, waking me up,

But more, I as being reality was more intriguedBy complexity, making it worthwhile at the bezel

Of the struggle. Humans are simple, predictable.

And for awhile between the break and the door

Back inside, I imagined that I could sans mercy

Exist for the first time in that harbored space,


33/96

Could paint my image and leave it there, on

The underside of realitys desk, some snoring

GOD there, head pillowed by no sentinel but

Pages, ignorant though weathered with

Scrawl. GOD would later wake up with aBackache from falling asleep hunched

Over his task. I suppose my head took me

With itself. By the way, I paced minutes ago,

Got a room with her awhile ago, but now it

Seems kind of pleasant to perceive the same

Amount of passed time. Was this poem

Even written?

. .. . . . . . .. .. . . .. .. . .. .. ..

VERBAL

BOGGING, The Worlds

A beautiful

Communication. And, yet, still,

In all that

Sunders, rips the

Throat apart for

Words, there is

A grace rejected And a grace

Uncontrollably

Affirmed. Think of a

Swamp lain

Beside the

Ignorant lake;

The bile dwells


34/96

There, the septic

Invading of a

Followed desire

To eternitys

Strict end, in

Grandest, braveApocalypse, as

One betrays

His vaunted yes

In response-

-To the myriad

Voices of doubt and scoff delivered.

And then, one

Enters the realm

Of endless

Ceasing instead,

A rocky arbitrary,A seeming amiss; and then, if one wages war enough,

An elegant impartiality: or just conveyance of that neutral:

Centers result from this, this, this, this, this,

The pain of our bliss. Of

Course we turn and nod

Our heads, I attempt to

Reconnoiter with an originating flaw, or something

For the sake of comrades;

Acknowledging thus invigorating

A misery. Or other.

Of course, we Do it wrong,

Until the final

Take. Then

The universe

Begins again for

Us, who left

So much carnage

In that desirous

Flap, that

Next-door lake.

We feed, choking onRotted life, details to the point of protozoa.

A smog of

Leftovers and

Algae distress

The bog, but o the lake is as much the worser

Lacking, a true nothing, a

Conniption; stake it all rather


35/96

On an only emptiness in

Us, not on the sound: well, one thinks of

Miseries pacing conspicuously

Around in their created

Rooms: a fallen

People and aFallen king, yet

GODs in us

Remain, by

The by, and to

Their business

They pretend

A lifting from

The ladder,

Abandoning parallels,

Muddled references

And warmnessfor aTruth in fine

That grows as one injecting antibodies: all this

Comes down to the infinity

Of one simplicity:

Followed by, maybe, possibly, needlessly,

Ironic remorse, no less, for the

Painstaking nods that recur. Nods

To a void, the

Same one, but an irony for being an aid:

It is reckless, worse because at the same

Time by friendAnd friend, not person

And person, so that in the end both ends are ends, and

The gross permits doubly grossly, the fineries cut: that all

Become negative, a bruise, is ruthless bullshit: it starts

In what is just, after all: regarding just a

Freedomfrom the

Margents, banks, polluted with maddening, scummy

Detail, yet finally coming tragic, a naufrage; one

Is ashore to beat ones

Feet and feel no

Deck, nor rocking then, and then control returns,Non-commital and astonished and

Loose. It is these

Freedoms we betray

In simultaneously admitting our different nodding bogs,

Shouting our pain unmoving and as stagnant.

From removed lips, I and I, but somewhere other-

-That whisper an immediate chain of orbital events,


36/96

Admittance beside, around itself for sympathy: yes:

All planets, bodies of water, antibodies to diagnose the will.

The silence too then is there, to

Confide in: bleaker, well, in bleaker

Ways: than even the last corporeal relation, the

Most hellishPersonage, beside himself.

. .. . . . . . .. .. . . .. .. . .. .. ..

ON PUSHING

FLAMING

TRAILERHOME

OVER INTO

CANYON WITH

DEAD PERSON-


37/96

-IN IT,First rain

Pissin down on aluminum

Siding aflame, and

The clonus alone gets

Me mental and hiding again,

A grave for a diced

Angel for the crevasse

Left in the crap

And dirt.

I leave the

Train later full of beer

And hurt. I looked so long

In the wilderness of my spine

For motive. Eh

Lifes angle, or some foundational

Emotion? This regime seems

Unreasonable.

Seems a river of mirrors

Of the flame. The last time

I looked to dine

On pearls I guess

My teeth cracked like

Little girls, and my head is a

Sidewalk,

Strewn askew

With empty grass

Here and there, and

The cloudy talk

Of ruins disturbs

This unbelievable Earth. I

Find an only braid to ease

My beard, cradle

Fear like intestines

In my lap, o children

Its a rap, Ive driven alright?

To the wild end. And might as well

Be dead. I pull

The soggy scarf across my

Sodden cheek against


38/96

The silently falling snow, now.

For the rain got colder, and with the trailer

Are for my heart;

The canyon, indiscriminate berth.

A contagion

Or an art, to swallowTo swallow and ignore. Unseemly

In a fiery mess. O the humanity, o

My disgusting, her dead wretchedness.

Thank you. I scatter to the station then,

Cant nothing be my best relation,

This is the field of vision I choose: all just

To use a spike to hike

The pulse and empty state

Likewise.

. .. . . . . . .. .. . . .. .. . .. .. ..

ANTIPODAL

POME, It is me and my careless, deranged

Luck, has brought - it seems -

You here, fed to the place by

Foreboding - powerlessness -

That what you wish what you want

To become becomes what you

Are not: you dread the

Unexpected metamorphosis, yet

Will little against it on your own, not bc

Your will is weak, rather likeA guarded secret it is cautious of

Revealing all in full exertion unsubdued.

Make the brawn to be you

Yourself, find value there,

Everywhere accomplishment, bc

For you, to move still, heart


39/96

Beating - to manage

A thread of least complacence

About the day as you are

Woven into another, and your will,

Mon Semblable, brother and

Symbol and treasure, along w/ you, Is to have done more as

To effort than a president in

Wartime; eager threats

Of powerlessness aside, what

Gives you strength is what you relish

Of strength - in will - the freedom to Do

The Thing.

. .. . . . . . .. .. . . .. .. . .. .. ..

EYESOCKET,embed artifice / in the very

breeze / then, all / become

a plea to be / real / imposing

a rushing sound / of saving /

for oneself / the grand obvious,

and / the delectable insistence

/ of a reality / forcefully shorn /

that is / you have, you / have /

only / dead answers . from way

back when / when everything

had been created / merely / and

the flesh of any scene before

eyes / a thing of only / the quality

of words / and thus, a / plea

for substance / and an area to

live / wherein nothing answers no questions asked / because that

artful socket / has perennially been / is your eyes themselves

. .. . . . . . .. .. . . .. .. . .. .. ..


40/96

LITTLE

LACERATED

BRAIN, OF

MINE,I think my mind has a mind

Of its own. Some would call

This an identity pit. I call it

Gnosis. I call many things

As they are to me. My mind

Has other plans. My mind

Wants to see me healthy.

It wants me to take my jaws,

Waiting for death, off the

Curb. I just want to kill off

Everything, make speciousAnd trivial everything, deny

The personal as damaged

For all time. But thats it

Exactly. It is impossible for

Anyone to break apart like


41/96

That. Nietzsche called insanity

A delight in unreason. I

Think thats more accurate

Than the whole, doing the

Same thing and expecting

A different result jargon.

Sanity is in us. I think maybe

It returns to us after we die.

The most deteriorated soul

Is still better than a dead

Star. The explosion mightCreate planets, but the

Mind has a purity sans

Destruction. We all have

Half a mind to destroy the

Other half of our mind we

Dont quite understand. But,

Like a magician, it wont

Reveal its secret. Not ever.

I suppose its true that when

I jumped the second time I

Expected to hit the ground

Harder than ever. But worse,

I was suspended by a rope,

Drifted easily to the ground.

A leap of faith sometimes

Needs a harness in that way.

The faith involves the notion

That one will not fly but die,

Or break, or enter a stupid


42/96

Wilderness of schizophrenic

Denial, denying not reason

But denying that one is not

Reasonable. The fact is,

Language is that harness

That will always be a tautology,

That is that harness, that safety,

That cant be touched by

The sabotage we all strive to

Replicate in seeing as

Nothing but an oddly there

And extant redundancy, a

Redundancy that, because

Whatever created the

Universe is a fucking dunce,

Ends up being, well, pretty

Much the way things are.

But maybe its not so duncelike

Because anyway we are veryWounded as people who

Think. The whole Cartesian

Method irks me but damn does

It make me think. That doubt

Involves understanding the lay

Of the land first. Only that

Which we cannot understand

We cannot doubt, which was

His explanation of GOD, at

Least, as far as I can tell. Ive

Only really scoped out

Descartes, but I like it, very


43/96

Methodical. Its a bit like what

Schopenhauer said about

Being a hypocrite and involves

Intellectual finagling in theSame way: that it is hypocritical

To deny one is talented, to call

Themselves mediocre: saying one

Thing while doing something

Different: like a strange logical

Inverse: if reality was as it is

To us, that is, as the

Raw nerve we exactly dont

See it as, then maybe the soul,

Whether material or whatever,

Would be ruined. If I called

Myself a charlatan I would be

Closest to killing myself and

Would generally feel shitty and

Bummed otherwise. The fact is we

Are all insane, all broken and

Blessed and whatnot, simply

Because reality is a useless

Ideal that is useless to get to

The bottom of because in any

Case it would still amount to

Some spectral apparentReality that must be so, as

The limits of the mind must

Be so, so as to ward off

The ever-under-attack Unreal

Part of the mind that is the


44/96

Soul basically, a material,

Or maybe an infinite object

Without the ability to degrade.

Ah, who knows. Im tired as

Fuck and pretty messed up

And yet I delight in unreason

Just to bleed into my skull,

Voracious for some triumphant

Sense of loss, more fodder

For the poems I suppose, but

Loss is loss. We are limitedFrom being able to encroach

Upon the part of ourselves

We do not understand so as

Not to doubt its existence since

It is no matter whether it is

But why it does, and I guess

The reality never before us,

Before our eyes, must be

Pretty damn scary to need

Language to distance us from

It. Id imagine cavemen just

Kind of dwelled in some anguishing,

Immense silence all the time

And eventually the crossover

Came about and the species

Couldnt take having to guess

Without a conclusive rapport

With other cranial beings, however

Vastly shrunk, they probably


45/96

Started to see the soul of this

Planet, this planet and

Themselves too, and like an

Animal baffled they themselves

Didnt understand the sensation

Of being baffled, made words

To try and figure it out forever.

Little did cavemen or grunting

Hunter-gatherers rather know

That this creation would light a

Fire under humanitys ass,

And for all time everyone would

Be obsessed, maybe so wrong,

With the truth: with getting back

To those perverse, soulless,

Tongueless roots. Words are the

Soul I guess is what I mean by

Suspending us above the ground

Upon the leap, and anchoring usDown. Whatever created

Everything probably figured this

Would happen, but then again

Maybe GOD is just a file clerk,

Maybe Earth-total is one file, at

Most the first shit to deal with

Would be atrocities in Africa

Or starvation in India or those

Kidnapped girls from Nigeria or

Well, I could go on about all

The horrible shit that goes on

On a daily basis, like clockwork,


46/96

Like a thing that repeats itself

Because we as people had the

Bright idea that we were actually

Reasonable instead of seeingOurselves as perverse as

Primitive peoples, animals blessed

Unknowing they were blessed,

To now, as I see it, people who

Think they know. You have to

Suffer for knowledge. You have

To really suffer. You have to

Expand your mind but preceding

An agonizing withering of self

And body for a long time. Leopardi

Basically revolutionized the way

We look at poetry: the miserable

Fuck developed a hunchback

And bad eyes from studying by

Candlelight for hours on end.

And guess what? He was in his

Parents clutches until the

Last years of his life! A mind wants

Itself to not be known, to be

Content but also spread its wings,

Pardon the bromide. But thats

Kind of fucked because a littleBit of both often looks the same

As all or nothing. But now Im

Loading all you reading this

With confusion. Frost had a good

Way: he said: Be whole again


47/96

Beyond confusion. He is right,

Fucking right. So right I get

A boner just thinking how right

He is. Forget about being

Confused. Delight in unreason

As not being something

Wrong with you but just the

Nature of our minds, secretive,

Beautiful, protective of the

Self in us, protective of sanity

Rather, selfhood I am stillWorking on, autonomy, independence,

Finding a job. Well this is screwball

As all hell isnt it? Did you even

Understand my poem? Good,

It doesnt matter. Just as figuring

Out real and not real is about

The same as Descartes refusing eggs

Too long under the ass of the chicken.

Im not a proponent of intellectual

Laziness, no no, but we have to work

Carefully to the point of hunchbacks

To make systematic sense, we

Gotta really be OK with only being

And ever only being able to rest in

A continuum of words and limits,

It helps us save who we are, helps

That part of us, sacred and sane,

Never die. And maybe losing that

One part of us that baffles the


48/96


49/96

: ALL IN THE

NAME"You said it will be painless / a needle in the dark."

- - The National, PINK RABBITS

We even brace ourselves,& at long last we manage

To wallow our way out of

Our wrong valleys wallow:

The busy shade of some

Cypress, and whose leaves

The gild for branches seem

In motion for some intent

To join with the shade

They give, the result,

Confusions of substance,

Color, texture, etc. that

Lend to an abrasively

Loud psychology in a

Head already overfull

With questions of source,

Cognition, the desirous,

The sex and sexfiend:

At random: like a head

Blown off in the back

Seat: a pulp of fiction:

Ourch! the trigger

Pulled mistakenly as


50/96

The vague thug was

Making a point to

His counterpart, having

Been pointing the

Weapon there,

Explaining such to

His hostage, fearful

Shitless: and so do

We hover over the

Mistaken stream, a

Detached eye kept

Specially for the bilge:

Unreal stream: of

Thuggish, abrasive

Context, dappled water-

-Fluent as tradetalk,

And, the wind, o,

The wind, more

Dominant, as like a

Brusque word,

Just between theManager and lackey,

A demand forgotten,

A lax twick of the ear

And a bang on the

Head, nyuck, nyuck,

Nyuck, we manage,

Yes, amidst chaos we

Manage to waddle,Weakly, we wankers,

Out of our wrong valleys,

Emerge, convivial with

The days char [charm?]

We go, from the chasm-


51/96

shade that would have

Swallowed us: inviting

Our ignorance to dance

With it in hopes we might

Know it, we straggleBehind those two

Wanderers: trying to get

A clear view of our

Futurity, via this sort

Of supplicated-

-Cluelessness,

Acknowledgment, of

Cluelessness somehowDisplayed in that

Illuminated socket,

And conceive a

Handsomest possible

Outcome, tho bizarre,

One sans blowing apart

The brains: the light

Is drawn like a curtain,

Of course to the

Opposite effect: a

Pictorial, aesthetic,

Flagrant approach, an

Assuming us as sky

Which may not be

Betteror worse, the

Sun. But wherefore

These multiple dandys,

Inclusion of the-

-World a foolish

Polemical stunt; why

Do we have gall

Enough to think we


52/96

Learn enough of

Ourselves to get-

-Past the testy brink

Of what extravagance

Had greeted us, as

Individuals, to exist

Beside, and right

Besideits ornament

Of myriad: calculated

Glory calculated by

Sure time, which

Us with it mutually

Quickens the

Triangular shade

Across, across the

Literal/figurative

Sundial only

For us to transgress?

Or just myself, squatting

My decrepitude in a

Transcendence reallyA misnomer. We consider

More baffling circles,

Feel we are used to

Its repetitive bounty,

And now we as we

Mustnot to, ahem,

I mean, you kno,

Not to take advantageOf the preachiest of

Pluralities, despite

Its questionableness-

-As to an accurate

Shade of time, the


53/96

Timea personage

Of zeitgeistwe begin

To reel upon knowing

It all this an inevitable-

-Grand statement onReality, perhaps by

Someone more vocal

Than WE, who shrink

From the shrill steam

Of the churchorgan

Maybe, though, as

Pious folks, respect

Any mouthpiece ofThe Gewd Lawd: Good

Lord: WE reel, yea,

Once nose-to-nose

With the mawnin: morning:

Fuck: the fat face of fact,

Reality, as permanent

As a knock on the door:

Despite how little it is,

All of what a day is in-

-The wake of all days

That have been, for

You, for me,however

Consequential an

Answering something

Like this, that doesnt

Make sense, would be,

We receive no sign, no

Answer, for how did

We survive? Following

That empty discourse

Between the light shed

By the sun & the sun


54/96

Itself, things in all their

Meander & meekness-

-Come to inhabit

Themselves again:

Twigs, rock, dirt: one

Begins parlay no more

With something

Nonsensical, averting

Eyes away from there-

-To focus on honesty

Anyway instead,but

Where? Well, where

One had obviously

Always wanted ones

Own, particularly prickly

Side of sight to rest on,

Something like a bias

Just for them. To narrow

Reality down to this,

This even someplace

To manifest as gestures,Impressions ghostly:

The rotating shoulder-

-A retainer for the

Uncertain pious, you

Kno, to give belief a

Higher, stranger altitude,

Perhaps as far gone-

-As Pluto, but, more,A depth unshakable:

So then a thing not to-

-Rocket forth into

Unbreathable void, but

Sink, sink to depths to


55/96

An, some, unbreathable,

Coral-strewn pith: the

Given scoff, of course:

The eye rolling like

A paraplegic, the scoffStuck inones throat

Squandered however:

The pressure no longer

Even enough to squeeze

Out a chuckle: the eyes

Buckle, then,

Buckle at this realization,

Erhm, of perennialUngratefulness, ignored

Intimacy of view, that

Is worldview,and,

That goldeny bias wilts

With whatever was

Previously handed to

Openness, and then

All is, suitably, indistinct,

Outright secretive,

Impotent,riotous

Laughter, down to

A hacking incredulity

Of stuff & spit from a

Throat burnished-

-With unmentionable

Dust: a subject, sinking

Subject, growing

Better as it drowns:

Something about that

Dont make sense, but

Well enough, well

Enough, you know, to


56/96

Interest, enrapture,

Explode the head,

Brains a-wing, & to

Spatter nonsense-

-All over the backseat,

A beige pleather. Things

Come to inhabit their

Elongated materials,

Again, batten down

The bait for light-on-

all to eat, so as to make

Flawed way. Fishy sort

Of reasoning, that,

We snigger, being

Cloistereted [portmanteau]

In some extant

Possibility too lush for

Any of a product but

Plurality: vents to

Passages, and gives-

-Along the way, traps,Shaky science: nathless,

There are buoys of

Manner and form,

Bobbing patent findings

To the streams-

-Emotional surface:

Feelings etc. science etc.

Blessing a fulness finallyUpon these fracturing

Blocks of stanza:

Occult emissions to

Clog the foggy stanza

Further: down, down,


57/96

Down, low to the lowest

Valley: clues trend: as

Predicted: they begin,

Fair enough, as a wager

Of light to if not provideA foot or two to make

Steps, at least reveal

From a fixity what is

Uponpsyches bulbous,

Awkward way, until a

Final warning peal, to

Indicate the presence

Of a search: we awaitResponse awhile: then,

Uh, the search is off:

Nathless, whatever it

Is is still out there,

Definitely: at least one-

-Context-hostage: kept

In a vagary resembling

Sadism: bound

Together with tenacious

Rope [hope]: a thick

Hide: organized evil:

The respiratory mobile-

-Of season and season

And season is really

Perfect for this our

Causal societys getting,

Yea, a regular rotten

Ideal for evil people,

Who eat up the fodders,

Manna of manners, of

Unbelievable repetition:

We, WE, think ourselves


58/96

The ideal: are proud of

Its gab:and as tho to

Soothe a trembling cybil

Muttering, damned

Sacristanwe ahem rank

Whatever riled shadows

Of responsibility and,

Of course, create

Our time, build statues

So light that light

Itself could work as their

Plinth: responsibilities:

Agh: ah : to ford some,

We will, once we are

Shaved of our previous

Discrepancies, leave

Others dead on the

Side of the path, a

One tortuous, tenuous:

Will it hold against

The weakening powersOf encroaching

Trepidation, fear of

Cranial bursts,

Embolisms, unneeded

Bullets in the head?

Of quaint apocalypses

Daily one might

Speak: you kno,Casual, dramatic ones,

Threaded & dreaded

& there & that fully

By the timethat

Negative quilts made:


59/96

Quills: tame, tame,

Tame thee, pen: quills:

Inkflood, antediluvian

Wisdom poured: blood:

And all the missing--Bastards from the

Count: uncertain sun

-light, filled with odd,

Old testimonies dump

Nightmares on the

Will: a restless horse,

Bridle with a sound

Clamp, for now. ButTeeth are proud and

Restive. But, stay

Your hand, for what

Stems from this

Particular psychology

Of leaves on the

Soaked hills, crud;

Leaves banged to

Wisps, dirty ones?

Bloody go the gulping

Strings, twanging

Strings, stay, stay:

Brave the whiny,

Whanging wind, just,

Like, after all, a simplicity:

Whom this blurry-

-Hostage banters with:

A captor: whom is a

Kind of organized evil,

Composed despicably

Throughout whole pleas that

Each one cause a raise


60/96

Of voice, when at

Crescendo of the-

-Obligatory rant:

Confession:yea, a

Pressing matter here,

And the ego as one

Would suppose affronted

By interruptions, from

That lowly cowering-

-Cowering hostage, he

Stiffening back at the

Nudge of the damned

Captors/bandits gun:

But: whom prayers would

Presume a productive

'Yes' that would amount

To a different set of guy:

The good lord tackles

Naysaying enough

Already: ahem: clips

Of yourself shaggingAss from cops show

Up online in droves,

And going viral lands

You in jail: that happened:

While the wood snores,

Of course, the saw

Remains silent and

Disgruntled, that is,With neighboring

Desiderata, wood-chip,

Thin, aromatic punk,

The keif of woodlands:

An egg to swallow


61/96

Snakes: poorly-drawn

Fruit: casket droppings

Are possible even if

Sustained under the

Muscular ambitions ofThe sunniest pallbearer:

If close to the deceased,

They would tear up &

Rage & stuff: makes

Sense, if onlythat

Does, sans regards the

Context of all else:

Hostage: moral carrion,Grumpy standards of

Living ruin the face of

Any eventual corpse:

If even it was a happy

Death: apart from the

Couch, the pallbearer

Has no respite in life &

Is hassled by stressors

Both general & too,

Well, specific to remain

Anything but unspecified:

His exertion, in the

Moment, tho, dont

Flag, and all soon is

Settled, that is, six

Feet under, and as

Thunder punctuates

Wellwe all go home

To our forgetting of it,

It, death, gone, and

Then, incipit tragoedia:

But honed in on whats


62/96

Abreast in our own-

-Breast, a personal

Taxation: by then,

Empiricism has lost its

Place in any sort of big

Macrocosmic duty to

Alight ourselves from

Intimate holes in the

Argument, for the sake

Of the entire, that is,

World: not only do we

Relate those illogical

Commitments to our-

Selves, but by proxy we

Assume the greater

Good illogical, piggish,

Consumptive,and smile:

Us is I, I is us: one thinks

Of the detached, formal

Unit one as a cruel

Ward [wad] whomEntertains the parents,

But whom the children

Secretly despise the

Smile of: molars packed

With blockage: hoarse

Bravado, hermetic,

Oversensitive seethe

Of smile; shouting aDevilish finger to the

Devilish door: get out,

Says the ward: an

Exceeding annoyance

To communicate stirs


63/96

The tongue of the

Ward, piece of shit,

To click and smack,

An unseemly sputtering

Demand, eating cashews:

.

I think of every attempt

To start over as a new

Mollifying glance at that

Pissed beauty with its

Eyes closed anyway: more

Reassuring to me in doing

Than her a source of

Anger I tried to divert,

And to myself more

Diverting from my own

Angers alone: I am trying

To beat PASCAL with

Unbelievable import,

Mere occupation: but

Poetry is, yea, while

Cool, swell as shit

Really, still a diversion:

So then, let me be an

Artisan: or carpenter:

Or creator of carpets:

OR, a tail-coated

Server of gruyere

Perhaps: I am manic!Manic! I search thru

Formal strata to find

Iterations of the fair,

Thinnest past the even

Tho evenest oblique


64/96

Shades, or some

Substance based on

Its difference from

Others, that is a

Substance by that

Differing quality

Only: ghosts: not

That is of self but

Verbiag

: the sad truth of it all

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