5

resonance

dear reader,

i am writing words

for the express purpose

of turning off

my mind.

my hands have

shaken other hands

and shaken by themselves:

the above exemplifies

description.

my hands have turned

like leaves falling from trees

into words in my own hands

and this is how

i have

and will

destroy

my own self

and not wait

for winter

white and cloudless

as raw pelting grains

of white rice

to do it for me.

the above

exemplifies

metaphor.

4

roses

push the sweet dank rot

out the red lips

coated like with lipstick

and we pushed

together.

fold, please--

re-pleat. please.

fold.

3

dearest

thickset stalks of memory

fold against each other,

something improbable

slithering between

the upright sheaves.

i weave my image

with broken thread

and i weave with

sounds like

cold glass breaking

in heat. so that

it shimmers

so that

i need not

see

the thing

that waits

for the harvest

to show.

2

raucous freshness

this is a story i have told myself already:

but a hand reached out

of that fiery, turgid depth.

it was a shaken and pale shoot

and it was mine.

i looked at it. it plunged into

the presence of you as if

into water.

as if

into

water,

distilled

and shattered

against

a pit

of glass:

smooth

and clear

as inverted

sunlight.

my love demands

what it can:

this

very heart

is yours.

save

me

from

my own

flesh.

here we go again

new monster

there is no revelation

besides remembrance.

there is no tide

aside from blood

and all about

in the sick dark

there is a pull--

as if new beasts

stretched their mouths,

there is a rhythm

to this rotted-sweet

lack of light.

never recommend sports

torque

a tongue of flame
writhes into
this page.

inviolate
the word
that burns,
outside and in.

though the skin
of the word
splits and
torques,
dead,
the word
cannot be
touched. rise,

word, to own
your naked
glory.

um...

okay, i've been thinking about this, though i couldn't tell you why, and here it is:

this is an example of gertrude stein-ian mathematics, as far as i, a person who doesn't much understand gertrude stein and who has no mathematical training, would see it:
a = /x/,
where /x/ is just about anything.

where this "principle" comes from is one of the basic premises of math, one that even i know, the idea, or acknowledgment, that we let x = x. this would be the hegelian ground of algebra, at least: its logic is founded upon the idea that x is allowed to equal x. but gertrude stein points out in her oh-so-annoying way that x doesn't equal x, not entirely, ever. the repeat never is the same as the original (which is what one might call the pet semetary principle)--you can't just reanimate x in a different iteration and CALL it completely the same thing. to acknowledge the force of desire in the equation--the desire to let x = x, to let one's understanding turn the second x into a thing that functions in exactly the same way as the first x, to let oneself deny that second x, because it is forced into functioning like first x, is any different from first x--is to acknowledge that the "equals" sign itself is at issue. The meaning of "=" is not what one would expect. It implies a limiting function. It is not a...um, is "naive" the term? If so, it is not a naive symbol.

anyway. so. the principle of a = /x/ is not outside of the above-stated hegelian ground, i'd argue (though maybe there are easier ways of going about examining said idea)--that is, said idea is not outside the province of the "=" sign with a program, the non-naive "=". if "=" implies aegis on the part of the one doing the equalling, then a = /x/ doesn't challenge that. it doesn't presuppose a purely-functioning "=", one free from any machination on the part of the equaller. what it does do is acknowledge the possibilities of the "let"-tedness of "=". what else can one let x equal, and why? the answer, as far as i can understand it, is anything, provided that the reasoning is allowable, and there is no reasoning that is un-allowable, necessarily.

(i think a mathematics based on william carlos williams would state that x does NOT = x--or, within the shadow of the formula, that the first command of a proof would be "do not let x = x." and to a great extent, this is totally valid--but, within the hegelian shadow, flipping the equation to its opposite doesn't do anything intrinsic to the equation itself. it sets up a fascinating new world, but not one with any more truth to it than the original. an antithesis can be no truer than its thesis. and, in defense of thought, thesis/antithesis isn't how thought works, as far as i can tell--nor is it precisely how dub-cee-dub [yeah, i'm going to let "dub-cee-dub" = william carlos williams, but in the '90's and it's his emcee name, because i can] worked, because if he had worked within the parameters of "do not let x = x," he would not have had metaphor, and paterson wouldn't have happened. so either paterson etc. is a failure, or the success of non-antithetical thinking on his part. i prefer the second reading. i might be wrong, and it would be fun to find that out, but for now i'll leave it.)

why write the equation "a = /x/" as opposed to "x = /x/"? um, because the first one sprang to mind first, but also because "x = /x/" is implied in "a = /x/". why not write it "/x/ = a"? because that's not the truth i'm trying to establish as extant. of course /x/ = a--if /x/ is everything, pretty much, than it's also a. "a = /x/" is more to the point.

the idea of absolute "=" is on the list. i'm sort of spiralling around the idea that happened in my thesis last year, and so absolute "=" might already be accounted for, but i don't think it is. i don't know. i just...might as well think about stuff while i have the time. as a disclaimer, i'm not saying this thought is original in the slightest. it's original to me, because as always my knowledge base is far too insufficient, and i don't know where to start looking for the right stuff, and i'm kind of an idiot. but i'm totally down with it turning out to be extreeemely derivative, and i apologize if it even looks like i think i know what i'm doing.

really really really not worth anyone's time

i think maybe i'll start being more shallow.

i'd never really thought of this as an option before, but circumstances dictate that opportunity is ripe for something to be done, and why not have it be this? you know? i mean, i spend a lot of time saying, "who am i? what am i doing wrong? what am i missing? why am i missing it? WHAT'S WRONG WITH ME?" and it does not, technically, get me anywhere (partially because it points out the fact that i might not be shallow, but i am certainly self-obsessed).

hey, that's just not true. self-recrimination masquerading as self-obsession gets me a lot of places. but i've already been to said places. i want to try out something new.

yeah, this neue wege will not last the night, i'm pretty sure. it's the same mania that used to infect me after watching too much queer as folk season 1. i used to get drunk and want to be brian kinney. right now i just want revenge on all the men who have made me feel like a freak for years and years and years because i don't know how to play idiotic games, or play them by the wrong rules. again, this probably won't last the night.

also, on a side note, who likes fluffy cake? what's the point there? dense cake is so much better. the end.

maybe it's like maggie says of joel: i'm hopelessly helpless--a helplessness junkie.

thank you laura riding, for making us laugh at love...again

sweet capitalist night

it is after a long day of hiding from the sun

i reject you, extrinsic warmth, and

the intrusion upon focus

that

summer's beating light

implies.

memories

one can't wish for:

the feel of hot

skin against

hot

asphalt--

the black radiance

of the playground.

i was not brave enough

to go into day

and so i imbibed

the observed surfaces

with all senses,

my attention to detail

as exquisite and wary

as some fine-lashed

herbivore's.

it was a process

of exchange

like that

of breath:

to become

what others

could love.

i am not remotely content

with myself.

draughting

i put together a book--sort of a frankenstein thing--of poems i'd written just before/as i was redrafting the novel for the first time, and find it interesting, and a little frightening, to see how my philicosophical bent has changed as regards words and imagery. i'm not going to put it up yet, because i like it but i don't think it's strong. i feel like what i've been writing recently (aside from all this rambling prosody) is strong, self-confident, but what i wrote then was enraged and self-immolate, and it's hard to let that go again, if that makes sense.

this is neither here nor there. what i wanted to say is that i feel like my relationship with words has changed, and i can see it both in the poetry and in the novel. i don't think i'm going to try to publish the novel. it's good--i know it's good--but it's also weak, like the poetry. at the time i was trying to deal with the arbitrariness of language, which sounds like a pretty dull and overdone concept, but...yeah, in conjunction with both death of some people i loved, and love of someone, that arbitrariness became painful to the point of concretization, of specificity, which is important. the novel is to some degree about the way in which nothing makes sense--the procedures by which nothing makes sense, a little like the man in the high castle, but, you know, i hadn't read that yet when i was writing it, and also nothing like because that high castle book is awesome. and the poetry, i feel like, expresses the same sort of idea, of the extreme detachment between symbol and meaning, and a person's helplessness before that detachment. this is either over-simplification or over-glorification, but it'll stand: as usual, the argument goes, i might as well take my crap seriously because it doesn't hurt anyone else for me to take it seriously.

i feel like now i write like a person who believes that words are...disattached enough from meaning that one can create one's own connections. not necessarily will-you nil-you, but the sheerest implication can be gotten away with if one treats it like a fact (this is de man, to some extent, right?). i'm big on smells right now: words have odors, or they function as odiferous. it's like combining beets and walnuts, or leeks and sweet potatoes, or trying to think of a recipe that involves the showiness of black lentils in the taste of their possible beauty--odor leads to taste, recombinant and sharply correct or sharply not so; color leads to odor, or maybe, factually, the other way around...

why am i writing about this? oh yeah--i don't know why.

triumph!

...and another. check it out! under "books," on the sidebar. i'm pretty excited about this. i admit that it's mostly because of the formatting opportunities. there's nothing i like better than playing around with typefaces. which is really really pathetic, actually.

the poetry isn't improving much as i type it in, but i am spending a lot of time with this seal c.d., so that's to the good (?). i spent the summer between freshman and sophomore years of college listening to "station to station," "ziggy stardust," and "raw power." mmh, "raw power." anyway, those c.d.s really created an atmosphere for that summer in my memory--and i feel like this summer is going to be the summer of black sabbath, helmet's betty, ann peebles' album i can't stand the rain, and seal. classical music, for me, is the apotheosis of feeling--which means that it reflects nothing, or if it does reflect, you're not listening to it right (which is one of many of my problems with the radio station at 102.1, and, incidentally, one of my not-a-few problems with e.m. forerster [sp?]). popular music, if i'm listening to it properly, can be the same, but it's doesn't have to be necessarily--it can be a reflective surface, though with music like that on i can't stand the rain, or the replacements' let it be before i listened it to death, i do tend to get into it to the extent that sometimes, like listening to callas sing verdi or price sing puccini, i just can't breathe.

i'm making a distinction that doesn't really hold up, but hopefully one sees what i'm reaching toward. the point is, that i feel like the black sabbath/helmet/peebles/seal continuum is pretty indicative of where i am right now. i'm trying to pummel all the self-lies out of my system, and it can get ugly, because i don't know what i'm doing. or where i'm going, for that matter. take that, eliza doolittle-in-pygmalion-the movie actress! or if i can manage said lie-out-pummeling to an acceptable extent. or if i want to.

yeah, i feel like reading a lot of '70's harlequin romances and putting "kiss from a rose on the grave" on repeat will certainly help to solve the piece of crap that is my personality.

ed-cetera (redux, probably)

these color edits may be very unattractive. i acknowledge that.

anyway, i did it! there's a book up on the sidebar.

a hearty red rooming

or i'm not good enough.

like the embers of jane eyre's defiance of john reed after she's thrust into the red room, a bit of distance from the rejection and the fire dies down: i am not good enough. maybe. well, it's certainly possible.

and in a way, i blame emily dickinson for why i keep trying to believe in myself: it's easier for me to write for the equivalent of my trunk with her example before me. because obviously i don't get published for the same exact reasons as she didn't: my genius is just too broad for my times. that was a joke. but it was also kind of a wish. it would be nice to have some vindication for all the years of being kind of a secret freakshow, all the years of chronicling my secret difference. ah, who am i kidding? i just want to be emily dickinson...and who wouldn't?

oh, and b-t-dub, i think this next series will be written to the music of seal's album "seal." i don't think there's any real need to decide whether this is cool or incredibly lame.

you know what? in honor of emily dickinson (or whatever), i too will reformat my crap into books on the internet. i'm going to turn each of them into their own separate blog on the internet, and then connect them to this one. in honor of the fact that publication by the man is the man's mind's auction, but self-publication on the internet is the auction of an attempt at self-justification.

quietus III

i.

in my mind's sight i saw a door. it wasn't so much one door as all doors, the concept of a door, which is never not in motion.

i broadened the strip of my eyesight into a predator's horizon, let in the riot of light at the periphory of vision. the action in me mimicked the strip of light at the edge of the door. slowly that strip expanded like light itself.

when the door opened, i closed my eyes again, but the door would not close, because closure was impossible.

ii.

my heart beat as one but it was tared out into two: the heart at the left and the heart at the right. like wings that beat together because they could not do otherwise, my heart beat. i wrapped my heart in feathers smelling of the wax that stuck them together

and, in flight, felt the skin of the sun on my face, saw the jewel blaze of the sun's eyes, felt the touch of the sun's burning mouth, the sweet salt taste of sunlight and the smell of

something melting.

if my heart was ill-devised wings, the smell of heating wax was my heart melting. my heart, falling apart, riven side from side, dripping like wings. it ran over my two hands.

and you were the sun.

run down

my throat

and coat

my word

with raw

fire.

the taste

like honey,

the copper

of pain,

and wax,

because

i gave you

my heart

and therefore

it is yours,

and therefore

when it melts

it is you

that melts,

i say,

so let me

dream

your taste--

honestly,

i care

so little

for

the truth.

my poetry has been rejected twice today.

i've written about this before, though i'm not sure where or when: rejection is awesome. it's hard and it sucks, but it's great. there's nothing like the feeling of knowing that the worst has happened--i mean, not the overall worst, of course, but the worst as far as the submission itself goes. there are times when it's not the worst--when you feel like a company (i'm talking singing now) is playing games that you're not interested in playing, and that the rejection stems from that--in a way, that's worse than getting rejected flat out for being not what the publication is looking for--or not being good enough.

i'm not past the point of caring. that would be a sucky point to be at. but my particular fire blazes well when fed by the fuel of actual adversity. that is probably too broad of a claim. what i mean is, that being rejected just makes me think, not "they're idiots, and they should have accepted me," but "i'm good." i'm good. being rejected proves that i am good somehow.

when i get accepted, i have say things like, "oh, i don't know why they chose me, tee hee," and it's sincere, because that's the way i am. but when i get rejected, i get to know it: i'm good, and if they don't want me, it's not because i'm bad.

this is with poetry. it isn't so much like this with singing.

it is because they don't see what i'm doing, or if they see what i'm doing they aren't interested in it--which is their loss. i can say it's their loss because i assume that it's a loss they freely accept--if i said to someone in regards to their having rejected my writing, "it's your loss," they'd probably laugh slightly and tell me to keep up the attitude. and having already rejected me, i know that my thinking it's their loss is not of particular interest to them, if you see what i'm getting at. they're not idiots. they just don't get it, and possibly they don't want it. and that's fine.

i'm kind of over thinking that my work isn't good enough. that's a mid-twenties thing. the truth is that i knew, when i wrote the first of the poems to my muse, that i was writing actual poetry. that was at least five years ago. before that, yes, sure, my poems might have been well-worded, but they weren't anything special, because they weren't saying anything i didn't already know, and i knew that. but now my work has animus--it has its own soul. not every sample of it. there are weak poems and strong poems, and it can be hard to know which is which.

there's no point to this. i'm not even trying to make myself feel better. there are no words to the feeling i'm currently experiencing, and that's kind of the definition, to me, of a feeling worth not attempting to temper. my poems are good. they're private and at times incomprehensible, but they're good. ha ha, one at this point falls back on emily dickinson's idea of publication. she wasn't alone in believing herself good. but she was alone.

it's a treasure, to be able--to be allowed--to believe in yourself when things are apparently against you. i very much appreciate it, as well as the opportunity to exercise said belief.