We'll stay where we are and we'll live and we'll die here.
We'll stay where we are and we'll never more roam.
When you work for your bread there's no time for adventure
We work til we're blasted and then we go home.
Self views self
views part by part
a mirror of myself in a mirror
tight shiny pores of a brow under quarter inch hair, a bare
shoulder with a spider of dark lint drinking the sweat
an other shoulder: peripheral view: deja, already, yet...
Memory's less silver than tin:
was it of my body, of the image?
Was the image of my body,
Was the body mine,
was the body of my image,
in his image,
a reflection of glass and looking. To Become.
Multi-Limbed (in secret)
As Kali. In her image. Wearing her skulls. I wear them. They wear me.
her. (an enthusiasm, possessed) by
her e. (an enthusiasm. possessed of
small and large objects
tarnished love a missed affair,
These once were shaped one
wore differences, but are become
unfinished books and dead relatives all
II. An Epilogue. II.
And here the bathroom light is harsh (there.)
And here the crickets are. preparing. their autumn threnody.
here I'm round faced 15
I'm 35 and rounding second base
Here these words my thumb is weaving. for the web. on a phone.
/remember the spider</>
I snored once in a West Philly studio on my way to Mars.
this is a true story, compressed.
I was there.
III. Afterthought III.
a beginning breeze sways the yellow "no outlet" sign beyond my window
planted like an obscene sunflower by the wood mulch where I found a dead possum to plant with a sapling of black walnut.
Round that tree will pups of foxes, skunks, and groundhogs play, together as I have seen them, when the tree is tall and I am reflected in stone
They Uphold and Protect Our Freedom.
They are Heroes.
Happy Memorial Day.
In which we memorialize the living and the dead alike.
There’s little distinction between our collective national commendation and extolling on one hand of Armed People abroad and our excoriation and indifference towards them at home on our other hand. Both treatments live in our use of that little word Hero. Our Armed People are Heroes more than we, because, in our stories, they have gone out into the world, and encountered death, and returned changed. That change real or imagined is tragic in a personal sense, because in this story where they are Heroes, they are no longer of us. We can extoll them but we can’t understand them.
As tragic, more tragic, differently tragic, is the source in our souls of this ongoing personal need to sacrifice our children to Heroism: we feel enslaved, perceive ourselves as inescapably burdened. The common cycle of economic debt is embraced by a people who have come to view themselves as indebted to the larger society for their very existence: if we are to be so much as fed, clothed, loved, we must EARN it, and this might be a positive value if the earning were possible. But nothing is asked of us, other than to competitively succeed over our brothers, and nothing is given to us but with the demand that we do what is asked of us.
We have no freedom to search, abroad or in ourselves, for the witches, the talking animals, for the Ogres of Death which would grind our bones to a heroic rebirth. We have no freedom. We have no time. We are Working.
Enter the Armed People, who accept a higher call. Who march as god’s own soldiers, armored with our Ideology, who march right out of our lives onto the pages of Grimm’s Be All You Can Be commercials. Once gone from our sight, they embody the freedom and action and triumph of will, the Puritan Strength of our ancestors courses through them, and through them we revolt in our spirits against the Oppressors and Evils of the world, and through them we are made Free.
And if they return? How should we meet their eyes?
If they have done all our hearts have demanded, their eyes will shame us with knowledge and strength we were too timid to embrace. They were never really like us at all, or they would not have left, or we would have gone too.
If they meet our eyes as equals, more horrible. Did they fail? Were they undeserving? Was there never really a chance, no higher thing for them to find or become? Did we risk them for nothing? Did we cower at home from nothing?
Better they should not return.
No wonder we most revere the dead.
Their Ultimate Sacrifice:
Our Ultimate Sacrifice.
May the smoke of our offerings please them in Heaven.
grow up and throw away your toys
the motor blowers screaming on a sunday morning
hunched clowns puffing their cheeks to move a pile of grass
forgetting how to kick it
put the gas into another rocket maybe
for your 75 year old neighbor who doesn't leave her house much
let the grass grow or
cut it with a scythe
keep the computers, tell your aunt
on another continent
you had a tough day
send her photos of the woods
your visit with the neighbor
who pointed out a jack-in-the-pulpit
don't buy another rifle
from the back of that comic book
guaranteed to kill a sleeping
everything is ok
will be ok
you are forgiven
roll in the hay
and leave alone
from a mountain of moles
stamping your ok ass good to go
some of the crops are for the bugs
some for the sheep
some for you
rum is for special occasions
as are fireworks
the presentation of philosophy when I tried college: linear, progressive, foundational, proscripted.
"first learn the greeks; later, the renaissance; later still modernists, so on."
a progression of gates and allowances: you wouldn't understand this yet, first learn what inspired it...
and that isn't wholly wrong- foundations help.
But how about, "here is someone modern and accessible, dynamic and relevant... King, Rohrty, Barthes, whoever... "
read it. when you don't understand something, ask questions, do research, and leave class understanding more than when you came in. Learning is an endless rabit hole, you'll never fill in all the gaps, just have at it and there you go.
Today I've had an exaltation of errours
lapping blood in the den
strangling me sans glee sans pity
because it is in her nature to strangle
and exalt in bursting
she has strangled
because it is my nature to err
I have strangled in my bed
my own self
a sort of autoerotic failure
squeezing out the chances
so to joy in the blank unconscious moment
where I explode into
a world without bridges (all burnt)
sans every tie to yesterday
then, free to bursting
step into the day