Weightless

There is a wire strung here, so that we might know that we are not alone in being foolish.  A perimeter is a measure of loss, the manifest destiny of an obituary. How many years can I knot inside these walls?  The fear of loss is the harbinger of isolation.  We are where time stands still.  So many specters dangling from that coiled place, a wonder, a breath, stone belly crushed around an impossible stasis.  I would I were more than a nostalgic pleading, a rope caught between rocks.  When is it just—

There is a wire strung here, a cut masquerading as an object, a bombastic wound, a low sung loneliness.  In this cavernous mouth is the song you sing when everything is hollow, carved out, eternal, and it tastes good.  The clearing is where your mouth curls around word and tongue, a blood-deep steadiness that does not ask for an I am.  The what-ifs put me out of my mind; philosophy and desire tangled into an impossible grace that lifts the stone from my tongue and leaves a space for song.

Poetry: Interrogative

Generate me some Prophesy
with your Crew-cut Clipboard
I fear becoming an orchid
before my time is up.
Blinks twice
(a suggestion of narcissism?)
or only a Hit and Run.

I've stolen so many bases.
I feel dizzy and sick.
Can't remember my dreams,
only stale blanket smells
and
A Knowing Glance
and
Take two before bed.

Poetry: Prey

Shrink wrapped hatemail holocausts
Put your good shoes on 
And look sincere about it.
But we're all judas so  
the wrong god walks the green mile.
A traitor isn't lonely
The cause keeps him warm when
All the beds are taken.
Dandelion seeds ask if
one lonely ape loses his head,
What's the big deal?


Man is the predator that shows its teeth
And calls it kindness.
Explosives hard wired into his grey matter
A Fanatic
An interrogator of dreams
With a hard-on for possession.
the wrong god funnels whispers from
an electric chair:
sing me out of this glass cage
and I will show you an after religion,
an after death.
I will show you what comes after
the need to own.

Writer's Block

Psychoanalysis: you want to have a penis.  Everybody wants to have a penis.  If you had a penis, you would be able to produce copious amounts of highly dignified work.  Creativity is a phallocentric act.  Yay phallus!  Boo lady writers!

Phenomenology: The being of a writer in their writer-ness is a revelation of what is. The act of writing is an act of becoming.  If you can't write, it's because you're out of tune with the beingness of beings.  You are an invisible non-being thing lacking thingness.  You should either join a cult movement or stare at people's shoes until inspiration-ness comes to your typing-ness. Wooooooooooooo

Existentialism: You're not writing because you've created a reality where you don't write.  What that means is entirely up to you...don't be such a baby!  Suck it up and generate some meaning!

Nihilism: We don't give a fuck!

Eastern Philosophy:  Mu.

Western Philosophy: Me, me, me, me, la, la, la, la

Scientology:  Thetans are sapping you of your creativity.  *Alien slurping*

Christianity:  Jesus loves you but you're going to hell anyways cause you don't love him back.  Why worry about writing?  You should be worrying about your soul!!!!!!!!!

Agnosticism: We don't really know, and we're too smart to guess.

Marxism:  Your creativity is being oppressed by the state.  Kick the state's ass, become the new oppressor, and you'll write the great american novel.

Behavioralism: You're not writing because you're not writing.  Duh.....

Nursery Rhyme:  Hip-Hop, Knock-knock...you're not writing because you've got writer's block!

Seriously...can I count this towards my page goal for the day? :D

Poetry: New Things

I've Cut my self
Free & Clear of Present
Awareness, dwindled.
Drops of disphasic
Numerical Significance
Utopia Enslaved to
Power Lines. Binary Code.
Unequivocal Equivalencies
Absentminded Vacations of
Ethereal Future Spending

Hush, Now.
I have not budgeted time for this
Reality.  I will write it in for
Tuesday's the day everything will
Cave in.  I'm paranoid but I'm
told that's healthy nowadays.

Hush, Now.
It's important to be goal Minded,
Dead as the wire in my brain
Letting out little drops of blood
Tap, tap, tap. I miss missing.
Put me back in the closet, I'm
working things out. I haven't
given up, just switched brands.

I'm trying out zebra stripes
and BDSM.  I'm pissing with the light
off so I can reminisce about the water.
Falls of my childhood.
I collect the wrong kinds of pain.
I'm looking for something quick and
Brutal, Something to
Render me awake so I might dream.

Poetry: The Western Bodhisattva

Open your dead white eyes and say something re-le-vant.

The East is so romantic (I feel enlightened by Tienemen Square.)

I can disprove the existence of God because without without….

Loneliness is the sound of one hand clapping, beating against—

 the wire thin fragility of Walmart smiles (you call this creativity?)

One plus one plus one plus one is less than one lonely hand….

Please don’t try to explode things with the power of your mind.

Just hold them in your mouth until your tongue turns Black.

Why are the parts most susceptible to hemorrhage considered lovely?

Lovely is as a flower petal curled under a wet pink wyrd.

A secret you should know is that I keep no secrets, only mysteries.

A secret you should know is that there are no secrets,

Only the interpenetration of hissing fingers and lovely sores

Clasped together, white knuckled and smiling.

Distance, Intimacy, Exposure

Language refers to, but cannot contain, unspoken understandings.  It cannot kiss, it does not make eye contact.  Without the immediacy of exposure, a new kind of intimacy arises, one that permits a different kind of understanding: distance frees the creative mind by removing it from the immediacy of others.

If we trail back to my last post: between me and my cats, a million unspoken understandings.  Between me and the humans I love, the same; but here there is a difference.  My human relationships are never uncomplicated existential truths based upon unspoken understandings.  There is a constant need to clarify meaning, and what is true on one occasion may easily be false or very differently applied on another. These human relationships are complicated card houses built on an intricate system of construction, recognition, and validation.  My brain struggles, (as it appears to me) against reason, to understand these constructs and their necessity.  Humans expect to be defined as much by "how" as by "who": the pretense of our social identities, of many-layered associations between objects and ideological systems, makes the understanding of humans and their choosings very difficult.

It is impossible to untangle humans from their language...but it is possible to grab hold of their moments when they are mediated through text.  In writing, all of the relationships, structures of understanding, and references are exposed to the analytic capacity of the reader, who can give off no unintentional signs to the speaker which might change the mode or context of meaning.  Through distance, intimacy with the speaker becomes possible.  Through distance, there is no immediate exposure to scrutiny, paranoia, anxiety, confusion, or sensory inundation.

Of course, the reader may still choose intimacy with text over intimacy with the author.  This is accomplished by the way that we extract meaning from relations; as soon as the words are removed from the speaker's context and placed within the reader's frame of reference, they take on a new life.  A beautiful sunrise, the morning of one human's story, reminds another of the death of a friend, or a place they'd rather not revisit.

Have I reversed myself here?  Is it possible to speak to a human the same way as cat, who does not struggle  to choose from a thousand possible meanings before crying at her bowl?  And if it were, would the majority of us wish it to be so?  What part of us lives in this choosing?

This brings me back to my original point: language refers to, but cannot contain, unspoken understandings.  Language does not experience, but references our experiences.  Its metamorphoses of meanings translate and refract those of human beings, allowing intimacy through distance, exposing the struggle of humans to construct meaningful identities without anything solid to hold onto.

The unspoken understanding, the empathy of text, resides in its referential nature; it allows us to connect with the generative processes of construction.  In this way, we can connect to the shared experience of being under construction, of trying to make and share meaning among creatures who are constantly overexposed (and often in western culture simultaneously isolated).  Thus our unspoken understanding is carried by speech, hidden in the struggle to find truth and make truth at the same time.