Liberty Tries To Awaken Sleeping Reason

On Criticism 2

2011-09-12T01:49:00.000-04:00

The Critic is

“a person who expresses an unfavorable opinion of something,”

so, the critic is defined by the party which they oppose,

(those who could deem the criticism unfavorable)

which is to say,

the Critic comes-into-being only in opposition to an existing idea.

At the etymological root of Critic is Krinein, to judge, decide, separate.

There is an inherent divisiveness at play in the Critic,

for there is an inherent divisiveness in all judgment,

every declaration of value stands in opposition to its other

this is the nature of Krinein, the judgment as separation.

The Critic is in Opposition to its Object

And the Critic’s judgment (marking) of the Object

will separate itself from its Object

I have called this marking Negation

for it destroys the Oneness of the Object

through its Subjective Utterance:

The Critical Utterance states that,

Whatever the Object has been known to be

It is also this, this singular Subjective transmission,

this declaration of Will, this Judgment.

The Critical transmission reveals the Object’s multiplicitous manifestation,

its Being in Totality

(the Thing-Itself and its Infinitely marked being in the World,

the Thing-Itself and that which is NOT the Thing-Itself):

the Critical Transmission exposes the multiplicitous nature of Subjectivity

by declaring its own Subjectivity

by Being an Utterance in Opposition

an Utterance itself (a)part

To do this,

the Critic examines the Space of Conveyance

(the momentary being of Subject/Object transmission)

wherein the Self-Reflective and illusory nature of perception

is made apparent in the unstable marking of the Object:

the Subject’s Being with the Object.

The Critic, however, must function within the Spectacle

the Worldview commodified

wherein Value is imposed on the Subjective experience of the World

The imposition of Value on the Object

appears as an innate relatedness to the Subject.

So, the Critic, in examining the commodified Space of Conveyance,

is locked in a false opposition;

The dichotomy of Self and Self-related Object cannot offer Negation

for the Commodity comes-into-being through

the Subjective determination of Value

The Spectacle disallows Negation

by locking the Subject and Object

in an epistemic closure of false Self-Affirmation

(the illusory Will in the World)

So, the Critical Utterance, a manifestation of Will,

carries with it the inauthenticity, the falseness, of the Spectacle,

the Relative Autonomy of Commodity Culture.

It opposes nothing for, being commodified, its locus remains within the Self,

within the subjective manifestation of the Spectacle

within a Subject-centric realm of affectation

The Critic, then, must liberate the Self and the Critical Utterance

from the false relatedness of Value,

from the illusory validation of a self-centric worldview,

from the Spectacle's fetishization of the commodified individual.

The Critical Topoi must shift from the Subject, Society, or Spectacle,

from the Object (the Thing-Itself and its Multiplicitous Manifestation),

to Being,

the space of the Subject and the space of its Negation

This Desubjectification transforms the Space of Conveyance

into a conceptual feedback loop of Negation:

the Negated Subject still marks the Object

(the critic continues to Be with that Object)

and that marking manifests as an Object truly opposed to the Subject

an Object Decommodified, no longer of use, or of Value,

no longer a thing of Spectacle, but a Being in the World,

a world which humanity knows only as a shadow of the Thing-Itself.

The Critical Utterance pierces Illusion with the revealing of Illusion.

It is the judgment which negates judgment,

the declaration of Will which liberates Will.

I believe this is the nature of the Minimalist Conveyance,

an Object which negates the Subject by offering only the Thing-Itself

but I do not believe it is the only way.

The Critic, in Utterance, functions solely within the moment

(Conveyance is always momentary),

the moment is the Object, its fleetingness insures its Negation.

The Desubjectification of the Critical Utterance

is not an utter annihilation of Self,

but a suspension of judgment, or Epoché.

The Spectacle, foremost, is an illusion of certainty:

the perpetuation of a belief that things are exactly as they appear.

The Critical Utterance is thus a transmission of instability,

a testament to the fallibility of Subjectivity:

the making manifest of a World which resists ideology,

hand-me-down symbolic orders, and engrained narratives of Self;

the suspension of belief in the Spectacle’s force-fed ontology,

the illusions of time, of space, of language, of sensation,

of philosophic and spiritual pasts and politicized, self-fulfilling, prophesies.

The Critic, in the transmission of the moment,

reveals the Subject’s illusory nature,

through the making manifest the innate instability of the Worldview.

The Critic is at war with Illusion,

their only weapon is the declaration of Will,

the marking of, or being-with, the Object,

to reveal the instability of Subjectivity,

the Critic must Be with the Object in Totality,

they must look into the Abyss of Negation

and they must see it reflecting back:

Only then does Critical Utterance stands truly in Opposition;

Only when the Critic speaks, not from the Self, but from the Totality,

not from the Self-Relatedness of Value

but from outside the world of Commodity,

from the perspective of the infinite:

Being Desubjectified.

On Commodity

2011-08-29T02:49:00.001-04:00

Commodification is the imposition of Value on the Object

-- Value is an intangible measurement of worth or utility

Through Conveyance,

the Commodity (Object) and its Consumer (Subject)

enter into an unstable interaction,

wherein the Subject is simultaneously

perceptive of the Object and affected by that Object

(The marked coming-into-being of the Object)

Due to the imposition of Value,

the Commodity comes-into-being according to its worth or utility to the Subject

which is to say,

the Conveyance of Commodity is the interrelation of Self and valued Object

so,

the Commodity comes-into-being according to its Value relative to the Subject

and thus,

for each Subject, the World manifests according to a relative sense of Value

Now,

because the Commodity’s Value is relative to the Subject,

the Value of the Commodity is subjectively determined.

This is the marking of the Commodity, its subjective manifestation.

This determination manifests as Will in the World:

I choose this t-shirt or that,

I spread my money around;

I determine what is valuable to me.

This is not an illusory manifestation,

this is Being in a Commodity Culture

Accordingly,

the above Worldview is likewise Objectified

(and thereby Commodified)

and Conveyed again to the Subject.

In this residual Conveyance,

the Spectacle manifests relative to the Subject;

One sees the World as reflective of Self

(i.e. think of the geography of available information,

the Like-ing or Unlike-ing of the World,

the books you read rather than those you don’t)

and so,

reflective of the Subject’s presumed sense of Value.

Thus,

the Subject acts according to the determination of Value,

and the World reflects those determinations through the proliferation of Commodity

(the perpetual output of Commodity as manifestation of “infinite” choices).

Will in the World is a false production,

a Relative Autonomy (as Althusser would put it):

Human potential limited to the Self-Affirmation of Value determinations,

Emo, Ergo Sum

***

On Spectacle

2011-07-05T23:32:00.000-04:00

Space of Conveyance

The momentary operation of all Subject/Object transmissions

wherein the Subject observes the Object WHILE being acted upon by the Object

Utterance

An Object-mediated Conveyance between Author & Spectator

Guy Debord - Society of the Spectacle

In societies where modern conditions of production prevail,

all of life presents itself as an immense accumulation of spectacles.

Everything that was directly lived has moved away into a representation.

The images detached from every aspect of life fuse in a common stream

in which the unity of this life can no longer be reestablished.

Reality considered partially unfolds, in its own general unity,

as a pseudo-world apart, an object of mere contemplation.

The specialization of images of the world

is completed in the world of the autonomous image,

where the liar has lied to himself.

The spectacle in general, as the concrete inversion of life,

is the autonomous movement of the non-living.

The spectacle presents itself simultaneously as all of society,

as part of society, and as instrument of unification.

As a part of society

it is specifically the sector which concentrates

all gazing and all consciousness.

Due to the very fact that this sector is separate,

it is the common ground of the deceived gaze and of false consciousness,

and the unification it achieves

is nothing but an official language of generalized separation.

The spectacle is not a collection of images,

but a social relation among people,

mediated by images.

The spectacle cannot be understood as an abuse of the world of vision,

as a product of the techniques of mass dissemination of images.

It is, rather, a Weltanschauung which has become actual, materially translated.

It is a world vision which has become objectified.

***

Weltanschauung: Worldview

Worldview can be expressed as the fundamental

cognitive, affective, and evaluative presuppositions

a group of people make about the nature of things,

and which they use to order their lives.

Due to the primacy of the Aesthetic Object in postmodern society,

all individuals stand in relation to the Aesthetic Object,

the Spectacle is the Object’s multiplicitous manifestation

propagating itself through production culture

Let us be clear,

The Spectacle is the byproduct of Utterance, not merely Conveyance

The postmodern Object is commodified, as postmodernity is a culture of Commodity,

This commodification is the imposition of Value on the Object:

Value expresses a relation between Subject and Object

(the Object’s Value to the Subject)

Because this Value is a Subjective imposition

(The Subject valuing an Object)

the Valued Object (Commodity) appears

as an Object intended for a Subject

(the imposed Value is Subject-reflective)

Further,

The Commodity, being the result of Production, carries the mark of Authorship,

though the Commodity in light of Conveyance,

obscures this Authorship through the shifting Subject/Object interplay,

this reification transforms the Commodity

from thing-intended-for the Subject to thing-desired-by the Subject

In effect,

the Authorship of the Commodity is transferred to the Spectator

(the illusion of Avatar)

If we accept Debord’s analysis of the Spectacle as Worldview materially translated,

then the resulting reification of the Commodity

(the illusory transference of Authorship)

manifests a false sense of Subject Agency, or, Will in the World.

On Cosm(o)s

2011-06-29T16:41:00.000-04:00

I have been gesturing at a Microcosm/Macrocosm dichotomy

(the Less = More, the inside/outside, the ourselves and others;

__________________, the Minimalist/Minimalest Transmission),

Trust, it is in Perception.

(Subjectivity)

We have seen it in the Space of Conveyance:

The momentary operation of all Subject/Object transmissions

wherein the Subject observes the Object

(Self-Consciousness qua Object-Consciousness)

WHILE

being acted upon by the Object

(The Being with the Object)

The Perception of Being with the Object is a matrix of conceivable spaces;

Perceiving the Being with the Object as Object

is to

Perceive Being with the Object as within the Space it creates

(the Perception of the Object in Conveyance, the Microcosm)

Perceive Being with the Object from outside the Space it creates

(The Perception of the Conveyance as Object, the Macrocosm)

In the First,

The Perception of the Object expands through its being multiplicitous

In the Second,

The Perception of the Object is dwarfed in the space necessary to perceive it in totality

and,

there is the creation then of an infinite negative space:

the other than Perception

On Utterance

2011-06-28T01:39:00.000-04:00

Subject

The Subject is that which produces the Subject/Object Opposition

AND
The Negation of this Opposition in Being with the Object

Object

The Object is both product of Subjectivity

(Self-Consciousness AS Object-Consciousness)

AND

The Manifestation of Subjectivity

(The Being with the Object)

The Space of Conveyance

The momentary operation of all Subject/Object transmissions

wherein the Subject observes the Object

(Self-Consciousness qua Object-Consciousness)

WHILE

being acted upon by the Object

(The Being with the Object)

which is to say:

The Object does not convey its Being (the Thing-Itself);

but the Subject’s Being with the Object

Utterance

An Object-mediated Conveyance between Author & Spectator

Art as Utterance

Art is centered on the Art Object

It is through the Art Object

that we have any concept of Art at all

which is to say,

Art is the coming-into-being of the Art Object

Due to our Subjectivity

(ourselves as Subject in Opposition to Object)

being mediated by our Consciousness

(our Consciousness as the relation between Subject and Object)

the Art Object comes into being

for each Subject

marked by their own Consciousness

So,

the coming-into-being of the Art Object

is the multiplicitous marking of all transmitting Agents

(its being in Totality)

but

as the marked coming-into-being of the Object

is the Object mediated by Consciousness,

in the conscious engagement of each Subject

the marked Object proxies for the Object as it exists in the Totality

While each Subject perceives only their own marking of the Art Object

their individual markings are subsumed in the Totality of the Art Object

The Art Object in Totality is the Art Object Engaged

So,

the Subjective engagement with the Art Object reflects the Totality

in revealing the Subject's marking of the Art Object

likewise

The revealing of the Subject's marking of the Art Object

is the reflection of the Subject in Totality

The Subject is subsumed in the Totality

for the Totality is, in being Total, all-inclusive

and thereby,

reflects both the Subject and not the Subject

the Subject's being and not-being

The Subject in engaging Art

engages itself and its negation

and the negation negates

the Subject is annihilated

Art is the annihilation of the Subject

by the nature of its being

a reflection of the Totality

Given That:

Minimalist Art

Minimalist Art is the annihilation of the Subject

(by the nature of its being a reflection of the Totality)

through the most minimal expression available to both Artist and Spectator

I believe material reality is the Totality of Being

which is to say

The most minimal expression of Material Reality is its Being

(The Thing-Itself)

The Minimalist Art Object is thus

the expression of its Being in Material Reality

because

The most-minimal expression shared by both Artist and Spectator

is the Being of the Minimalist Art Object in its Material Reality

As such

the Minimalist Art Object is Art

by its annihilation of the Subject

through reflecting the Totality

by its Being in the Material Reality

Every Subject in engaging the Minimalist Art Object

is annihilated by the minimalist expression of (its) Material Reality

as it exists in (its) Totality

The Totality of each Subject's engagement

with the Minimalist Art Object

is (their) Being in Material Reality

Optional Homework 2

2011-06-09T17:00:00.000-04:00

The Space of Conveyance

A Conveyance is:

1. a process of transporting something from one place to another.

2. a means of transportation; a vehicle.

3. the making of an idea, feeling, or impression known or understandable.

I feel all of these definitions, at least symbolically,

help to explain the Conveyance.

Obviously 3 gets closest to our purposes.

Here,

I want to stress the equal standings of 'idea, feeling, or impression,'

(with expression and gesture, we cover nearly all which is conveyable)

and the vague clarifiers for the delivery, 'known or understandable,'

these words share a crucial momentariness.

The Conveyance need not produce anything in the Subject (Spectator)

only be received by the Subject,

think about this reception as the Space of Conveyance.

When we speak of the Conveyance then,

we speak of all human transmission as equal

in that they are, finally, conveyable.

(screams, doodles, food orders, paintings, poems, telemarketing calls, etc.)

It is in the conveying that all transmission is equal,

the conveying is the creation of a Space of Conveyance.

Now, think of the Space of any Conveyance: what are its factors?

- Time? Walls? Dimension? Weight? Form? Perception? Sense? Context?

In looking for the Minimalist/Minimalest Conveyance,

we seek the Minimalist/Minimalest Space of Conveyance.

(wait for it...)

Now if we accept what we earlier proposed for the Object

then we understand the Conveyance

as a coming-into-being of a multiplicitous Subjectivity;

the Conveyance, if seen in its totality, reveals the whole of its Subjective existence.

Is the Space of Conveyance

the Space of the Object

or the Space of the Object in Totality?

Let us say it's both, either, or neither,

What then is the Minimalist/Minimalest Space of Conveyance?

On Subjectivity

2011-06-06T03:53:00.000-04:00

In philosophy,

A Subject is a being that has:

Subjective Experiences

Subjective Consciousness

or a relationship with another entity (Object)

A Subject is an Observer and an Object is a thing Observed.

In critical theory and psychology,

Subjectivity is the actions or discourses that produce individuals or 'I'

—the 'I' is the Subject.

So, the Subject is both

that which Observes the Object

and

that which the Object acts upon (produces)

Georg Hegel defines this inherent tension, as pure negativity:
"...the bifurcation of the simple;
it is the doubling which sets up opposition,
and then again
the negation of this indifferent diversity and of its anti-thesis"

Which is to say,
The Subject is that which produces the Subject/Object Opposition
AND
The negation of this Opposition (by the nature of its being)

Or,
The Subject's Observance of the Object
at once
manifests the observable demarcation of Subject and Object
while negating this distinction in being acted upon by the Object

The Observance of the Object
(which we have called marking)
is the Subject being (momentarily) with an Object
which simultaneously acts upon the Subject

So while the Observance of the Object
manifests the observable demarcation of Subject and Object
(the awareness of Other-than-Subject is the coming-into-being of Other)
that demarcation is negated in the mutuality of Subject/Object relations

(the marking of the Object)

What manifests is an illusory division between Subject and Object

which obscures the Subjective marking of the Object

by denying this perpetual (yet momentary) symbiosis

Thinking Excercise

2011-06-03T21:21:00.000-04:00

Let us think of the Subject as the vessel of the Object

which is to say,

The Object comes-into-being as per the Subject

This coming-into-being is Subjective (multiplicitous)

The Object being momentary

Let us think of the Object as coming-into-being

Always and as Everything

(everything possible in the Subjectification of the Object)

Then,

remember the Object is actually the Thing-Itself

So,

The coming-into-being of the Object is not its Being (the thing-itself)

but its multiplicitous Subjective manifestation

Now Remember,

The Minimalist/Minimalest expression is the Thing-Itself.

Intro to Minimalism Playlist

2011-05-28T21:22:00.000-04:00

This was the playlist for Intro to Minimalism

Erik Satie - Gnossiennes I: Lent
Phillip Glass - Contrary Motion
Neutral Milk Hotel - Avery Island/April 1st
Steve Reich - Drumming Part 04
The Intelligence - Fake Surfers
Can - Yoo Doo Right
Terry Reily - In C (68 recording)
Nice Face - A Gaping Gash
Mountainhood - The Road Part II
Dead Luke - Trapped in Lust
Dr. Dog - Mystery to Me

Moon Duo - Motorcycle, I Love You

Working from the principle, a la Stella,

that the Minimalist Art Object is (solely) the Thing-Itself

We began our analysis of Minimalism from music

as a means of problematizing the idea of the Object

Zip of whole playlist available for download below or here

file storage

On Criticism

2011-05-26T18:19:00.000-04:00

Criticism

noun

1 an expression of disapproval based on perceived faults or mistakes

2 the analysis and judgment of the merits and faults of a literary or artistic work

ORIGIN early 17th cent.: from critic or Latin criticus + -ism .

There are two things of note here:

1. The illusory division of professional (or academic) criticism

from the pronouncement of disapproval at its etymological base.

2. From the ORIGIN, Criticism is the act or method of the Critic

Critic

noun

1 a person who expresses an unfavorable opinion of something

2 a person who judges the merits of literary, artistic, or musical works,

esp. one who does so professionally

ORIGIN late 16th cent.: from Latin criticus, from Greek kritikos ‘able to discern’, from kritēs ‘a judge,’ from krinein ‘judge, decide, separate.’

Now the import of our earlier divide becomes clear, for:

If a critic is “a person who expresses an unfavorable opinion of something,”

than the critic is defined by the party which they oppose,

(those who would deem the criticism unfavorable)

which is to say,
the Critic comes-into-being only in opposition to an existing idea.

However,

There are some who would debate this claim,

argue that criticism need not necessitate opposition,

argue that the critic need not oppose anything,

only as Milan Kundera said, “discover discoveries.”

This is where the etymology comes in.

At the root of Critic is Krinein, to judge, decide, separate.

Which is to say,

there is an inherent divisiveness at play in the Critic,

for there is an inherent divisiveness in all judgment,

every declaration of value stands in opposition to its other

this is the nature of Krinein, the judgment as separation.

Thus, the academic critic,

in defining itself apart from the adversarial definition at its root,

politely avoids stepping on anyone’s toes

and so, fails to truly criticize anything.

Critical Theory

Critical Theory is the systemic foundation of (the above) opposition.

This naturally puts Critical Theory in line with Dialectics,

wherein thesis is opposed by antithesis, resulting in synthesis.

This synthesis thus becomes thesis again, and so on and so forth.

The opposition of the Critic is thus,

in a way, an engagement with a temporal order,

a testament to an ever-evolving record of overcoming (strife).

And this works for thousands of years.

Then something strange happens.

Modernity produces a break with the continuum of Western Thought.

Certain precepts which had hitherto been untouchable ideals

are brought into question by new schools of philosophy, art, and criticism.

Suddenly,

God is up for reconsideration, and with it, any static notions of Truth.

No longer can the critic make value judgments

for notions of value are made obsolete in the rising awareness of

Subjectivity.

One way of thinking about this is that Modernity saw the (re)emergence of Nihilism,

(wherein all being contends with its own negation)

and as such,

the critic’s judgment faces negation even as it seeks to undermine its opposition.

This is a deeply unstable process,

and that instability becomes the trademark of much of postmodern thinking.

On Minimalism and Breadths

2011-05-23T02:41:00.002-04:00

Sorry I've been away.

I've been working with the Free University of San Francisco
teaching a course called Intro to Minimalism

When I was asked to teach a course
I chose those topics recently addressed here
that of Minimalism and the nature of Art

I billed the class as "A Critical Theory Primer"
my intention being the education of Dialectical Criticism
through the real-time criticizing of the Minimalist Art Object

This is how I explained it in my proposal:
Appearing, at first,

like a deep textual analysis of Minimalism's simplest definition,

but over its five weeks worth of opening remarks

(Minimalism, Subject, Object, Expression, Spectacle),

proving to be a minimalist critique
of western philosophy's
underlying fetishization of the Subject
and subsequent suppression of its all encompassing Other.

As this course was a continuance of our work

I'm going to post my notes for the course here

This may take a while

as many of the notes are heavily formatted

I've invited the students from my class to

Liberty Tries to Awaken Sleeping Reason

and I encourage them and you to comment

as always, freely

Expect much soon.

Monkey

2011-02-02T02:19:00.002-05:00

For. C.

I may not have had a blowjob by 13
but I sure as hell knew what one was;
seen it on TV, in magazines

I believe the world these days
is making babies out of all of us
but making a baby of yourself
is a whole other matter

Besides
every revolution of Nostalgia
is a false promise

There are no returns in change
only fresh new ground

There is no resistance in the Past
only one thing passing away into another

We are not haunting ourselves
not the lingering
of all our past lives

What's it matter if we remember anything?

The Past knows nothing of its Future
It can only lie about the Present

So
Maybe it aint your fault
saying you was Baby Huey as a teenage

Maybe that's just what looking back is:
not seeing the Present
not seeing the Truth

Maybe he looked like a monkey
Lots of people look like lots of things

My beard's grown so long
that my face looks long and brown
like a Horse

It don't mean nothing
if you say I look like an Ass
If I do

Prelude to Minimalism

2010-10-31T01:14:00.000-04:00

Agreeing with our earlier assessment as to the nature of Art
in The Art of Minimalism
as:
the annihilation of the Subject
by the nature of its being
a reflection of the Totality

Minimalist Art
is the annihilation of the Subject
(by the nature of its being
a reflection of the Totality)
through the most minimal expression available
to both Artist and Spectator

This presupposes a few things:
1. Minimalist Art is the most minimal expression available
2. This expression must be shared by both Artist and Spectator
3. The minimalist expression is Art

I believe material reality is the Totality of Being
which is to say
The most minimal expression of Material Reality is its Being

The Minimalist Art Object is thus
the expression of its Being in Material Reality

Which is to say
The minimalist expression shared by both Artist and Spectator
is the Being of the Minimalist Art Object in its Material Reality

As such
the Minimalist Art Object is Art
by its annihilation of the Subject
through reflecting the Totality
by its Being in the Material Reality

Every Subject in engaging the Minimalist Art Object
is annihilated by the minimalist expression of (its) Material Reality
as it exists in (its) Totality

The Totality of each Subject's engagement
with the Minimalist Art Object
is (its) Being in (the) Material Reality

Breaking Up The Weeds

2010-10-30T00:08:00.001-04:00

For D.

Its time to start throwing things away
again
Its alright with me though
I like it

I'm throwing away mp3s
they don't even take up any real space
I just like weeding out the shit

For the whole of last week
I've been going in alphabetical order
through all of my albums
and only playing the one's
of which I had any doubt
as to their Authenticity

I haven't gotten rid of much
really a few
but its just about making the decision
looking at something with a square eye
determining if its worth a good goddamn
and choosing to
either
take it or leave it

Hearing Only the Frequency

2010-10-17T01:53:00.000-04:00

Trust me when I say

that everything I have

is yours

that everything I say

I say to you specifically

Trust me when I say

I will never lie to you

If you ever find yourself

giving into the demands

of an animal

you should reevaluate

your analytical processes

You're better than the animals

You've got to try and believe me

You've got to believe you're better than an animal

You're better than the animals

You've got to try and believe me

Solid Conservative Sentence

2010-10-17T01:37:00.003-04:00

What they call classy these days used to pass as common decency.

No Egos

2010-10-16T00:03:00.000-04:00

I know that sometimes people
have to talk over me
I'm not yet sure
if its a problem

I'm sure
I've got a streak of sadomasochism in me
that would make Freud kick a mule
I'm certain all heroes do

It's not a crime to imagine yourself brave
at least not in my book
Courage always Courage
and there is no unsure thing

I believe volume has power too
but not in the way
that preachers on the capital steps
use it

The real thing
is always an unconscious
byproduct of belief
that what one says is right

It's not a crime to believe something is right
not in my book anyway
Righteous always Righteous
and there is no unsure thing

The Art of Minimalism

2010-08-13T16:49:00.001-04:00

The thing I'd like to say about Minimalism is that
it has nothing to do with the quantity of Forms
and everything to do with the space of Conveyance

To get there we have to talk about Art:

Art is centered on the Art Object

It is through the Art Object
that we have any concept of Art at all
which is to say,
Art is the coming-into-being of the Art Object

Due to our Subjectivity
(ourselves as Subject in Relation to the Object)
being mediated by our Consciousness
(our consciousness as the Relation between
Subject and Object)
the Art Object
comes into being
for each Subject
entirely aside from its being in Totality

So,
Art is the coming-into-being of the Art Object
within the Totality
wherein
each Subject, in engaging the Art Object,
subsequently brings the Art Object into being
marked by the consciousness of the Subject

As the marked coming-into-being of the Object
is the Object mediated by consciousness
The marked Object
in the conscious engagement of the Subject
proxies for the Object as it exists in the Totality

In this way
the Subject is barred from perceiving
the Object in Totality
and thereby
Totality itself

For each Subject
their marking of the Art Object
functions as
the coming-into-being of the Art Object

In turn,
these individual markings
are subsumed in the Totality
within which they exist

The Art Object in Totality
subsumes
all markings done thereto

The Art Object in Totality
is the Art Object engaged

In this way,
The Art Object reflects its being in the Totality
and
the Subjective engagement with the Art Object
likewise reflects its being in the Totality
so
the Subjective engagement with the Art Object
reflects the Totality
in revealing the Subject's marking of the Art Object

The revealing of the Subject's marking of the Art Object
is the reflection of the Subject in Totality

The Subject is subsumed in the Totality
for the Totality is, in being Total, all-inclusive
and thereby,
reflects both the Subject and not the Subject
or
the Subject's being and not-being

The Subject then
in engaging Art
engages itself and its negation
and the negation
negates
the Subject is annihilated

Art is the annihilation of the Subject
by the nature of its being
a reflection of the Totality

Femme Noir

2010-08-10T15:06:00.001-04:00

A Romance Novel

Stockholm, 1973

"You don't love this life.
You've just been in its grasp for so long,
that you don't know what you'd be
without it."

Then he unsheathed his dagger...

Intro to Minimalism

2010-08-07T16:48:00.002-04:00

We've got to get a few things straight
about Art
before we dive head first into this thing

The concept of Art is an entirely human construct
which means
that all the meaning of Art is imposed from outside
by us incorporating that concept into our being

There is, as you can see,
an internal/external dichotomy:
Art is imposed on an object
by the incorporation of Art into our being
both of which happen simultaneously
put forever in motion
by the first utterance of Art

The utterance is the coming-into-being of all things
so,
every utterance is a coming-into-being
within the history of all like utterances
while simultaneously
manifesting itself as an entirely singular utterance

The utterance exists
both within and without
the continuum
it is itself and not itself
all inclusive and entirely exclusive

All of which is mediated by the Art object
represented in the Textual Chain
as the Productive Object

The Object catalyzes the utterance

All utterance starts with the Subject

engaging the Productive Object

the utterance itself is an Imposition

of the Subject's Intent in uttering

on a Receptive Object

i.e.

The spoken word

The Canvas

The Marble

The Other

As the utterance is an Imposition

it can never be the Productive Object

only Signify it

In turn,

the manifestation of the utterance

in conveyance

takes the place of the Productive Object

within the Totality,

thus the Textual Chain reinitiates,

and

in conveyance of the utterance

the utterance replaces the Productive Object

within the Totality

simultaneously

Accordingly

the Subject/Object dichotomy

has become impossible to separate

Both function simultaneously

in engaging the utterance

As Art is no different than any other utterance

the Productive Object (Art Object)

catalyzes the engagement of all interested parties:

i.e.

"The utterance of Chair"

The Subject (Artist)

looks at a chair (The Productive Object)

(That chair is perceived via the utterance of chair

for

the knowing of Chair is the reception of its utterance)

he creates an utterance of that chair

on the Receptive Object (Canvas)

The utterance of Chair has reproduced itself

via the Productive Object (the (C)hair)

The artist's utterance of Chair

is at once

its own marked utterance of Chair

while concurrently

absorbed in the Total utterance of Chair

(Chair's utterance within the Totality)

In Reception

the Totality engages the marked Chair

The marked Chair

is both

its own Productive Object

(The utterance of Chair)

and a reproduction of the Total utterance of Chair

In this way the Totality absorbs the marked Chair

The Productive object is visible only in the Totality

accordingly

All Subjects engage the Totality in utterance

conveying (as above) marked utterances

which are Received only via the Totality

That is to say,

All conveyance fails to communicate

the truth of the Productive Object

because of the Imposition of the Subject

In the Metaphysics of Text

Art exists in the Productive Process

which is

the marked utterance of Chair

coming into being

within the Totality

(Remember the Totality is Subjectively Constructed)

and Go!

Wake Up Call

2010-08-07T00:13:00.004-04:00

Expect to be busy over the next two weeks.

Don't Awaken Sleeping Reason

2010-07-20T12:23:00.001-04:00

Awaken the Sleeping Giant!

A Note on a Note on the Metaphysics of Text

2010-07-19T01:11:00.002-04:00

The last post
A Note on the Metaphysics of Text
may have gone to your Readers twice

This was an accident
the First of which was unfinished
the Second is complete

So if you read the First
Jump in where it left off on the Second
Or just come all the way over
&
See things in their context for a change

A Note on the Metaphysics of Text

2010-07-18T22:27:00.146-04:00

It has been about 18 months since I started Liberty Tries To Awaken Sleeping Reason
All the while, you proud few have followed me along
without which this could, literally, not have been possible
& I never stopped once to let you in on how its all supposed to work
So, to reward your most patient patience
I figured I'd give you the key to how this thing is supposed to happen.

This comes, to my own discredit, on the heels of some major changes to our little space here.
But that doesn't diminish your importance in the least,
really on the contrary:
You have asserted yourselves in the work since the very beginning,
and if this note is coming into being
it does so with your hands in it.

This comes down to what
Liberty Tries To Awaken Sleeping Reason is:
A Metablog
which
to understand that better
We'll look at something similar
Metafiction
definition via Wikipedia

Metafiction is a type of fiction
that self-consciously addresses the devices of fiction,
exposing the fictional illusion.
It is the literary term describing fictional writing
that self-consciously and systematically draws attention to its status as an artifact
in posing questions about the relationship between fiction and reality,
usually using irony and self-reflection.

Which is(n't) terribly helpful

A Metablog is then a blog
that self-consciously addresses the devices of blogging,
exposing the aesthetic illusion.

With that in mind,
let's take a look at these changes.

Page Construction
This isn't the first time I've changed the "plastic" elements of the space
Sometimes it has been on account of Boredom
Other times Accident
But always with the consideration of the work in totality

That is not to say that every change
has accompanied some conscious alteration of theme
except in the way
that as the form and matter of the aesthetic object
it changes the object as a whole.

Which is to say,
That the new Elephant on a Bicycle theme
is not indicative of a change in either my methodology or themes
except in the way that the constitution of the aesthetic object
affects engagement with the object

This happens, like all aesthetic engagements, on two fronts
which boils down to the same process on both sides
except with a distinction of roles and functions

That process is just the act of engagement
whatever that entails for the individual

I have removed the "Blogs I Follow" Gadget
because it distracted my eye
to the detriment of the work itself

This means, naturally, that many of your blogs
will not appear there
but I hope that information is available on your profiles
so as to not stop you from exploring
any of your fellow Followers' works
and thereby expand the possibilities of our work here

In its place,
I have added Labels to the posts
which took a hot minute
These are located under the heading:
DON'T USE THESE
which means:
DON'T USE THESE
and you shouldn't
mainly they are there to be used in a jiffy
and I don't encourage convenience
as a good way of reading poetry
my bathroom bookshelf excluded
that's a productive use of time

The point is to add Labels to the posts themselves
which should serve as an indication of each posts' Nature
and thereby allow us to communicate at a more productive level
but
If you happen to use them as a search guide
I trust you to accept
that your action
will transform the work

I have likewise removed Music Preferences from my profile
as again,
it affected the aesthetic engagement in a way I found detracting
It also affected the number of preconditions
I could account for in audience expectation
The incorporation of other media into the blog
are best isolated to the particular post in which they appear
and the collection of them established therefrom
Again, narrows the line of dialogue
allowing for better communication

This might be a good time to talk about Interests
Those were initially my way of establishing the context
of Liberty Tries To Awaken Sleeping Reason
They either express an interest of the creator
which is my role and function
as thematic insight into underlying anxieties
within the work
or
display the methodological approaches
which make up the work's aesthetic theory

Divided:
Underlying Anxieties
Doom, Art, Protest, Private Spaces, Public Spaces
Methodological Considerations
Minimalism, Metafiction, Deconstruction

The choice of "personal" interests
I wanted to attribute to the author function
were carefully considered
not for their coolness in conjunction
but for the absolute reliability of their subject matter
as source material for the work
That is to say,
they are to be considered as ever-present preconditions
for the work's authorial construction

Doom works as the zero factor in the work
it is the bar by which all judgments are made
which is really the only thing that needs explaining
except
that this blog is written by the only author with any interest in
Private Spaces
Weird, right?

Minimalism aint what Wikipedia says it is
it deserves a post of its own
which I've been meaning to write and aint

The other two are what they are,
one was explained above,
the other,
explained for the last 18 months

Back to my earlier promised key
to Liberty Tries To Awaken Sleeping Reason

The Mechanics of Metablogging

A Metablog is a blog

that self-consciously addresses the devices of blogging,

exposing the aesthetic illusion.

I engage the work

self-consciously addressing the object

The object is best described in The Metaphysics of Text II

in a graph explaining the creator/spectator relationship

(thats You reading the Productive Object):

Textual Chain

The dotted green lines are not real lines

they are illusory lines
constructed by a false belief in direct communication

In engaging the work
my object
is its existence as a Textual Chain

As a Metablog this chain becomes cyclically kaleidoscopic
as the Productive Object
(the work as it produces your perception of it)
is changed by your contribution to the work
(actually or assumed)
into a Reproductive Object

My only response can be to a work forever in flux
That flux rests in the constant struggle to overcome
the division between all engaged parties
represented in the Textual Chain
this Striving is the space of
Liberty Tries To Awaken Sleeping Reason

That space is a kind of ex nihilio creatio
which is complicated
but that is the nature of all textual manifestation
and our unconscious suppression of which
is
the nature of the above divide

Which in reverse says:
Our engagement with the work
is conscious of the divide
between
Language and Meaning
and produces accordingly

This takes a lot into account
considering we are engaged in communication
but the text which results from this
is Being-in-Itself
in effect
The Work Communicates Only Itself

i.e.
"Drop that Beat!"

As we understand it
Drop that Beat
indicates
an ensuing onslaught
of bass and hi-hat

but Drop and Beat
carry with them them a legacy of different significations
so that
"Drop that Beat!"
evokes
"You Dropped that Beat!"
which would be an error on behalf of the percussionist

So
the attempt to communicate
"DJ, Rock the Party"
an (arguably) positive Meaning
(Drop that Beat!)
conveys an obviously negative Meaning
(You Dropped that Beat!)
by the nature of its Language

Which
if "Drop that Beat"
conveys two mutually exclusive Meanings
than
it has no Meaning-in-Itself

In contrast:
The Work Communicates Only Itself

Homesickness

2010-07-16T20:23:00.002-04:00

Its alright if you miss it
It really is
but its a whole other thing
to live for things
you're bound to miss

You can't focus on things
you're bound to miss
You can see traces of them
everywhere
It gets overwhelming
just looking anywhere at all

One day I'll rewrite Descarte's Meditations
One day it'll make sense enough to me
So that I'll rewrite Descarte's Meditations
One day they'll have to ask
if I rewrote it at all

Folk Music

2010-07-15T14:13:00.005-04:00

Folk Music

Liberates the Consciousness of the People

It used to take two Chords

and a pretty good Story

But the People these Days

aren't really into that sort of Thing

Arizona

2010-07-14T22:34:00.017-04:00

I wrote 4 songs tonight

Now, that's not exactly true

I wrote 1/2 of one

finished 2

and took a cold, hard, look at an old 1

But finishing something

is a hell of an accomplishment

anyway

and that aint but half of what I did

I'm fibbing,

I didn't mean to

I just realized something just now

that makes me from a second ago

an outright fabricator

I might've wrote 1 and a 1/2 songs today

because two of the songs I finished

are mashed together

and I don't know what that counts for

Lately, I've been thinking alot about Art

I got this professor

always talking about "designation"

(which I don't give a shit about)

as a necessary requirement

for something to be Art

Like we all need more Authorities in our lives

So I dedicated a song to R.G. Collingwood

its an expressionist lyric

he oughta like that

"Collingwood"

When you were a writer

You were in love with your words

You wrote all those letters

Until you lost your nerve

What did you see?

Only the Mountains and the deep blue Sea

& What did you hear?

Only the Birds, Only the Birds, Only the Birds

Were There

Now that you are a painter

You're in love with all you see

You paint all your pictures

& then you ask it of me

What did you see?

Only the Mountains and the deep blue Sea

& What did you hear?

Only the Birds, Only the Birds, Only the Birds

Were There

There's an outro to it too

but there's no words

I like to think of it as a Dillemma

which is the same thing to me

as saying the Blues

It brings the melody into a more major

but way stranger space

in 6/4

(With the #s indicating number of measures)

Em G Em G F Fm B7 C7 Cm7 G B7 Em

2 2 2 2 1 1 2 1 1 2 2 2

It's sad and triumphant

the way I like 'em

Really wants a horn

but they're hard to find around here

and I find my mind

drifting off to Arizona

and my lonesome heart

trailing behind

I already done fucked that up

because all that above

comes at the end

and now its all out of order

but it don't matter really

there are always ways

of stranding things together

I wrote the next section first

and its been a minute too

but the words got me thinking

and seeing them in their own light

reminded me of a friend from the Service

That aint true really either

I knew the guy

but I wouldn't call 'em a friend

We were in the same company

and had a couple chances

to shoot the shit together

anyway

he was killed in Afghanistan

guess a week or so now

but it breaks my heart

anyway

"Snow Song"

That idiot drummer

He marched through the summer

Beating his drum

Till it snowed, playing,

"I'm Coming Home"

Your soft-hearted sister

She's down by the river

Singing the only song

That she knows

"I'm Coming Home"

Because

The Bells in the Alley, they clang

So Slow

And the Horns in the Army, they sing

So Slow

So don't Go

Back to the Snow

Without Me

That last bit I wrote

thinking about that kid

AJ Creighton

Who knows if he'd appreciate it

Anyway,

Dedications from Strangers

are more necessary to Art

Than Designations from Anybody

I know they don't make much sense together

at first glance

and they're not really supposed to

in any logical way

but its never been about logic

Anyway

How It All Works

2010-05-13T18:49:00.005-04:00

For Stephanie

I've often wondered

whether being a Deconstructionist

affects my marriage

My wife, I think she's one too

even if she don't know it

But its hard to believe

that all that talk of différance

doesn't have some effect

This morning we had a tift

it didn't get out of hand or anything

it was about (t)ime

late mornings are always like that

We went to Gardens In A Flower Pot

on Little Creek

for potting soil

picked up three plants for that

shady oppressive strip of the backyard

Went looking for something called a Leopard Plant

picked up two Gold Dusts

which I think

are probably some version of the same thing

and some Gardenias

which took us by surprise

and we both happen to like

Got home and put away the groceries we picked up

then out to the yard for an hour or so

breaking up the soil, the vines, the weeds,

shoveling and planting

Made tacos for lunch

and Stef started slicing up some pork to marinate

She had it on lock down

but I was cleaning up anyway

She said

Thanks for helping

I said, earnestly,

I know its not your favorite part

She agreed

That's the destructive part

I like the constructive part

I don't remember if I said it or not

but I, at least, thought

That's an interesting way to think about it

Went back out for a smoke

and took a solid look at the garden we planted

It looked real good

but it got us thinking about other projects

to beautify the backyard

We talked about creating spaces

the Shade Garden,

the Vegetable Circle,

not trying to manipulate the grounds

make things all forced and alien;

just clearly mark out lines

doing what little work is necessary

to make that space make sense

In the corner of the yard

in the far back left:

An old tenant had dug for a pool

must've been a real hack-job

dumped the dug-up earth

back there and since

the Bamboo has been spreading

covering the ignored mass

taking up a good 8th of the lawn

I told her I'd like to cut down some of that Bamboo

not all of it

just enough to create a clear enclosure

make a circular space

surrounded by the tallest stalks

shadowed by the canopy

I couldn't wait to get to work

I took out the big garden shears

and started

hacking away at it

I told her

I like the destructive part

She said

Its different

you're destroying things

to create a space

I replied

That sentence right there

is exactly what I mean by Deconstruction

The Plight of the Antihero

2010-05-11T12:03:00.005-04:00

Fashion Fascination

The dog eats things in the yard

I don't know what they are

but she never needs more then she takes

I've lost the will

For a minute there

I thought the wife had taken the only pack of smokes

and I was wrapped up in the usual blinding terror

Going to the Store

Then I realized

I left them in my coat pocket

and I was wrong to say those things

I say in my head

about

expectations

No one gets a fair deal with Hope

It's always a sacrifice

and nothing about sacrifice

ever works

Rhetoric

2010-05-07T23:37:00.004-04:00

Pretend for a second

that you actually took everybody seriously

That's pretty much how it is

anyway

I know I owe a few of the very few you

something on the Metaphysics of Text

The word's getting around

should really start putting the pieces together

Shortened Manifesto

2010-05-06T12:15:00.005-04:00

for K.

It's good to see we finally got it together

We've been a'searching too damn long

Remember me back to California

Days drinking in the Dark

We won't be back till next Decemeber

and its been too damn long

To go back now

Think about those things

which happen all the time

Aint it like they've happened before

Aint it like they'll never happen again

Cyborg Puppet Show Theatre

2010-05-06T11:16:00.005-04:00

For A.

Know when you look into the tiny hearts of men

(no bigger than a fist, clenching

Every other beat

that old, malleable stone of certainty)

That what you see there is blind Terror

I would experiment with the sublim(inal)

We know the universe

an ever-expanding, undefinable, space

Yet nobody feels inclined to say the same

themselves

We are all behind the wheel

simultaneously

Music playing Loud

singing, screaming,

Hung out on the Line

The Metaphysics of Text II

2010-01-10T00:11:00.006-05:00

The Textual Chain

The series of occurrences previously mentioned is the broadest sense in which we perceive the Metaphysics. For our purposes -- the whole playing field. If any logical proof has not yet been adequately demonstrated as to illustrate the necessity of the above clauses, trust that it will. We need first, however, presuppose that our aforementioned terms do, in fact, exist in sequence; their definitions intrinsically entwined. That is, if we are to further define our terms, their relation to each other must be agreed upon.

This agreement is the Textual Chain and all manifestations of Text occur within it.

The Textual Chain:

We have then three distinct processes divided by the Productive Object with Intent and Reception being paralleled in the metaphysical space and Production accounting for all physical manifestations.

It is important to note the aforementioned division. Though without too much thought put to elevation. For the initial division of Metaphysics and Production can only assumed to be equal in value and sequence. The Metaphysics tier is composed of our Writer’s intent or projected aim -- the Work, and the Manifested Text of the Reader. The Production tier consists of the initial or accidental Text, as well as the finalized Text of the Productive Object.

There are, of course, two instances of transference. That is from a metaphysical object to a physical object and vice versa. These coincide with the two above illustrated divergences, one being the Writer function in which the Work incidentally constructs the Text, the second being the Reader function in which the Text manifests itself in its Reception. It is important to note here that the Work and the Manifested Text bear no relation outside of their shared ethereal nature.

This all centers on the Productive Object and as such, it will serve as our primary device for analyzing the Metaphysics.

The Metaphysics of Text I

2010-01-08T02:56:00.004-05:00

From the Bottom Up

A Writer writes. This act, by the nature of its being, must produce something, for a writer writes, necessarily, upon some object. Whether its lined paper, napkins, refrigerator message boards, or clean white word processing docs, writing is by necessity - writing onto something. On the other hand, though potentially still creative, productive and clearly metaphorical, writing onto nothing is something other than writing, a process which serves no purpose in our discussion.

We first must define the object on which our writer writes. It is, foremost, a physical object.* This classification alone is rendered insufficient by the presence of a later physical manifestation in the textual chain. So, let us for now refer to this first object as the Receptive Object and the later physical object as the Productive Object. The Productive Object being the “final” or “finished” manifestation of the text, i.e. Newspaper, Novel, Blog Post, Film, Journal, etc (not to mention the frequent, ethereal, transformation from Receptive Object to Productive Object).

So, to recap:

A Writer writes onto a Receptive Object in order to create a Productive Object. What, however, does the Writer write? This gets tricky. It must be remarked here that a frequent dualistic nature persists throughout the entire Metaphysics of Text. The first of which is the dualistic manifestation of text, an at first deceptively simple problem of definition and subsequently a problematic core to the entire Metaphysics.

The first is simply the Text, which is the sequence of symbols constructed on the Receptive Object. The second being the perceived Work which our Writer intends to produce on the Receptive Object. The necessity of this distinction is empirical, or else every Writer would be completely content with the Text they produce, the impossibility of which should be self-evident. Our Writer, then, creates the Text accidentally by producing the Work. One could go further in saying that the Work is the attempt at producing the final Productive Object while the Text and its associated Receptive Object are the means to that end.

We begin to see the dualism moving towards conflict. For we can identify two lines of development and a problematic chronology between them. That is to say, the Work seeks to actualize itself through the Productive Object while the Text actualizes itself necessarily as the Receptive Object. However, the Work is not the primary catalyst for the Productive Object, the Productive Object is the actualization of the Receptive Object. So the Work cannot actualize itself in the Productive Object, or more clearly, the Productive Object cannot communicate the Work. That is not with any predictable reliability, for we must account for the possible coincidence.*

I want to be clear that this formula should not discourage us in our pursuit of the Work through the Productive Object. There is no need to throw away the literary analysis tradition. In many ways, we have always been judging a work by its efficacy in consistently manifesting what we assume to be the Writer’s Work. That efficacy remains crucial. It speaks to the skill of technique and the power of the Writer’s intention. It is however a judgment at its best.

Though, any further attempt which assumes that one is actually interpreting the Work itself, and not the physical manifestation of the Text as Productive Object, is built on false premises, it’s restriction to falsehood does not render it useless, only untrue. For the Metaphysics of Text is concerned with only one thing: Can the Work truly manifest itself? Or more clearly, Does the Work exist?

We mean, then, to explain how the Work and the Analysis can both be metaphysical objects while the Text is a physical object. What must transpire for this to occur, what are the laws of this transference, what must occur as a result? Then, and most importantly, what can be said truthfully about the Text? As such, our preliminary definitions are stated and we can begin our analysis.

*Footnotes in Comments.

Sorry I'm Late.

2010-01-08T02:55:00.003-05:00

We cool?

Alright.

I am a Jew Lost in the Wilderness

2009-12-12T10:39:00.002-05:00

We were the chosen people

and they threw us to the lions

Nowadays,

who can say any different?

Reasons to Like Shakespeare

2009-10-10T00:19:00.004-04:00

I watched the Kenneth Branagh's version of Henry V

The actor playing the Duke of York was hefty & bearded

True to life, as I understand it

He rides into the Battle of Agincourt wielding a mace

and proceeds to rain thick armed blows

onto the skulls of British History

He dies fighting, clutching to his slain cousin

a monument to chivalric heroism

I got a soft spot for big bearded bastards

beating the shit out of people

Truth is though,

the battlefield was a woodstock sized mudpit

and having been dismounted

he couldn't heave his heavily armored fat ass up

and drowned there face down in the muck

I got my reasons for liking Shakespeare

Econ Convos

2009-10-10T00:17:00.003-04:00

I think it might be better

if I didn't read quite as much

Maybe then I could say things

with some kind of certainty

instead of blathering like an idiot

I tell myself it's worth it

in so far as I'm being sincere

and though sincerity is not truth

I'm still willing to bet

it's the best chance I got

It's pretty obvious why guys

feel like they have to lie their way

into some poor thing's panties

By the sound of me I'd guess

there is no other way

Lou Reed Through The Speakers

2009-10-10T00:13:00.003-04:00

The guy on the couch

wearing a Fender shirt

doesn't play

Doesn't know who's in the scene

or where the scene's at

I don't mistake chance encounters

as being any different

than run-ins with old friends

Everything's a shot in the dark

aimed at the future

If you've got to shoot at something

it's probably best

if your target never gets any closer

It never fails

songs come on the radio

Lou Reed sings Walk on the Wild Side

and a few people lip sync along

but none of them look to see

who is doing the black girl's part

decked out in imaginary sequins

or who's taking the cool lead

only who sees them singing

silently

For Future Use

2009-10-10T00:12:00.003-04:00

Mortals are immortals and immortals are mortals, the one living the other's death and dying the other's life.

-Heraclitus

The following posts will be catching up,

things have been busy,

I never write at home,

but I've brought things back from outside.

Matter of Perspective

2009-09-29T01:33:00.003-04:00

There are only two kinds of days

The first are the ones I fuck up

The second are the ones that I don't

My whole life can be whittled down to that

I'd like to think I learn from my mistakes

but if I did, you'd have to believe,

I would've run out of things to fuck up by now

but it doesn't seem to be the case

I never wanted to be Superman

or live any kind of exceptional life

& I don't think its too much to ask

to not burn dinner,

tear a pair of pants,

or slip in the mud

but I don't even really know who to ask

I suppose there are people out there

who have loads of money lying around

& they pay other people to fuck up for them

I could see myself in that line of work

or maybe more accurately,

I can't see myself doing much else

Growing Up Punk

2009-08-19T18:28:00.004-04:00

Dan came and went without much fanfare

but that's the way it goes with the old crew

It's been years and half a country's travel

but it's just coming over

having a couple of beers

sharing space

where there's always space to spare

It's not to say it wasn't a pleasure

He's easy on the nerves,

good humored, and up for anything

Besides,

seeing any of that lot

always leaves me shaking my head

Everything has changed

but everyone's the same

Maybe a little mellower,

a bit more sure-footed,

but otherwise unchanged

I grew up punk as fuck

sure as shit that no one over thirty

could be trusted with a pocket knife

I assume most of us did

and when Cobain pulled the trigger

I think,

subconsciously,

that suspicion was confirmed

Maybe he was convinced

he was ahead of his time

and when he didn't see the light

at the end of the tunnel of success

he figured it wasn't going to come at all

Maybe he saw another underpass in the distance

realized there was never any tube to begin with

either way,

I never thought he was much of a voice for anybody

and what he saw rounding the corner of 3 decades

I aint yet seen in the way of anyone I know

The last night Dan was here,

he got drunk enough to make small talk

like he does

like every question

requires an overcoming of some mental blockade

so each simple inquiry is blurted out

with just a little too much urgency,

and a bit more volume than is normal for him,

appearing just that much more dire

& worth some well thought-out reply

I've always been sure it was unintentional

but I still get a kick out of it

thinking too deep about some simple question

I wonder if everyone does that to him

after all these years

I've never asked

Settling

2009-08-11T23:22:00.007-04:00

I was sure moving up north

I'd be free of the long humid summer

but I've been changing shirts twice a day

and the local paper says at least once a week

that the end is near

nothing above 80 degrees

for the rest of the year

I know it's hard to pinpoint the end

I don't blame them for being cheerfully optimistic

but I don't think you should look at a newspaper

like its got special needs

Spent the whole four day weekend

tossing around opinions about politics

talking about farming

drinking beer

and wondering what of all you hear these days

is and isn't a load of bullshit

It would be easy to think

that everyone's been fooled

and every gripe they grumble

is the product of some talking head

running through the streets

on fire

& in HD

I bought a leather chair thinking

maybe global warming was just such a sham

Sometimes we're wrong

and we've got no choice

but to stick to it

Sorry for the Delay

2009-06-14T14:19:00.004-04:00

I believe, in my Heart of Hearts,
that Art is nothing without Sacrifice
So, at some point Everything must be Forfeit to Chance
but that is not to say,
that Art is dependant on Accidents

Accidents only occur in paradigms of Morality,
and Art must always seek to defy Present Human Principles

What I’m saying is that a Work’s Artist is free of Guilt
the Art is a song all it’s own
It would be foolish for our Artists to Assume
they can Predict their own Future,
let alone the Future of their work

And doubly unwise to say among millions of Casual Observers
a Consensus can be drawn up of Intentions lost,
rendered useless after one Fleeting Moment

At some point in Art’s Conception,
the Artist’s hand Slips
and it doesn’t mean a thing
its not for anybody
it’s handed over to the Atmosphere

If that Artist holds on to that Singular Moment
it’s Robbed of its Liberty
Roasted under the Microscope
Sanctioned off and tossed Aside

Despite this,
the Desire to Possess cannot simply be Rationalized Away

There is plenty of Evidence of Art’s Dependence on Autonomy
Everywhere you look, there is Expression
in the holes, there is Art

Nobody has any idea who Anybody is
I believe we’re not the Shit we put on the Internet
We’re barely involved in the process

No Second Guesses
there are no Phases
Every Artist runs alongside their Work
Only the Phonies try to steer from the Rear

Debt Collectors/Catnaps

2009-06-12T15:39:00.001-04:00

I keep receipts of everything but not very well
I keep losing them at key moments
and finding them, far past,
any chance they might have had
of being the least bit useful

I’d like to keep them better organized,
honestly, I do try
but you know how it is,
never enough hours in the day

I’ve got a long running debate going with a good friend
he is weary of all the bellyaching that goes on in the world
but what’s worse, he thinks, is the alternative

I say emancipation is the only true and righteous issue
and plead for him to be reasonable
Freedom is all we have worth fighting for

Load Capacity

2009-06-10T17:33:00.001-04:00

What is the Load Capacity
for what you will find of me
once I’ve gone?
How much time will you have to spare
to look through the archives of my life?

There are so many pictures
of anatomical dissections
of schematics
& photographs
without the delusion of reference

There are a lot of country songs
that people have forgotten how to listen to
I wish I could say that I had tons of them
but I don’t
They’re there,
though, you got to find them for yourself

Chris Deckard, I Was Wrong

2009-06-09T14:31:00.001-04:00

The house is so cramped you can’t get an inch to yourself
I spent 10 minutes thinking about
how to best arrange a table & chair
to appear as inviting as a home office
& second-guessed whether or not it was even necessary

I’ve found the best way to communicate an idea is through demonstration
You can try and talk it out, but the imagination has limits,
a lot of people can’t handle the hypothetical them
or their theoretical selves,
so you can’t get very far trying to explain them through any thing

I think organization
is putting the effort before the execution
every time

Who Remembers the Swine Flu?

2009-06-04T16:06:00.003-04:00

I’ve been under the weather for a few days,
lethargic, queasy, & aching all over
It feels like it hasn’t stopped raining for 2 weeks

At the first sign of true sunlight,
I put the dog on her leash, and headed out the door
the warmth lasted for about a block
but that block was crisp & green & wet under foot
and we darted between the puddles
squaring the block before heading in under gray sky

The neighbors are a big Hispanic family,
I got no idea how many people live there,
but they’ve always been pleasant,
kids playing in the street,
a couple of dogs in the backyard.

I couldn’t tell you if it was somebody’s son, friend or cousin
but there was a kid standing in the driveway
fresh haircut, in his Graduation Robes,
posing in front of the house for a couple of photographs
they’d missed the best chance they had
for a window of good light by no more than 5 minutes
dark skies, the glistening pavement,
welcome to the working week, kid.

The Dark Center of the Universe

2009-06-03T16:05:00.001-04:00

Those in the know would have us believe that we all live in Cement Boxes
but you and I both can prove there is still space enough for alien intrusion.
There are windows open to the streets, we shoo Bats outside with brooms,
purses are sat on the floor in public restrooms,
surrounded by 8 feet of open space,
messages are passed on escalators, in elevators, parks, & bars.
Our night air is wolfish, buzzing potential.
Our days are plain shaded oppression.
I can see the way people look at me & still never know what it is they see.
I was out, the other day, walking the dog through the neighborhood
and an old lady, yelled at me, Do You Have A Bag With You?!
I do, without fail, so she complained for a bit about someone on the block
just leaving the shit laying there, I said, I’d keep an eye out,
but what kind of sentence is that?
Who greets people with accusation? Who the fuck do they think we are?

Doom Revivalism

2009-06-02T14:53:00.002-04:00

DOOM!
DOOM pulsing through the Airwaves
Fleet-footed DOOM beats you down the staircase
like a hell dog fetching DOOM we wait for the wire
Oceans sucked down an invisible drain, all of space sings praise,
DOOM!
DOOM makes the air fat with Promise
Lungs swell, death of celebrity infants, DOOM for the Papermen
Big, Rich, DOOM, gifts beautiful days in promising DOOM,
the Air, the Air, the Air, swells up inside you
DOOM!
I want to make something out of myself
DOOM is my image & DOOM is my canvas
DOOM unites the praying with the Heathens
DOOM on the Whalemen, DOOM moves in wars & silent protest
DOOM on the thieves of Ships, the Oceans are disappearing DOOM
lost & lost, DOOM centers my compass, DOOM is directionless Gravitational DOOM must hail down from above us
Leviathan DOOM swallows every living soul,
Oceans sucked down an invisible drain, all of space sings praise
DOOM!
Drums & Gunfire DOOM, All of our Wars are Land Wars, DOOM
The vanishing Sea, DOOM, for the waste and the suffering, DOOM
The air thick with DOOM, DOOM the Horizon, DOOM the Horizon
Sleepless nights of DOOM, DOOM the Horizon, DOOM the Horizon
Way up the Screeching DOOM can never be ceaseless DOOM
Chest Rumble DOOM in the Doorway, DOOM feeds on Air
DOOM!
No Penance, DOOM all Liberty, any tongue that speaks can sing,
No Patience, DOOM all upbringings, the word has never been Now

Long Slow Blues, in D

2009-06-01T17:25:00.003-04:00

Must've got a bad seed
aint felt right for days
Everyday my head sings
but I can't tell what it says
and I can't stay estranged
No, I can't stay estranged from you

Had me a bad dream
it's been sticking with me for days
Don't know what I picked up
on that train ride to LA
and I can't stay estranged
No, I can't stay estranged from you

What about a clear stream
makes me wanna stay
when I only get my feet wet
before my heart it runs away
and I can't stay estranged
No, I can't stay estranged from you

Sweat & Shit

2009-05-31T19:38:00.002-04:00

Yesterday was a busy one
went shopping that morning for a desk chair
of wood & leather with a straight back,
no arms & simple profile

Took us a couple of hours
picked out a desk that I aint putting together
until we get to the new house
the aforementioned chair
and a kitchen apron

Got home to find blood pooling under the dog’s fur
rushed her right over to the big vet clinic,
The Doc said she’d had a reaction to a flea infestation
and she further irritated it in trying to rid herself of them

The nurses shaved her lower back gave her a couple injections
one antibiotic and a solid steroid
she cried a bit on the second one,
they told me,
but it was a doozy so nothing to worry about
and she really was a sweet pup

The Doc prescribed a pill that I could feed her at home
that would kill every flea on her,
then a bath as usual followed by the monthly preventive balm

I did that and she was sedate but fuzzy
came out of the bath like a rose with a shaved ass
feisty too, gripping her new fuzzy bone toy with her paws,
chewed it till the squeak was gone
and got started ruffling every inch with the mark of her teeth

This morning, I started the regiment anew
long walk, I fed her an antibiotic and a steroid,
stuffed into banana slices, and finished it with a handful of food
fresh water and an antihistamine spray on the itchy patch

She’s been pretty well stoned all day
and I’m not letting her just run around the backyard
like I used to, she’s gotta heal
so when we step outside together
she don’t have the motivation to chase much of anything
but she still don’t want to come in
I can understand that as well as anybody

Amplifier Unit

2009-05-29T20:53:00.006-04:00

It’s always the Light
we say we see
in each other’s eyes
It’s always the Light
&

always the Silence
we say we feel
in each other’s lives
It’s always the Light
we see each other in
It’s always the Light

Anthologies of Poetry

2009-05-28T17:11:00.003-04:00

Everybody I know has problems,
most of them are with themselves
I’ve got them too, I know that, I’m not special
Nobody I know is a Robot
though I know they’re out there
You can hear them humming
I don’t hum

I had to stop to play with the dog
we wear each other out like linen
we both come in here to the stereo loud
and she chases her tail, rolls around on her back,
chews her back feet and basically wigs out on the floor
and I wig out on white sheets
scribbling, scribbling

I don’t hum
though I’m certain I look plenty dead
I’m less a Robot than a Zombie
but my intentions are clear
I’m vulnerable to high blows
and as of yet, by the looks of you, I aint multiplying
You can’t say the same damn thing about Robots, can you?

Just so you understand me,
you & I are on the same team here
same goals in the long run
so in that, we share an eventual fate,
a step of yours is a step of mine

It’s safe to say that I’m going to take the easy way out
and not give a shit about something inconsequential
I aint bout to shoot us in the collective foot

Life aint that much different than War
treason don’t do anybody any good
So let your guns cool, it’s safe, we’re safe here

Snargles, Snargling, Snargle

2009-05-27T16:20:00.004-04:00

When I’m coming home from the gym in the morning
My intersection of Aloma’s got my bank, my framer, & a Starbucks
They're doing some work around the Bank
so they have Signs up to divert traffic
The one in easiest gander says,

LANE
CLOSED
MERGE
LEFT

but somebody spray-painted a black S before Merge
which at once could look like an official diagram
of the possible Hot Wheels track you may be asked to drive
while quite at the same time say,

LANE
CLOSED
SMERGE
LEFT

Every goddamn morning, I laugh at the stupid thing
rub my eyes & wring the grip out from my hands
and straighten up the way we do when mischief is afoot
eyes a little wider, breathe in the air

Lick of Good, in E

2009-05-26T14:04:00.003-04:00

I was lost, Dear Lord, without a Rifle
I was lost, Dear Lord, deep in your Wood
and I aint never seen this so called Devil
and Lord, you aint done me one Lick of Good

I was lost, Dear Lord, deep in your Cities
I was lost, without a Friend, Nickel or Dime
and the only time I heard you calling
was from an old payphone I’d just left behind

So Lord, if you won’t do even one Lick of Good
Well then, nobody should, nobody should
Now Lord, if you won’t do me one Lick of Good
Well then, nobody should, nobody should

Off the path, Dear Lord, I saw your babies
they were running bare into the eve
and I prayed, Oh Lord, that I could run with them
but a Christian Man, I could not be

So Lord, if you won’t do even one Lick of Good
Well then, nobody should, nobody should
Now Lord, if you won’t do me one Lick of Good
Well then, nobody should, nobody should

I was down, Dear Lord, in that Whale’s belly
I placed my Bets, knowing He was Yours
because nothing, I’ve seen, in all your Creation
has ever ushered Me safely Indoors

So Lord, if you won’t do even one Lick of Good
Well then, nobody should, nobody should
Now Lord, if you won’t do me one Lick of Good
Well then, nobody should, nobody should

Devil in the Details

2009-05-25T16:55:00.004-04:00

Woke up after a late night before 8 to walk the dog
came back in, pulled out the big coffeepot and made a batch
breakfast for 4 aint much different than breakfast for 2

Usually we get the Jumbo eggs but the Large have been on sale
and throwing them on the griddle and giving them an easy flip
produces a bird of an entirely different feather
Fluffy and light and mostly retaining the shape they hit the grill on

Chicken apple sausages split nearly down through the middle
fried in a little butter till they’re crisp and smoky
curled into an unreadable mouth of simple line drawings
of smiles and frowns imposed on each other

A slice of dark rye, broke in half and thrown in the toaster
served with strawberry jam, coffee and fresh orange juice

I laid the sausage at the bottom of the plate’s canvas
the two eggs at opposing angles hovering above
perched upon by the fox ears of dark toast

J. was the first to acknowledge the effort, dubbing his breakfast
Bunny Lips
I cleared the table, did the dishes, we walked outside in the sun,
and watched the dog stalk and sprint and run under the blanket
of early morning light sprinkling through the canopy of the trees
smoking cigarettes and shooting the shit

We went inside when Ma came out to greet everyone
she left her breakfast to get cold rather than eating in front of them
don’t think she even saw Bunny Lips

We closed the screendoor and turned off the AC, cups more of Joe
cigarette smoke from the barstools sucked up by the stove’s exhaust fan
the ladies gossiped on the bar floor with their coffeecups on the table
LPs spinning behind them with Cash gushing out from a single speaker

I should’ve brought the dog in to say goodbye
but she was quite content outside and it slipped my mind
though they didn’t seem too bothered, J. got to pick her up in the kitchen,
rub her belly, maybe they bonded there and they were done

Tests for Type Size

2009-05-24T17:32:00.005-04:00

Tests for type size

Tests for type size is 1.5 at the point, the point is just after two,
two is in fact 4 and we were over halfway through the word “fact” at 5,…

Leftovers

2009-05-23T16:46:00.002-04:00

I remember my first joint
skipping days in High School
me and a buddy bought it like that
pre-rolled
a real no-brainer

We passed it
back & forth
quickly & giddily
laughing & coughing
until near its end
at which we both met
with zealotry
a burned out roach

We tried sucking on it at a distance
making cones of our lips
to inhale the air around the butt
while clicking the big Bic flame
in the blindspot of our own noses

I’ve always had a Jew’s nose
from my maternal grandfather
planted in the middle of my face
so the spaces of the world
which I have never seen
have become a collective hole
in my perceivable existence

I rationalized outloud
if I’m holding the roach
in my fingertips
to my outstretched lips
there is at least a good inch
from my face to the flame
but
because I can’t see
past my own shnoz
my brain is responding
to an incalculable threat
and there aint no way
I can convince my brain otherwise

So,
I told my buddy
that I was going to close my eyes
inhale at the joint
while he slowly brought the flame
to ignite our charred little dilemma

We took some deep breaths
calmed our nerves
moved into the shade of the stairway
to reduce interference from the wind

I got ready
I heard a click
then two more
then some rustling
then another click
and boom
my lungs were full of smoke

We cheered
but it felt like
he burnt my fucking lips off
he didn’t though
I was fine

It didn’t matter
the gaiety ensued
I nursed my lips
& tried to tell him he fucked it up
but he hadn’t
& it didn’t matter
we laughed so hard
we couldn’t understand a word
either of us were saying

You are my Sunshine, in C

2009-05-22T17:36:00.003-04:00

You are my Sunshine, my only Sunshine
You make me happy when skies are gray
You’ll never know, Dear, how much I love you
Please don’t take my Sunshine away

The other night, Dear, as I lay dreaming
I dreamed I held you in my arms
But when I awoke, Dear, I’d been mistaken
So, I hung down my head and I cried

I will always love you and make you happy
If you’d only do the same
But if you leave me to find another
You’ll regret it all some day

You are my Sunshine, my only Sunshine
You make me happy when skies are gray
You’ll never know, Dear, how much I love you
Please don’t take my Sunshine away

(Instrumental Verse)

You are my Sunshine, my only Sunshine
You make me happy when skies are gray
You’ll never know, Dear, how much I love you
Please don’t take my Sunshine away

(Instrumental Verse)

I will always love you and make you happy
If you’d only do the same
But if you leave me to find another
You’ll regret it all some day

You are my Sunshine, my only Sunshine
You make me happy when skies are gray
You’ll never know, Dear, how much I love you
Please don’t take my Sunshine away

Building a Fence

2009-05-21T19:34:00.003-04:00

It’s been raining the last three days
& they say,
it aint about to let up
until another three more
a week of rain
without clear blue skies
or open windows
dim & then darker, then darkness
over & over every day

As a kid, I used to love the rainy season
but I was gloomier then, air conditioned
& happy alone
didn’t have to leave my room for anything
sheltered in a suburb for the school district
an adolescent Hamlet
complete with handmaids
launderers
prepared meals
lashing out from the rock poster nutshell
of my boyhood room

Now, I’m always out the door
taking trash in & out
getting the mail
walking the dog
going to the gym
the bank
the grocer

I walked the dog last night
through rivers of sidewalks
water up to my ankles
and watched her try to leap the puddles

I brought her in, toweled her off, as usual
from nose to tail, her torso & belly
and under her paws and up to the knee

This morning I could see
her first few steps into each doorway
perfect prints in a well contained space
I even saw a heel mark
and the splattered outline left
when a wet leash hits the floor

Of course it’s a waste to try and clean it
there’s green on the skyline
& a chill in the air
it’ll be pouring come dinnertime
& I’ll be dragging in
a fresh wash of it soon enough
on top of whatever untold breach
may befall us
last night
it was a leaking roof
around the chimney
on top of the hot water heater

I should feel happy to know
that at least the chimney works
but tonight it could be a window
or the seal of a door

It’s like that with real storms
everything gets tested
in a justifiable paranoia
something usually gives

We had to call the realtors
and they sent their maintenance guy
who’s nice enough
but don’t wanna get his hands dirty
with liability
he said that he’d recommend
to our property manager
that she suggest to the owners
they consider hiring a roofer

We asked him about the fence
that he came out to look at
a couple months back
but he didn’t know nothing
after he said it needed to be done
he was already out of the loop

I thanked him for coming by
and he said it was nice
coming out this way,
because it was close to home for him
he was able to stop
and have lunch out with his wife
before getting here after 2

When he left
I grabbed a smoke on the back patio
and it was so dark
and the noise of the rustling brush
swaying limbs, scurrying animals,
and gushing winds
were louder
than the semis on the street

I watched the long wood door of the shed
breathe from off its frame
and saw the peaks of the waterbreak
staining the wood almost half way up
like mountains or a crashing wave

I figure it aint that hard to post a fence
but it’s never been my call
I just live here

Spring Cleaning

2009-05-18T19:39:00.001-04:00

I had expected there to be treasure
when I patted all the pockets
on my old winter-weight uniform
before giving it away
but there was nothing

I kept the one summer BDU top
and the short sleeve shirt of my Class As
because I figure the only time
I might want to wear any uniform of mine
is in the hot, hot, hot of summer

I can just fucking picture it
me in my beard on Memorial day
with the sleeves rolled up
on my summer greens
explaining things to some huffing E-3

I’m still wearing the uniform
but he aint wrong to want to correct me
he just failed to unload on the right target
sometimes firing orders get mixed up

It's nobody's fault now

The Wet Nurse I

2009-05-17T19:37:00.002-04:00

They had sent a third party
not a Lawyer at all
A Doctor of anthropology
from Cambridge,
a family friend, and confidant

He worked under some power of attorney
within the Maxwell Estate
a legal representative in the pocket
to handle family affairs
when no member was available

It was better this way anyway
no protocol,
no embarrassing escort out of the building
They met in the park
across the street from the Estate

He handed her an envelope
with a check and her official
notice of termination
told her she didn’t have to read it then
he conveyed the Maxwells’ gratitude

Especially the unspoken gratefulness
of the baby, Jacob,
who could be assured of only the best
in his future concerns and interests,
ending with his own sincere thanks

He shook her hand warmly
but he didn’t brace her arm
or pat her shoulder,
Gail said thanks, and feigned a smile
walked away, and cried in the car

She had the day to herself
but she didn’t want to go home
her husband, Sam,
wouldn’t get there until after 5
and she didn’t want to be alone

She drove over to the gym
it would be dead in there
just the staff and the unemployed
but nobody talking to anybody
just the groans and hum of machines

She got changed in the locker room
a sports bra and t-shirt
running shorts and shoes
she looked at herself in the mirror
and thought she looked all right

She put on her Run mix
and hit the treadmill
at a sprint
going hard and fast for 45
hitting stop and running it out

Once off, She held onto the bars
standing legs outstretched
doubled over, breathing deep
her sweat pooling between her breasts
and in the crack of her ass

She toweled off
on her way to the car
checked the time on the dashboard
put her sweater on
and pulled her hair back

She drove straight to the park
and found a bench in the light
where she picked at her lunch
with the fall Sun on her face;
children somewhere in the distance

She lingered there for another hour
then sat in the car before deciding
to take the long way home
out into the hills
and circling the whole bay

When Gail made it home
the house was warm and still
she took off her shoes
her feet still felt prickly
So, she rubbed her legs and stretched

She paced back and forth
between the living room and kitchen
half debating a decision on dinner
and half just walking
to wear herself down

Sins of a Wet Nurse

2009-05-16T15:15:00.004-04:00

My dog wants to eat whatever I eat
aint but nibbled at her dry food
but unpeel a banana and watch out
the damn thing gets ravenous

I know it aint the bowl
she’ll eat things out of it if I put em there
and it aint the food neither,
she eats that stuff out of my hand
as a reward

I think she’s so damn attentive
that the poor thing forgets to eat

or

she is so damn dependant on me
that the poor thing can’t do a thing
herself

Hell,
I know the later one is a load of bull
She has standoffs with squirrels
6 feet above her head
she traces each of their leaps
from branch to branch
with a ready mouth
shadowed by the body of her opponent
poised underneath
all tongue and teeth
before bright flickering eyes

Maybe the kid just wants to work for it
I’d call that a rare sentiment these days

I put the food bowl down
when I took her home
yesterday morning
a little after 10
figured she ate before the flight
maybe around 6
but didn’t know if she had a thing left in her
after all the traveling

Naturally she didn’t touch it
I left it out all day
but she hadn’t touched it
when I put it up for the night

Of course there were treats
little pieces of meat
for coaxing her into/out of places
or paying for a space
in her little doggie heart

But couldn’t’ve been more than
a half cup at best
and she woke up hungry
I put the food out
first thing
took a good long walk
and brought her back in
all revved up
but she wouldn’t have it
just sat there
& watched me eat my pork & eggs
and I know it looked good
I cooked it for chrissakes
so I can’t blame her for wantin’ a taste
but I aint the kind to reward bad behavior
no matter how liberal

So when I had my afternoon banana
she was all over it.
I ain’t never seen such a spectacle
her sits were clear and perfect,
poised,
brushing the floor with a wagging tail
looking at me
like my banana
was just another bushy tailed treat

I stood with the banana and a small knife
I made her sit and stay
while I put each slice into her bowl
then told her to come
and she ate it like it was caviar
tearing into that bowl
she ate half the food in there at a go

It’s good to have an animal in the house
but its dumb to hope it don’t hunt

Bodies of Horses/Water

2009-05-15T15:00:00.001-04:00

I’ve got a snoring dog on the floor
behind my chair
I bought her one of those dog beds
put it at the edge of my bed
she’s sleeping next to that

It’s like they say about horses
you can lead them anywhere
but you can’t make them do shit
holds as true to dogs as anybody
anything with guts
is chasing some kind of carrot
on someone’s stick or otherwise
everybody’s got to get what they want
it only makes sense
when you consider the alternatives

One of the neighborhood kids
is learning to skateboard outside
staying on the sidewalks
arms outstretched like wings
or weights to balance
the moving pavement
under her feet
from getting out from under her
no helmet though
the kid’s a trooper

If it wasn’t for all the vitamin C
I couldn’t stand to live in this place
but if I get an orange’s worth a day
I never feel the heat or get carried away
on the smoke of the burning marshes,
or the milky swirling breeze

If somebody asks me,
in the next town I live in,
what was that other place like?
I’m gonna tell em,
too many lakes

Don’t get me wrong
a lake is a hell of a nice thing to have
when it’s hidden away in the distance
or behind a summer house
but they got the damn things everywhere
so barely anybody uses them

I’ll take a rushing river or big blue ocean
any day
I can’t stand any body who just sits there
twice fold for a lake
You’ve got to wear away at something
or you aint doing nothing at all

A Pint Low

2009-05-14T17:24:00.001-04:00

Where did the day go
having silently retreated
under the gray sky of rain
The footprints all washed away

Right outside my window
I can still see it
like the lighted smoke
remaining after a firework
has expended it’s existence
on a hot summer night

I couldn’t get myself out of bed
so exhausted from dreaming
dark & faceless, couples coupling
clarifying from what position
they find release from themselves
& their histories;
the greater world outside

Meeting patchily in stolen rooms
weighted with secrets
the loudest whispers encircle
like scavengers

When I wake up
a pint low of blood to the brain
it shouldn’t be a big surprise
that I find things
a little disorienting
but as if my hands were covered in it
I cry out for reason

I’m told
that as a kid
I had to be dragged out of the house
never
kicking & screaming
but like a rock
or old sofabed

You spend enough time alone
a pint low of blood to the brain
you can’t rightly
call on that thing
to conjure up
a good enough reason
to step outside

New Dog Bowls

2009-05-13T20:20:00.003-04:00

We were talking about the new dog bowls
their handmade wood structure
three stains of the same wood
trisected with a smooth dark top
supported by an orange and a red wing
crossed and set like the body and the fin
of a wide-eyed alien spaceship
on the label it read, “Astro’s Bowl”,
penned on one side
the other, just a sticker gun price

Then we got to talking about Astro Jetson,
and I felt certain that our bowls were no copy
though I had no proof,
from what I could remember of the show
it probably floated
with little corkscrewed antennae
and ripples underneath
of some energy pollutant

Anyway,
all the dogs in those shows
were little more than sloppy carbon copies
of Scooby Doo.

You said,
how much further can you really go on
as a dog?

I said,
I know, always hungry, kind of dumb,
even Scooby needed Scrappy
after a while
as a crutch

Yeah
and when you put the dog on its hind legs
it’s just as dumb
as every other two-legged creature

You apologized
& I said it was ok
I left laughing

Guitars

2009-05-12T17:40:00.002-04:00

Guitars, Guitars
strings ring, buzz & sing
arthritic rhythm Guitars
tinny tin strings
on the side of the microphone
electricity swims
tap tapping on the bridge
loose shoed
breathing volume
running up on the fretboard
with jabby hot chords
and the palm of the hand
on the hi-hat’s beating
bleeding into the organ
humming with the melody line
rising always rising
crashing fuzz in reverb
playing the poured concrete
amped up in the corner
alone

Questions for Potential Partners

2009-05-11T18:05:00.002-04:00

She’s got an ex owes her some money
& a freshly broken heart
even if she don’t know it

Money’s never a non-issue
it’s poison for
poor kids & dumb bastards

Many people I know
treat it like the holocaust
leaving any discourse on the subject
in the hands of
the experts & the obscene

They only ever talk about money
when it’s failed
then panic, fear, resentment, & guilt
pour out in tears
scream in closed rooms
stand rabid & hungry
in official documents
notices, & phonecalls

It’s only ever an issue

A friend of mine told me
my next story should be about
how you can’t take anybody
on their word anymore

I told him it sounded more like
a life’s work
and we promised to keep in touch

We haven’t yet
but I ain’t worried about it much
we’re good for it

Anyway,
I told her what I thought
about the real deal
said
Life is one
deep & lingering tragedy
after another
sprinkled with innumerable
tiny victories
luckily though
the celebrations are frequent enough
that they keep us
pretty well distracted
and that’s that
war every day

We live
like we share every room
with elephants

She told me
you got to thank
whatever watches over you
I replied
Yeah
if you got to

Mother's Day '09

2009-05-10T13:19:00.004-04:00

I made her waffles with fresh strawberries
dousing the fruit in the last of the cinnamon syrup
I grilled chicken-apple sausage and eggs,
started the coffee but she made her own cup

After the dishes
I watered the plants, called the wife
put on another pot of coffee
we sat on the couches
and I talked about modern literature
its supposed difference from visual art
the idea of
being told a story
vs.
being relayed a sentiment
and how both have the same effect in the end

She talked about rejection
conspiring ex-bosses
men & women
society

I told her she shouldn’t doubt
her own worth
which means knowing
you aren’t doing anything wrong
so everyone’s reactions to you
are reactions to something good
and it don’t seem right
that so many people
would run away from such a good thing
but its true,
it’s always been true.

I’ve said this so many times now
that I’m all out of new ways to convey it
that don’t bore the hell out of me

We had 4 apples and an orange
sitting in the fruitbowl
I said it’s a lot like that
she asked,
“Which one am I?”
laughing

Go See a Movie

2009-05-09T20:11:00.002-04:00

Catching the sunset
been sitting on my ass all day
running errands
running errands
ain’t quite the right phrase for it
but going here & there
buying things,
some necessary,
others not so much

An iced tea at the gas station
put me down damnear two dollars
rubber toy for the dog
seven bucks
I’m told
some part of this
is supposed to be priceless

Anyway
these days getting things done
always seem to start so late
and I never feel as though
I get a moment of time out in public
too busy,
making transactions,
waiting in line,
bubbled in the A/C
and radio transmissions

I should go see a movie or something
sit alone in the dark
be told a story
walk out into the night
and not say a word to anybody about it
It’d be good for me to get out for awhile

I think most songs you hear
are more about dreams
than any of us assume

I only dream before I fall asleep
and just as I am waking up
I don’t daydream hardly ever
and to my knowledge
I have never dreamt
in the depths of the night
and no one in my dreams
has ever seemed strange to me
I recognize and identify every one
right at the get-go
sometimes though
it doesn’t matter

I couldn’t tell you if it’s new
it’s all I can do to remember
but its right like the hummingbird
hovering between your cupped hands
hearts-a-racing
captive to a future impulse

Untouchable again
every time I close my eyes
guns, dogs, & drums
perfect in practice
but terrible in execution

Hummingbirds
horrible in size
& volatility
hovering

Born a ’58 in ‘49

2009-05-08T16:08:00.001-04:00

My batteries dead
I’m sure of it
I’ve turned it over
let it run
but now I can’t get a spark out of her

It’s just another thing on the list
sending in forms, calling offices,
jumping batteries, & paying strangers

I look at the list
and I feel exhausted
I could fall asleep right now
in any room in this house

If I stop for even a minute
I’ll lose everything
and befallen by sleep,
my dreams will run me to & fro
on the streets of a sunless day
until I’ve nothing left to do
and nowhere else to run
I’ll wake up & be free
listening to the words from the speakers
instead of the sounds of the alarms

From the mass of my guts I muster
the will to wake up and face the day
without ever feeling
brave enough
but the truth is
there are two kinds of bravery
in this world
that which conquers fear,
& that which never knows it

The cruel joke
is that nobody knows
what kind of bravery they got
until it fails them
like the brake on a train
like a jammed trigger
like poison in your coffee

Bitch’s World

2009-05-07T20:45:00.003-04:00

I wonder what people say to their kids
about what they see on television

When they're asked,
why there are so many shows about bitches,
do they try and explain,
that it looks like a bitch’s world out there
but really it’s still a rich man’s game

How do you tell a 7-year old kid
it wont be long
till they have a price of their own

Are grown men
with children
in this country
sexually aroused
by girls going wild

That blonde fucking med student
popped a girl in the head at point blank
and the news is telling us
he had a gambling problem

He must’ve been shit at the tables
because he kept all those panties
of the girls he was robbing
&
that’s a bad bet against getting out of this
like a thief in the night

I checked out Craigslist’s massage services
months ago
when I moved to this area

I had expected it to be a little more subtle
like those wanted ads
for Full-Body Massages
in the free weeklies
that say
I’ll suck you off
without typing a word of it

It was so vulgar
pictures of girls
in see-thru panties
or bending over in front of the camera
some also had real headshots
with all the make-up
and the foggy lighting

right next to them in a dirty hotel room
with a pink dildo
playfully at the edge of her lips
like that does anything for anybody

I spent the better part of an hour
going through each one
before swearing off it forever

Big girls, skinny girls, drug addicts,
college-aged white girls, black teens,
a couple of Hispanics
& transsexuals
spread throughout

There was this one I remember
young black girl
over on the left
she was wearing daisy dukes
and showing off her pink slip
but you couldn’t see her face well
so on the right
to compensate
she had a profile picture
taken outside in the summer
sweet, sleepy eyes
giggling girlish grin,
the sun behind her head
a regular snapshot taken
to remember that particular moment

I couldn’t determine whether
the two pictures
were even of the same girl
&
I couldn’t think
what was the worst outcome

It said she worked out of the house
and they wouldn’t be disturbed

I didn’t think then
my god,
one day
someone is going to kill this girl
& it could be anybody
with a laptop and a .38

It could be her father
her boyfriend
a John
a stranger on the street

She will not go out peacefully
she will kick & scream
until she resigns to it
or dribbles in fear
failing to explain why
she would want to hold on
or on what she had left
to barter with

and her body will float up & up
and evaporate into the atmosphere
before being breathed back in
a good honest photo
in the upper-left hand corner
of a news box

Postcard from California

2009-05-06T19:32:00.002-04:00

I was outside
it’s still hot out there
but I could feel night on the air

My legs felt cool
but the sun was on my face
I squinted back
at my reflection in the sliding glass door

My fingers were warm, clutching the butt,
the cherry was glowing in the afternoon light
I thought I felt my phone buzz in my pocket
and to answer it
I had to switch my smoking hand
and it was like passing a hot coal
I had an instinct to take it very carefully
to brace myself for impact
and prepare for adjustments

Everything went smoothly
so the actualization of pulling up the phone
from the depths of my pocket
and getting a call
became strange and leaded
when I realized that I must’ve imagined it

I wasn’t expecting a call
so don’t tell me
it was some flaw
inherent in all expectations

It happens all the time
I think the thing’s giving me some
single vibrating pulse of acknowledgment
and I reach for it
and it hasn’t done anything
there’s no messages
I’m just making shit up
because apparently
I like to look like
a dick with a technology twitch

But this last time
I sure as day
second-guessed myself
and had to ask
If I’d thought you would’ve called

Make no mistake
every communiqué you make
is a goddamn mess
and you can’t be blamed
if it mixes your mind up a bit

every line you open
ends locked in sorrow

After the Funeral X

2009-05-05T23:26:00.003-04:00

The green trees, red brick, and warm sun
The labyrinthine neighborhoods
with their beacons of beerlight
Hidden hearts and bare arms
Wide-hipped women in worn-in t-shirts
The empty city streets at 3am
the porches packed at midday
The secret gardens of the city,
packed ball parks, bike racks, walked dogs,
firm handshakes with your elbow braced,
barflies, Vietnamese Laundromats,
painted signs for forgotten stores
as much a part of the walls
as the wind and the dirt

They are missing their children
every one of them feels so distant
now that your father’s gone

I hope it rains all summer
until the underground stations
fill with standing water
till the gutters are all clogged
and the cars hydroplane down the streets
until any music at all feels too loud
when competing with the pounding of the pavement

I hope men run downtown with their collars up
and their briefcases swinging
and the ones who’ve still got a little something
at the end of the day
push the wet hair from their faces
and smile million dollar smiles
as they walk into the bar

You’re right too
it would be a helluva lot easier
to believe your Dad is sitting around somewhere
than it is to believe
the Cards are playing another season
like nothing ever happened
but towns with seasons
don’t stop for bad weather
the people just note record highs and record lows
as they head out the door

After the Funeral IX

2009-05-05T22:55:00.002-04:00

We met up with an old friend
at the gay & lesbian bar
he was as surprised as I was
to hear that I’d be there

We grabbed a couple of beers
and a table out of the way

We tried to catch up
we were hollering deep shit
4 inches from each other’s face

I could’ve settled in for the night
listening to him recount every detail
of the last 5 years
but another buddy of ours
was too drunk
had to be restrained
from punching some mouthy lesbian
who was begging for a fight
stumbled over to a nearby bar
crashed in their basement
when Jr. found him
we all had to get up to go real fast
to drive him home

It was for the best though
better than losing some bit of the story
to the thumping bassline
and the noise of the dancefloor

I got another friend
who I’ve never met
she talks all the time
about there being no conversation
you can’t have in a bar
and I used to always agree with her
but I’d never been to a lesbian danceclub
on a weeknight in St. Louis before
and now I’m not so sure

After the Funeral VIII

2009-05-05T22:33:00.003-04:00

Everybody showed up at the wake
fucking everybody
the whole gang was there
and nobody’d changed

We stood around in our shirtsleeves
and good ties
we walked out as a procession
into the rain to smoke cigarettes
or take swigs of Jameson in the car

We talked shit, told old stories
reminisced,
telling old hoodlum tales
for the first time

Afterwards the bar was full of them
from one end to the other
My Captain told me
he expected me to walk up and say,
Here we are, born to be kings
referencing a joke I made nervously earlier
that I’d already forgotten about
and without a frame of reference
it felt like a perfect sentence
right and true and sad and perfect

Few could make it to the funeral,
a daytime mass on a weekday
they had to work or they didn’t
and maybe some couldn’t face the old man
or his weeping son
so they stayed home in the name of decency

I stood with Danny,
one of Junior’s old friends from H.S.
I barely knew the kid
made a beer-run in his rice burner once
we drove fast, the music was awful,
he had his brain in his dick
but his heart was in the right place
seemed like a good kid
to have run the halls or shared a stolen beer with

On my right was an old friend of Sr.’s & his wife
they were pretty teary throughout the ceremony
laughed at all the inside jokes
and looked over at Danny & I
with genuine concern and real sadness

Danny & I shared a hymnal,
though neither of us were really singing
we awkwardly raised and lowered the knee rest
trying to keep up time & appearances

At one point
the Priest told us all to greet each other

I shook hands with Danny
there was nothing I could think to say

I turned and the wife was like a small fire
when she came close to shake hands
her face was wet, her hands moist
she was so warm I forgot about myself
and just basked in her sad glow

I shook hands with the old man’s friend
he didn’t seem the least bit ashamed
to be crying
and for a minute
I wished I were born someone else
in a city hospital in the dead of winter

I turned and met a tall and pretty cousin
who I hadn’t known was there
she was so tall
that when she reached in to hug me
I could lay my head on her shoulder
I told her
Junior would be happy she came

After the Funeral VII

2009-05-05T21:13:00.002-04:00

He played the same songs over & over
every time we got in the explorer
he didn’t want to hear anything new

For chrissakes, he begged us
his father was dead
he was going to listen
to whatever he damnwell wanted to

I didn’t put up a fight
he wasn’t a tyrant or anything

He even asked me to put something on
in the hotel room
the morning of the wake

I tried not to think about it
but I was thinking about it
I quickly limited it down to a few options
and picked indiscriminately

It was more upbeat than I expected
it sort of marched along in the background
the sound of a single trumpet
weeping over the melody
sometimes satirizing the singer
brassy and distant and cool

He gave a knod
made a comment about it
can’t remember whether it was good or bad
but it didn’t seem to bring anything to the air
we stood there in our suits
when normally we’d be sleeping
we straightened our cuffs
and waited on his girl

After the Funeral VI

2009-05-05T20:58:00.002-04:00

It ain’t supposed to rain all week
the grass in the front lawn
is starting to look a lot like straw
we got restrictions on when we can water it

Meanwhile
everything is just cooking out there
my garden is looking a little long in the tooth
for being so damn young

Out of the three plants I got hanging
what was my best contender a month ago
is suffering alone
wilting away

I’m doing all I can
fresh soil, a turn towards the sun,
misting the thin stalks,
gently leaking in the water,
I pat the soil with the tip of my finger
I speak low around it
I don’t even smoke inside

I wonder how much time I spend
standing on that back porch
feeling the heat waft in on the wind
feeling big & dumb & tired

It can’t be that often
but its all I ever talk about

I don’t need to be alone to talk to myself
to sweat under a t-shirt
to not go run inside
it just seems that
they gallop alongside each other
nearly tied for first
every year
all summer long
huffing, pumping blood,
braced on that singular enlightenment
when you believe your heart
more capable that it actually is
and that belief is tested
on the verge of death
and running your heart out
the whole time

After the Funeral V

2009-05-04T21:13:00.001-04:00

I think some men drink
for the liquid courage they need
to stand up & face their kids

I’m sorry your Dad died
I wish it didn’t have to hurt
& I can’t in good conscience tell you
that all things pass

Some things last forever
they change shapes
or we change around them

You are like that
I am like that
Tom Waits is like that
& your Dad is like that too

There ain’t nothing to miss but time
& time ain’t going anywhere

You & Me, Tom Waits & your Dad,
nobody is going anywhere

After the Funeral IV

2009-05-04T20:50:00.002-04:00

I think about sitting
my one-day daughter on my lap
after she’s asked,
why I shake hands with an old friend
and telling her the whole truth;
not some bullshit easy answer.

Telling her all about class & protocol
hierarchy
concealed daggers
& superstition

Telling her the meaning of Freedom
is not having to take shit from anybody
& Liberty
is our Freedom to choose
who our friends are

After the Funeral III

2009-05-04T17:25:00.002-04:00

Jenn & Brendan met us at the bar
it was a weeknight
I meant to tell them I appreciated the sacrifice
of the next morning

I don’t know if I ever did
though I’m sure I had the chance
in between talks of home, houses, art, & good food
I’m sure I must’ve told them I loved them
but I just don’t know

Jenn looked great
she could always rock an outfit
even if it was right from work
like a humbled Clark Kent
sitting cross-legged at the bar

She’s keeping busy
but kept the conversation light
smiling & smoking & talking about quitting
like she always does

Brendan looked like he rolled out of bed
& into my closet
it was the weirdest goddamn thing
but no one questioned
two bearded men
in plaid short sleeves & flatcaps
embracing by the bar

I miss those two
like America misses it’s own myth

After the Funeral II

2009-05-04T17:13:00.002-04:00

Her ass got fat
but it looked good on her
I told her I’d missed her face
& I did
though I hadn’t pictured it
in years

Before long
she was telling me secrets
she was always like that
a secret she was always telling

I never expected her to grow up so well
& she told me she was surprised
to see that I had

She talked & I listened
when her flittering around the bar
landed at my side

I smiled, looking down
guarding my face from her
with cigarette drags
swigs of beer
& the subtle cupping of her ear
to the sound of my voice

After the Funeral I

2009-05-04T16:46:00.001-04:00

O’ Bury me in a bar in old St. Louie
where the music is so loud & so good
where none speak my name
without toasting it in procession

Invite my friends
& all those who’ve loved me
to curse & drink & smoke & weep
in the beerlight of evening

Let everyone know why they’ve come
but never give them any proof
save my wife
who must identify my body
let her see that we’ve parted

Let everyone else move around my ghost
between those hailing a drink at the bar
the shuffling waitress
& the overcrowded tables

Let them know it’s okay to take my seat
I’m not up to take a leak or get a drink
I’m gone
& I ain’t coming back

Loft Brand Cigarettes

2009-04-24T20:59:00.003-04:00

When John & I lived together in the loft downtown
we we’re both in our early twenties
he being a couple of years younger than me
was head first into the post-21 self-destruction

I had been running in place for a couple of years
chasing the dumb gods of rock & roll
with loose Christian girls, Psychopaths, Deadbeats, Drunks,
Losers, & Women who love Losers
like an old cartoon I just kicked up dust
with some invisible hand against my chest
the Earth beneath my feet shoveled by my shuffling determination
until I was deep running in my grave
I was ready to lie down for the count
& leave that roadrunner be

John was still working at the coffeeshop
did the entire time we lived there
I’d already quit
& was sometimes fucking this horrible lying brat of a woman
to pay my half of the rent
in the beginning

At first we slept in the big open room
a couple of feet away from each other in the dark & empty space
one on the futon, the other on the chair

Don’t remember when we got the fishtank we used as a writing desk
but I bet John picked it up on the street or by a dumpster
left for the pickings by some one-time aquatic habitat enthusiast
before we got that tank though there was this big box
which we had packed all John’s things in when he left home

That was the first time I’d met John’s father,
I wouldn’t see him again until we were moving out,
he came by to help us patch-up all the holes in the wall
we put in, fighting drunkenly in the winter

In between John & I cut ourselves off from the main vein
John built a cocoon of the place
picking up every couch he saw on the side of the road
it should’ve been ridiculous but most people enjoyed the luxury of it
visitors could be guaranteed two full cushions of American sofa

That old American furniture
that is unceremoniously burgled from Grandma’s houses
around the world
was being collected for a perpetually growing exhibit
in our living room

The fabric was rich with texture, patten & design,
thin corduroy rivets massaged your every aching muscle
with each subtle shift

Most of our visitors had no idea though
they came over at night
& no number of lamps could light that cavern

The ceiling was so high & the walls so long
that you could see a radiating aura around each bulb
a clear outline of their effect on the darkness
& something about just seeing that
made them seem always dim & dying
or like so much candlelight flickering hot above it's own wax

We never could afford A.C. so we kept the windows open most of the time
& sounds from the street would drift up to us at night
we’d holler at the bums & smash&grabbers,
kids our age in from the county & out for a night in the clubs
the street would answer us too
& we would meet it
sometimes drunk, sometimes naked, mostly with streams of warm urine,
hostility, laughing, gibberish, unintelligible declarations
of self & country

So people came over like they were going out for the night
I never knew why
it was a no-holds barred slugfest in there
I never wondered then, but I wonder now
if they thought that John & I were only like that for company
because the fight never stopped when they left
& John & I stayed the same animals when the sun came up

After a good night we’d pilfer from the ashtrays their choicest butts
& between forefinger & thumb
we’d roll out their contents into a bowl
& roll a couple of smokes
a little bit menthol, a lotta Camel, some already handrolled Bugle & Top,
the occasional slutty Marlboro, a little grass if we were lucky
they always tasted aged & roasted
& we smoked them first thing after when we woke up
& laughed & scoffed & coughed & took a good look around the place

Packing for a Spring Funeral

2009-04-23T22:49:00.001-04:00

He called me last night in hysterics
and told me his father was dead

I couldn’t believe it at first
being as it was untimely or at least, without warning.

It felt like answering a 911 call,
the suddenness, the gravity, the fear & the sorrow,
struck me all at once.

I tried to focus on the words,
I tried to make sense of their meaning,
I tried to console him,
but it was like the phone was suddenly a hot rock in my hands,
that I couldn’t let go of for the life of me.

I never know what to say in unreasonable situations;
I can’t tell lies or restrain my sympathy.

I never can stop apologizing for pointless tragedies.

I asked if he needed anything & he invited me to the Funeral.

I was talking about him this morning,
and about how I could scarcely imagine his pain,
about how important it was to be there by his side.

I was talking about him and then I was talking about myself.

I said I’d spent my whole life
trying to be a better man than my father
and how he don’t recognize me now when we meet.

He can’t see any of himself in me
and I should feel accomplished for meeting my goals,
but I don’t.

I still just want it all to have never happened.

I would rather be the son of a man who didn’t want me,
than the son of nobody at all.

I cried like a ten year old,
I choked as much of it down as I could
and I felt like some kind of idiot,
breaking down for the loss of a father,
who wasn’t even mine in the first place.

I had to go out to the mall and buy a new suit,
last Funeral I went to was my Grandfather’s in a country church,
it was another Spring Funeral,
but I wore a light linen jacket, cream colored shirt, slacks & a tie.

The linen jacket doesn’t fit me any longer,
and I don’t feel comfortable in any of my own clothes.

Maxims for the use of our Modern Elderly

2009-04-22T16:28:00.002-04:00

My forehead is a lot bigger these days,
but it don’t mean my brain’s gotten any larger.

You won’t believe me,
but I remember this all happening before.

I know my welfare
is of no concern to congress,
but it matters to me,
nonetheless.

Rosy lips don’t mean much these days.

I’m a miracle of modern medicine,
the prized stallion of a multi-million dollar industry.

I don’t fear being put down for a lame leg.

I am in the garden of my life,
I can see the sun from wherever I can stand.

Fuck You, I’m taking the Bus!

I look at the TV,
I watch the news,
I don’t know who any of these people are,
I don’t know how they got there.

I already know who’s going to miss me,
when I’m gone.

References

2009-04-21T14:37:00.002-04:00

“It is natural
to give a clear view of the world
after accepting the idea
that it must be clear.”
-Albert Camus

“The great enemy of the truth
is very often not the lie –
deliberate, contrived & dishonest,
but the myth,
persistent, persuasive, & unrealistic.
Belief in myths allows the comfort of opinion
without the discomfort of thought.”
-John F. Kennedy

“If a man is offered a fact
which goes against his instincts,
he will scrutinize it closely,
and unless the evidence is overwhelming,
he will refuse to believe it.
If, on the other hand,
he is offered something
which affords a reason
for acting in accordance
to his instincts,
he will accept it
even on the slightest evidence.
The origin of myths
is explained in this way.”
- Bertrand Russell

Telling the Truth about Immortality V

2009-04-20T23:07:00.001-04:00

Confrontation

Our Hero asks of the God,
“Why have you done this to me?”

The Immortal looks down on our Hero,
he cocks his head to the side & says,
“I am not responsible
for your present condition.”

Our Hero is not steered into doubt,
he points accusingly,
& puffs up his chest,
& hopes for condemnation, shouting,
“You have shown your hand to me.
I have seen your work,
in the mortar that set
each stone to the path
on which I’ve stepped.
I demand of you, a Reason.”

The God squares his shoulders
& looks away for a long time,
but our Hero can’t say for sure,
if it was seconds or years,
waiting as he was,
declared of purpose,
& resolved to collect his payment
for the blood he’d spilled.

It had been long enough
& our Hero,
fixed so intently on his prize,
so sharply responsive to threat,
that when the words came down
from above,
their volume & clarity,
enveloped his every sense.

“There was a Winter once,
when you were very young.

There had a been a great deal of snow,
& it had been amassing on the sidewalks.

Some of the piles were miles long,
& stained with soot & smoke.

The rain appeared
as if it were being poured
from the Sky’s own swollen bucket.

Until that night,
I had never questioned
the scouring potential of a hard Rain,
but the piles received no washing,
instead,
the Rain laid sheets of ice
one after the other
until the mounds
glistened with fortification;
Their stains were sealed within them.

That is why you walked in the street
once,
you could never have scaled
the sidewalks.

I saw you in the glow of my Headlights,
every car was passing you
& each tossed ice from its tires
or displaced some black puddle
onto your person.

I was no different in my course,
nor was I playing any part in yours
beyond one of an accumulated mass
simply responding to their environment,
but then too,
just as now,
you shook your fist at me & shouted.

I ask you with no motive,
barring my curiosity,
What do you think I have done to you?”

Our Hero is quick to call,
shouting until his throat is raw,
“I will not have you lie to me.

You’d have me believe,
that you were with me in the coliseum,
& when I rose at the contest’s end
to plea for blood,
you rose beside me
& made the same plea
& your voice
rung no louder than mine.

You’d have me call you powerless,
& accept your role,
as no more significant
than my own.

Can you see any Justice in that?”

The Immortal stands in silence,
while our Hero swallows the air
in desperate resuscitation
& hates the God for appearing
to ponder,
time stretches out before him.

The voice glares again
in the mind of our Hero,

“I can see the torch of Justice
in most things.

Though, I believe, you mean to ask me,
whether I can see any Injustice,
in your example.

In History,
your kind have often believed
that Justice & Injustice
are two different forces,
or two sides of a metaphorical coin,
when in reality,
there is only Justice
& it’s absence.

Many of that mind
are great leaders of men,
& most others
are the followers of men
who personify
that error of thought.

Which would you rather be?”

Our Hero is taken aback,
he feels the emptiness of time
& fears to ponder within it.

He is aware that his fate,
is but a string
tied to an Immortal finger.

He is cautious of cunning,
but he feels out of step
with any rhythm
& the Immortal awaits his response,
“I have seen the fate of Leaders,
& those who carry them,
in the end,
one ends up with his head on a pole,
while the others
wipe the blood from their hands
onto derelict banners.”

The Immortal was quick to retort,
“Many people end
with their heads on poles
& many people
part the blood from their hands.

You have been one
or the other
many times in your life
& you have assumed
each time
that their were but two roles
in the unfolding drama,
which is to say more clearly,
your role & every other,
& you have chosen only one
for some inconsequential reason
as the part which best suited you,
but you were wrong.

Which, now, would you rather be?”

Our Hero had the taste of brass
in his mouth,
& felt, as though,
he were already transforming
into the beast
he hadn’t the courage yet
to name.

The Immortal
looks down upon our Hero again
& his eyes reflect the light
which fills the space around him.

Our Hero blacks out.

Much of life
travels by the will of others.

A hummingbird drinks its fill,
A sparrow builds its nest,
A vulture swallows its heart,
so moves the spirit of man
& our Hero also,
back to town.

Telling the Truth about Immortality IV

2009-04-19T21:42:00.002-04:00

Foreward

We will attempt in this work
to utilize our previously stated definitions
in establishing a series of protocols
best suited for the artistic interpretation
of Immortality
in the Modern Myth.

However,
we must be sure of one thing
before we continue.

We must understand that the Supernatural
is not, intrinsically, the work of our Immortals.

In neither,
our literary consciousness
nor any
historically established moral consciousness.

If we are to Speak the Truth of Anything
it is our obligation
& our purpose
to Look On our Subject
in absolute isolation
& outside of influence.

We look through the Microscope
or we don’t look at all.

Methods

I find no great burden in proclaiming
that our historical canon of Myth
has failed to express even one word
on the Truth of Immortality.

But for all its flaws,
it is our Form
& from it we must establish our foundation.

That is not to say,
that our Myth’s monumental catalog
is, in any way, an inadequate means
to our projected ends.

For our classical Myth is primarily
stories of men
& few stories outside of Myth
have provided
so profound a portrayal of Man
that they still ring of prophesy
in their depth & their accuracy.

So, through our Hero we run this course.

A.
Finding signs of Immortal Life
i.e.

The farm is ablaze
Our Hero becomes suddenly enlightened
A plan enters his mind

The Wife, the Kids, The Horses, The Dogs
in that order
he will spread wings & swoop up each of them

Our Hero appears to leap into action
but
a split-second refinement of the plan
has altered his course

It happened so fast
that the exact moment is entirely unreadable
was it
before the step
the heel on the floor
the pivot of the ankle
the leap?

Impossible to say he just leapt into action
though his course was changed,

Our Hero knows that the children must survive,
He rationalizes on behalf of his Wife
who would live as a walking Ghost
to only wisp away
if she survived to a world without her children,
so he leaps.

To the children in the barn’s loft
he leaps.

B.
Where there is Smoke, there too, is fire

Let us now look for the evidence
in the Supernatural
then we can dispute
as to what hand our Immortals might play.
i.e. in chronological order of occurrence

1.) Fire
2.) Enlightenment
3.) Heroism
4.) Doubt
5.) Time
6.) Fate
7.) Love

Now, let us refine our findings
by choice & circumstance
to fit our artistic needs.

Fire is a high likelihood,
it has baffled man since it’s inception
& despite having dissected
it’s very fabric,
Man can do little more than
estimate the proximity
of a likely occurrence,
& only by model,
attempt to predict it’s behavior.

To accept Fire
as a device of our Immortal
we must then presume
that the Fire’s path
is aligned with our Immortal’s path.

So in the objectives of our Fire
we too can look upon
our Immortal’s unseen nature.

We look closely at Fire,
it starts when a volatile material
is fed enough air
& left to the heat long enough
as to sustain it’s being
by ushering others into it’s condition.

We know Fire is a three-legged table already
& if even one of it’s needs
is swiped from it
she collapses & disappears.

We make decisions;
it is a work of art before it is a Myth,
it requires our intrusion
to fulfill the promise of its definition.

So our Fire will be a She
& we will call her Byzantine.

Byzantine may escape Mortal Reason
but she is still as much the Slave
to the Designs of Life
as any Man
& as our Hero’s embodiment of Fire
Byzantine, too,
will abide the same laws of creation.

Byzantine by design
is an unstable entity
whose contact with oxygen
& exposure to heat
causes a reaction in her
that consumes & assimilates
all it can
just to maintain itself
& she is, in her way, doomed
to a bi-polar existence
or more accurately
a nature which fluctuates with potential
but can never sustain itself
in its actualized form.

We can decide now what form
her motives will take
but we must be careful
to not interject with
those petty Human traits
that we drag with us
from & to the grave.

C.
We return to her condition,
if we are to embody Fire
than we can also
safely embody Heat & Oxygen as well.

We know our old friend, Oxygen
is always ready to make compounds
with almost everybody else.

We know he is Third in succession
for largest domain in the Universe
behind Hydrogen & Helium.

We imagine then
his scope of knowledge
surpasses all but two other Immortals.

We know his coupling with Water,
sustains all life on Earth.

Do we detect a Mythological Creation tale
in the ether of scientific Truth?

If the Father to our orphan Mortals,
the Third most powerful Immortal
in all of the universe
lays with Water
how do you think that affects
Fire’s social standing?

We find our great Irony here
for Byzantine needs Father Oxygen
to achieve her anthropomorphic destiny.

What role would our ethereal Heat,
(we will call him Q)
have to play in all of this?

We know Q too,
though he is certainly more enigmatic
than our friend,
the Big O.

He is almost as if an Omen
in his seemingly prophetic appearances,
existing only in the movement
of Energy,
from one body to another.

A potentially willful Harbinger
whose sudden appearance
in Byzantine’s Immortal life
ushers in a transfer of power?

As good a plot as any.

D.
To further unfold the fabric of our Myth
we need only continue this formula
chronologically along our Culprits.

The most crucial elements are
our choice,
the acceptance of circumstance,
the adherence to progressive logic,
& the knowledge
that we may only seek our Morals
from the Chaos.

Afterward

In Some Thoughts on Immortality
I touched upon predestination
& it’s role in Myth
in a fairly negative light
but
I want it to be clear
that predestination
is only the perceivable state
of true Chaos.

We can assume then that our Immortals
are free of that perception
& though they would clearly see
the futility of will,
they would not concede to its invalidity.

In this we find a defining conflict
between Man & Immortal.

Where Man’s will
is rendered useless
& thus
invalid in his struggle,
Our Immortal’s freedom
from the Human Condition
frees them also
from it’s hopelessness.

If we then assume
that the Future is still
the same blank slate
to our Immortals
as it is to Man
then it would appear
subjectively
as though
in the Universe of Man & Immortal
the Eternal call the shots
if only because
their shots still matter.

Frankly, that Method was exhausting.
I can’t say whether I’ll continue
to provide further examples tomorrow,
but I would welcome some feeback,
if only to encourage
this amount of effort in the future,
so come back anyway for something, tomorrow.

Telling the Truth about Immortality III

2009-04-18T21:17:00.001-04:00

Introduction

I think we’ve covered
the abstractions on what role
the immortal & the supernatural
can play in modern myth.
So, I’ll try not to re-explain myself
though,
I will be drawing
from those abstractions
for our current examples
& if I’ve been unclear previously
on the abstract potential
of these themes,
I hope these examples
will prove to illuminate
my prior meaning.

Let’s not, however,
put too much weight on our examples,
as they are examples
& examples alone,
& not to be taken as concrete guidelines
of genre, method, or style.

I will be continuing in the stylistic vein
of the last two pieces.
The space of the work is for play
it is unstable
& sometimes confusing
but never without intention.

You, the reader,
are tasked with differentiating
the hard logic from the whimsy,
& though they speak of each other
it should be clear
that some texts
are purposed to invoke
a shift in your emotion
or cognitive path
to the liking of
me, your author.

Morals of Chaos

Accepting
that immortals are supernatural
& myth’s are moral works
which utilize the supernatural,
then any moral work
which includes immortals
has a high likelihood of riding
under the banner of mythology.

With that in mind,
an immoral work
which includes the undying
cannot hope to be called mythology,
& has to settle for
Modern Literature
or
Video Game.

For that reason
& for our combined ease
I will be utilizing the institution of Myth
in name & function,
to reference the artistic environment
in which immortals,
are most commonly portrayed.

For this foremost
should be about Morality
& its artistic language
if only because Morality
is a product of the Mortal condition,
we can assume the immortal
is outside of the Mortal condition
& so
the borders of it’s Morality.

A.
The Moral has too long served
as an excuse for Mythologers
to abandon reason
in discussing the Immortal.

If we can deny the Immortal
it’s freedom from Morality
we can thusly apply
Mortal reason to it’s actions.

This results in the historical & present
framework of modern Myth.
i.e.

Some unlucky Mortal Man
draws the scorn of a raving Immortal

Our Immortal unleashes
some Supernatural device
to smite our Mortal Man

His farm is raised by fire
& he is turned into a dog
& escapes only to be shot
under the accusation of being ravenous
His body is struck by lightning
setting the whole woods ablaze

& every year around the same time
our immortal returns
with such disgust for the wretched humanity
that wronged him all those years ago
that he attempts to burn the forests again
and watches the rodents scurry away

& that is why we do controlled burns
to this very day

B.
When we remove the Immortal
from the clutches of Morality,
a different scene unfolds before the reader.

We lose the ability to assign Mortal Reason,
to their actions
& Our Myths
must find their Moral by some alternate route.
i.e.

Our Hero lives a fine life
got a farm, a couple of horses,
some dogs to keep out the rodents
a lovely wife
for whom he tenders every affection

They’re no trouble in town
their kids do well in school
keep their noses clean
& mind their ‘p’s & ‘q’s

They live in isolation
on a plain along the forest
nearest neighbor is 60 miles away
visitors are few & far between

When our Hero purchased the little farmhouse
it had been abandoned for almost 50 years
& that was near 15 years ago now
but that first year was a hard one

They we’re clearing the land
working long days
the two of them just recently married
building pens for the horses
turning the soil
in the hot sun
day in & day out
& at nights
our Hero slept recklessly
remembering the time before his wife arrived
when a vagrant had forced his way in
while our Hero slept

The villain was drunk & smelled like a railcar
stumbled around noisily
seemingly unprepared
for the few pieces of furniture
our Hero had brought
from his grandmother’s home in KY

He was making such a ruckus
that our Hero was torn from his slumber
& slowly walked the dark hallways
shotgun held to his shoulder

In the dark he ran head on with the intruder
& they both fell back
but our Hero was quick to his feet
& had his gun upon the trespasser
who squirmed & began to weep

Our Hero held his killing shot
despite the fear in his heart
& then the vagrant began to speak very quickly
slurring all his words,

“He hadn’t known no one
to take up residence in that home
in all his years,
he was only passing through”

His only mistake in hoping for the usual shelter
the vacant home had always provided,
he cried louder & pleaded
& our Hero,
with mercy calming his quivering heart
ordered the man back into the woods

Soon after our Hero got the dogs,
picked 5 from a cardboard box litter in town
& his wife arrived
doling out unending tenderness on the puppies
as if in preparation for their one day family

The following Summer
was as hot as it had ever been
the ground was dry
& our Hero’s first crop
had been a bust
having underestimated his workload
& ending up
planting too late

The house felt like an oven
& most of the crops that survived the heat
& the drought
went to market to pay the mortgage
& fund the budding operation

They were hot & hungry but happy
& one night they put the dogs out
& made love on the quiltless bed
falling asleep naked & sweaty
until our Hero was once again jarred from sleep
by the dogs barking as if in frenzy
he ran outside
naked but armed

The dogs had cornered another boxcar refugee
chasing him up the old birch
at the edge of the fence

Our Hero had to discharge a round
to regain the pack’s attention
he shooed them back into the house
wishing they’d stop their fussing
before waking up the wife
but he could hear them
carrying on as loud as before
as he walked back to the old birch

The hobo was still there
clinging to the branches
& had to be convinced first of his safety
before he’d allow our Hero
to escort him away
so, our Hero talked him down
& was leading him out the fence
when he heard his wife
calling from the open door

Our Hero turned just quick enough
to see the pack charging in formation
the biggest at the lead

Our Hero could not calm or deter them
the pack ran the drifter back up the old birch
but the drifter could not outrun them
& the lead dog tore into his leg
hanging there by the teeth
the flesh uncurling from the calf

Our Hero discharged another shot
into the Heavens
the dogs scattered from him
& the intruder fell to the ground

He yelled to his wife to call the ambulance
& he stood there naked
between the dogs & their prize
he was naked still when the ambulance arrived
& the police with it

They had to put down the dog of course,
couldn’t be avoided in these cases
& our Hero did so honorably
& that was the last time the county cops
came out to the farm
but that was 15 years ago now
& if its mentioned at all
its between cops & over a cup of coffee
the story of a naked farmer
fighting off his own dogs
from devouring the man who aimed
to rob him

Life was good as it could get
our Hero established himself well
the dark days of struggle long in his past
& then the fires came

Later the weathermen would claim
strange atmospheric conditions
as a result of global warming
kept the rains away for too long
& the ground was dry
& the air felt like sparks
& a large scale fire was bound to happen

But it threw the small county into shock
our Hero’s farm was the first to go
it was only assumed
that they had been engulfed in the flames
& with all effort still tied up
in controlling the blaze
& the panicked townsfolk
it took a day before the authorities
could make it out to the remnants
of our Hero’s homestead

An old cop arrived before the EMTs
he’d remembered the place
maybe he responded to the call
maybe he didn’t
but he remembered the story well enough
& he expected to hear
the howling of the dogs
but it was silent as he drove up to the fence

He got out of his car,
cleaned his glasses & straightened his hat
looked up to see running towards him
a large dog covered in soot
looking rabid & confused
& he didn’t have to think
his heart leapt into his throat
& he fired three rounds into the animal
& stood upright, shocked,
& suddenly without purpose
he reached for his radio with a shaky hand
he had to call it in
report the situation
he reached slowly & unsure
& as he got his hand on it
it suddenly blared with warning
the wind had caught the fire
turned it around
& threatened to engulf everything in sight

C.
You glare at our little Hero’s story
& you cry out,
Where are my God’s,
My meddling immortal foes?
Where are the webs they’ve woven in time?
Where is the myth,
& where is the storyteller?

We return to our definitions
& our previous work

Myths
stories that a particular culture
believes to be true
& that use the supernatural
to interpret natural events
& to explain the nature
of the universe & humanity.
-wiki

Is our Hero’s story entirely unbelievable?
Is there no culture
that our Hero could’ve arisen from?
No one that could not relate,
in some way,
to his plight?

& of the Supernatural?
Was there none?
No reason beyond man’s comprehension?
Nothing criminally improbable?

Where there is smoke, there is fire
& our immortals must play some part.

We know
they are beyond mortal understanding,
their actions are the Supernatural.

So,
we follow the trail from the unexplainable
& we find our immortals there.

But,
what, of our Hero’s tale,
was beyond his own comprehension?

If,
we give our Hero any credit,
then it is easy to assume
that his own choices
were within his comprehension
(most of the time)
thusly,
under his own volition
& clearly of quite natural origins.

So,
that only leaves
every other thing
in the universe.

D.

Now,
the landscape of our Mythology
is transformed.

&
it still is,
if not more,
conceivable now
that our Immortals play a part
in the world of our Hero.

The Mythologer is freed
from the rational world
of conceivable outcomes
to inconceivable circumstance.

Mortal Man remains pet
to the will of the unconscionable
but rightly
with no sensible answer.
i.e.

Baby talk
The locking of a pen
The over-feeding
The starving
Firm reassurance
Unfathomable love
&
Un-seeable neglect

If everything beyond
our Hero’s comprehension
is logically the work
of some Immortal being
whose existence itself
baffles all of Mortal man,
our Hero’s story
is still a battle against an inescapable fate
wherein he trudges through the dark
battling invisible opponents
& fearing every thing but his own will
may already have in it
some unconscionable intent.

Our Morals are Morals of Chaos
Our Wisdom not born of Reason
Our Wisdom is born of a kind of Madness

Of the quiet Lunacy in accidental revelation
while wrapped in a veil
so tight & so thick
that most of your life is spent

kicking & screaming
& wondering if you’re alive at all.

Our Morals must speak of liberty
from unneeded suffering
in a world
where nothing is within our control.

Frankly, those Morals of Chaos are exhausting.
Come back for part IV, Methods, tomorrow.