Reductionism, I

I'm more of emergent properties man myself. That's why the talk of dreams. I like the life that emerges from my own when I am finally, totally quiet.


MFF -- 31:15

I could have wringed him in his neck, right then, and taken him down, right on down, in to the hallow, and sent him straight, straight to his god-fearing sonuvabitch matron whore, right then, mixing up himself in the midst of a firecracking sex escapade, a damn x-rated hooker jerk--crying, I bet, by the time he come around, just ever crying, beating himself and whimpering and beating himself, real bad like, sure, like he done it before, thousand times, just beating himself and crying and making himself feel all like he is just damn rotten and fallen into the big pit of shit up by that knee high cradle strip club, there he'd gotten, there he'd gotten for sure, by then at least, by then he gotten there, at the time he wasn't crying no more, wasn't beating himself to blisters, waiting til he could climb back inside through the basement window, all gutted and pissed on and whimpering, right, whimpering like a ragged bitch dog, then he'd gotten hiself out of the blisters, red torn skin and just red skin--ing him off, like a shit trick placed in the middle of a damn fucking b-rate film, him all riled up, and goated, goated like he done it before, like he done it a thousand times before and like he knew he was gunnin to tell you about it, just grinning, all bloodshot and pissy, woozy like he been dropping pints in the laboratory on south street, right there in front of them frosted hoes dumping their damn feces all over their fingers lick--johns, they just ate, wishing, lately, less lately perhaps, that they just too clever, just sneaking out for ciggarrettes and finding them hoes, finding them hoes in the tall grass and just riding them silly. Its all like that, then, just there, typed in all up front, I could have wrung his neck, wrung it good and give me blisters but I watched them hoes instead and wrung my own head, right there, crawling down between the basement, and I got them hands all worked over like sandpaper and me just thinking I been sucked out of this place, sucked out of this world and left like there wasn't nothing ever in me, nothing by that raft in the river next to the place they take them hookers and ball them til they think it time to turn it off and walk in the other room. Shit, there ain't no balling like that -- its just wringing my neck in the showering and thinking maybe it looked like something else, something like that wouldn't be, just couldn't be.


September 21, 2009: to do list

Remember to listen
to myself
and do what I love:

all the cells humming faintly
in the brain--

"If there is no cell doctrine
there is no single place to stand"
so there you have it

stand nowhere
straddling everything


banging your head against the wall (overheard)

"you think you got it bad?

the first year is nothing.

the second year it hurts like hell.

after that, you start to stop noticing.

I think it's been four years now

and I'm not even sure--

am I still doing it?"

he said. and banged his head.


Why we suffer / How I am like Mom

I press myself into my being.

The world presses itself into me.

I change myself, and the world changes
how I change.

Do not worry; the world will always win!

Respect the world--

it will always win.


once upon a time

Faithful, faithful, faithful. Samuel knelt by the oak tree in the snow. The year was 1987 -- the world was different then. Circuits were not yet crawling through the soil.

What if he wrote you a poem right there? He fights the urge to lick the flakes from the air. Samuel is faithful so he will not bend or else he might tear and out will come his faith. This is a problem; poems require flexibility, a certain carelessness about the joints. Impossible not to leak, even just a little.

When the world is pixelated, later, pixelater, there is a threshold past which it becomes impossible for you to tell yourself apart from the sofa and the window with the view, and your hand. Fortunately since feeling is first it is the last to go. You will know your hand on your knee even if you cannot see the distinction. And if you write poems -- if you write at all -- it will be like closing your eyes in the dark.

When Samuel closes his eyes now he see the whiteout and the tree swallowed up by the world come to meet him, years ago, and what happened next he knew then would change absolutely everything. Now he thinks of the line "closing your eyes in the dark" and tries to type where the difference is there is no difference at all

but mistakes his lap for the keyboard and writes until he feels such joy that he leaks out all this best thoughts on the floor.