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Heat Death

This is when the universe is no longer able to perform work. It’s an absolutely terrible shaking. They all start at the same point and then they move away. History calls this an explosion. I got my first real haircut in two years just a day or so ago and I tipped the barber too much I thought it so nice the way she washed my hair; squeezed the water out of it after with both hands. She ran both palms flat with fingers flexed over my scalp flattening the water out over and over again my blood felt hot and I let out a soft sound. Science describes an endless space and the endless movement and expansion of the space, already endless, getting inexplicably more endless with each passing moment; the arrow of time. In the early universe before cosmic inflation energy was universally located and thus in this period was similar to state of its eventual death. They look the same but they are very different because things only matter in a situation where stability is possible. One has to work, you must work, you really must work, work hard to have worked, work to make sure you know how to work still, work to remember what the end of work feels like work to continue the great build. It’s so important that you have more than you previously thought. Your ability to wake up in the morning will treat you as a light gas and with time you will feel less of it. Your breath will taste warmer; your bones will only hurt more than they do now in fact this is the least they will ever hurt if you forget about all of the past. Ape you have red lights. My books are bent for your in-jokes and the wet tip of your dick. No one gets to be like you. Building things for another time, parliamentary, just. There’s a boy in New York City who loves you.

TO CALL YOU BACK; Sweating in clothes I decide to embrace the receding calm and reach out for more sand to pull, sliding into the frothing gulf in chance that there may exist a companion to join me in sifting through the glass bits and foam. The case in my head is bending now when pointed and not numb. The little pieces hug rapidly and call into the larger dark hungry and afraid of being fed another dead meal. The skin is hot; there's air in my eyes. I learned I won't lose my grip; means it'll only lax when broken. I learned it weakens; means I have to grow more blood until not enough. I learned they can leave too; means I can't ever stay. TO FALL THE WHOLE WAY; What is it we are in this great shit, sitting elbow-to-nose under racist patrols getting off at Great Jones and then stopped and then frisked and then kicked in the heat and arrested for pot. Out of men with a father-like charm and a bait and a switch who is looking to coup from the top of the world will it bring the banks home or bring the money back? Look at Brazil. I've eaten, I mean, these clothes were made by slaves so you could say I've eaten, though I believe the ingredients list was mistaken or straight up lies. Which reminds me of the time when I looked in your eyes and you said you'd come back but you didn't show up so I went to Vermont and got bugs in my neck and I spent all my cash so I locked up my bike on the side of the road and then hitched a train back and arrived in New York to try to get rid of it. And got fucked in the ass by a dyke from Connecticut. That's the end of it. DON'T WAIT UP.

This is a guess; I'd have a simpler time not standing. Who now that string-heart has been snapped & history no longer exists but as fracture support will I get to give to my tired eyes? How many starts happen or can. Is there an angle or groove at which one can continue to fall beyond the straining arm digging for at least most of forever - or does the feeling of a lonely death predate its own occurrence to get comfortable. Or does the feeling of a young pulling need deserve its flat-faced scowl in a maturing death long before it receives one. Who am I in the wind tunnel but a blower lacking someone to watch the glow slowly fade from.

i was a little freaked out by the way they asked me to adjust to their cold demeanor so they threw my wallet in the path of the bus. Dry ass corporate fucks wrung out & run circles round the rest of us just nodding in the rain. Thinking there's better than this, i'm sure there's probably less pain on the south side. So we get up & move. You know, it would behoove us to stand our ground one of these times. Like Argentina, Mexico & Indonesia singing "No, no sir, this is my daddy's land, you'll have to rent a favela." Or come back where you came from, rubbing two coins together under your nose until it makes you- I reconnected with an old girlfriend & she said "where's your head been?" & I said "lonely & dumb." I made her sweat she said "I need you to cum." I feel alone inside my body; company makes it fun. I need help. Mostly no one's noticing my manic juices flowing so it's easy not to eat or sleep and keep the poems going. Either it hurts to stop or hurts to get started; either way I'm pretty sure I was raised to be retarded like my mom's medications makes her dumber every day. She thought I was going on vacation when I moved away. And my dad gets mad, says shit that just embarrasses her. I wonder if the rhythmic pattern of his words molded my character & broke something inside I didn't notice. Something small & fragile with exponential consequences. He made me feel so small that growth was used as my defense. The kind of slight that stays in you. I'm not gay Dad, I just like thinking my attitude's bad plus I suck dick & have a lot of opinions. But I don't honestly want to die I want to be left alone & be around you people all the time. & you could come back from Viet Nam & live in the states. Is that so hard? You made it so easy when you said you loved me too & then you packed up again & moved. The land is long.

I am each age: I am starving & some strength & I am well- willed & the dust of lions- I am indigenous you are worldchangers & I have a white patch & I have liquid feet & trouble I don’t feel good anymore Once I don’t feel good anymore. Again I have trouble. Fit yoursel f into real land & you’ll feel how There is dust there are flies & instead there is wood everywhere.

paternia

The dabbling fish typically nest in tidal nowhere locations/deep in creased mud; I find two natural friends in the way to the sea. The city that slowly leaves and glows through the hills is thinking hard/cannot attract the kinds of friends I have. There are two of us wrangling through switchgrass. Words of home are like bright thoughtful birds amongst sheets of sky when in the dark nest; where am I & is that place the most empty/it is packed with two brains thinking. A spark is a child/do I make a completely new thought just by blinking/we keep rings around our eyes. We make a hurt smile with two people in it. The city cannot think & has not sit since it woke up. I felt its wires when digging in damp earth; I met earth with damp hands & reached until shoulder for new fish. I lost my friends in damp grass & with hands covered in scales. There is always a humming.

settled catch/downpour

There are five points of acting they include
long sitting & being quietly changed as noisy phases are let
in past your sunny eyebeams & your nose is like a river rock; all wet & seen as set-in or settled
while water like trickling piano notes passes & seems by; you'll never
empty a container so fully that's ever been full. America:
be kind to your pastures. Even as most men are
a man with a nose-ache running ret-hat and faster as a creeping thought won't leave them. Most ask what's the risk of saying to yourself:
OK, you're all caught up anyway. Daisy lily a clean conscience I wiped up yesterday by only saying so. In end: half stool folding small.
Now we know that lack of music is not the root of the problem; people need access to exercise to remain embodied in the mind by their forefathers. That is why we work at the root, spinal, and forefinger level to establish meaningful chords in the richness of causal perception. Sense must occur because it's happened to me and a rainy day is thick with blankets. That is why we must confront Global North with atrocity & tragic sickness. The dust we've left under the bed is an entire human.

accepting the globe; taps after taps

during a morning departure, collecting snails

I was impressing spoons; one spoon, one fresh dig. It took me one hour to make one spoon. Today is the big day. The lake stood perfect; still for moving. Everything had a place for itself. Best sleep I've had in a long time. I chipped two notches away and in two minutes had two new birds to speak to and to eat with. With every swing of the clock-hand my new friends twitched their bird-heads to eat and make even pace with the dawning clouds. Cover rained down in the early evening; long after I'd forgotten my place among the shifting seasons. Each droplet of sky tapped down on my forehead and I met it gratefully with a tap on the wood-block with my spoon. Every two swings of the minute hand met with two friends and two pecks eaten two even sweeps of cloud and fresh food served at the miming plaque of the wood-block. The clouds closed up at nightfall when as the day died my two friends closed their eyes above their keratin beaks and slowed down their breathing. I stayed awake to mark the silence.

after mistaking a hooded deck for an antler tree;

As a daily patron of the arts i see myself viscerally disposed as an open filter to the mad flailings of the outer sphere of emotional tumult and direction. I am similar to an ad: people see a vacuous and empty smile, hear an open and vague and slightly intriguing question and decide that i am a shell. I make money and am a shell. I gain money to contain it. I eat food to contain it. I am drinking milk to contain it. I am avoiding the bar to contain it less. I do not wish to repeat earlier patterns. I'll be gone for half an hour. I'll be gone for two hours. I'll be gone for people more important. I'll be gone for the faces i've missed. I'll be gone to see faces other than yours. I'll be gone to drop you alone and sad while hoping things will be fine and of course they aren't. The childish wish that they could is empty, vacuous, an open and vague and slightly intriguing possibility and it is decided that i am a shell. I am cheese on sauce on bread on hope on skidding barely by on promises. It is not contested that those promises are important to have been made: must have had to have been made. Must have had. The loss of their performance, the collapse of the proposed arrangement is incidental and the collapse is entirely unaccompanied by response or a "heads-up." Heads, then, when returning home, remain down. Stay down. Put mine down. Books that have been read on. Feelings that have been anticipated. The stoking puts them away, but they return as if strengthened by a sort of fueling wind. It is alright and not alright; it is said not to be alright. It may easily not. It may not be easy: fueling wind. It may not be wind, but the thoughtless defense expunged loudly by a drunk and stupid desire. A shell that contains, drunk, desire. Alone, alone. Those two who so wish not to be alone, made alone, by each other. Perhaps by the shouting and unapologetic one. Perhaps it is the root of evil or perhaps the childish misunderstanding of the vacuous shell thinks it is deserved. Is this why men have invented Satan? A name to the shell-filler, the desire? The so simple desire, not to perform uninterrupted action, but to account for it, to make it seem as if desired. To make that desire universal. To impose the subjective on those who can only see the emptiness, not the hollow hallucinagen; the filling; the empty; the creme; the tart. The tart of tomorrow. I'm a big boy so i have to have more. I do more so i have to fill more. I'm leaking and constantly becoming more empty. I am three pages and following this expulsion will become three pages more empty. Where did the three pages come from? Who will have me a cigarette? Who will have me a beer? Who will decide that it is not OK; perhaps i know the one. The impish, impulsive I NEED I NEED I NEED is so quiet a voice yet so persistant as to reminisce of the dark one i love to forget and remember of. Perhaps i lost lessons learning her ways. Perhaps i learned desperately necessary facts and that is why i continue to pour myself, unrivaled, into others hearts empty yet forever wishing to pour, to pour what? To pour what is undoubtedly a wrecked self, a mishap created by the misshapen pours of a thousand reckless and amateur artisans attempting to create a wax sclupture. When it dried the peices are unarranged like fake letters pressed together into non-words, represented as reality and challenged constantly. Yet heated by an inside furnace which runs simply on the knowledge of its own disfigurement. I heat it up to rearrange, to pour it out and become empty, into others so that they may, in turn, re pour it angrily into my heart which, fit to shapes, re-uglies them. Perhaps the continuous pouring and recieving changes slightly the walls of those ugly shapes as the exchange is repeated. Perhaps over time, through the measured performance and repetition of pours, those walls will soften and allow simplicity, so cautious and contagious in the conscious realm of the rest of my life, to enter the way in which i know love. The way in which i share my very self. Perhaps.

All is not final

I thought the eye was the everyman

War death self goes on the poet hero

Stop, let's talk for a while

Get up, let's walk

It is epic, is lists, is too much & past structure

This is the function of the poet through this.

Again we have this catalog

All over well it wasn't unstructured I

Believe in my soul. That he can be here

A wide wash seems prophetic & sees

& is helping you to see

Even with the women. How to articulate American

How to articulate all very & city & farm

& was explicit. This kind of sexuality is through

Structure which is valid. It can be valid & is

All over. Opium eater prostitute president.

Broken love poem

What does when it can

The uninterrupted push of something hungry has agency over a small

gap in the resisting self

What lets in is not weakness or it is

What decides weakness is a justifiable desire. Or a mispelling

Words can be

turned and in fact it is their strength; the most

effective organism is not strongest but

the most adaptive to change. Best, it

may be best to let in all sharp monsters and honey-eyed sharks to your well of despair. What is afraid of being empty may deprive you of space.

It is more necessary to fill it than to be clean. Here, take my guarded tube. You

have awakened a certain

drive like lifting

of oil through buckets

from wells

or the way that saline is shared between

neighboring cells.

It is a departure in the shape and

structure of a return; with you everything old is new again.

We have you to thank

And at this moment life has lived to form a wet and blacksoaked web of hardened oils into a blanket bare and irresponsible. Light falls across a sky made of bridges

and netted heads of my grandfather's daughters and sons get pushed down hard into the shoulders of their coats. Sliding a softened and heat-held, looked at as reborn- web of fur over my bare skin and

despair quickly is sandwiched by the awareness of time; it becomes morning. Those children are despair; have been heat-held, looked at as reborn- and are fitting desperately into new clothing.

I've chopped for them strawberries and taken away their pet needs from them. I've been told to head out their capital struggle through seeing the way that their eyes are filtering through the present pain. I've been told to write often; told to give and take away, resting on nothing but moving wheels over a heat-held, looked at as blank avenue.

Who will be their gods when i take theirs away. I've begun to allow the reinvention of their purpose and the threatening disappointment to place my hands

to push downward their netted heads into the shoulders of their coats. Breathing backwards across sun-dappled sidewalks I am the necessity of eternal surprise; the fig which is ripe but the fight is now to take it and destroy.

on Swarm

I am interested in the experiential narrative as the imperative and as the subjective. The delicate nature of the human brain makes it susceptible to many types of damage and disease. Topography is the description of such surface shapes and structures. Within one person is a multitude, an interior that braids together disparate structures as they are internalized, changing their shape and its own shape as each shred becomes known. There is no need for falseness or overt direction; outside of depicting emotion, the presentation of delicate facts is effective in relating a unified body of feeling. Schizophrenia is a mental disorder characterized by abnormalities in the perception or expression of reality. Poetics is a mental disorder characterized by abnormalities in the perception or expression of reality. Reality is the state of things as they actually exist, rather than as they may appear or may be thought to be. Hand-colored vision depicts a place that may be arbitrary through a lens of feeling that may be arbitrary, incorporating a variety of auxiliary language that may be arbitrary. Their painting is despotic and capricious as an unreasonable act of the individual. Agency is given to the prickling and invasive outside as it is filtered through webs of neural tissue and regurgitated. When related together, connected by language, it can be read as prescribed intent. It is my intent to intend. It is my intent to give history to the ultrapersonal and unrelatable.

Acts of creation such as the composition of music, of relationships, of woven thread, of loss, of narratives of a calm and tempered account of my existence so often in close proximity to abnormalities in the perception or expression of reality punctuate my experience of the self as living; to create is to provide proof of existence. These things have all happened to me. If I wish to represent clarity I must henceforward focus not on vitality nor on mortality, promote not reproduction nor reduction, seek not longevity nor brevity. The task is historical, philosophical, even metaphysical in scope. Representation must become the obverse, the opposite of its former self. I study the contemporary history of the developing nations. Famines do not simply represent a point of failure in a system, but rather can be called the final stage in an larger process of the breaking down of social reproduction mechanisms and are indicative of the global food complex’s vulnerability to the socially blind hand of the market, whose favor can only be called by the possibility of the highest return. I am just as likely to reinforce global patterns. I at times attempt through writing to rub my own nose in the shit of the West as it rests on the floor of the South. I invariably attempt to compound the issue, whose many facets do not lend gracefully to an overarching conclusion. It is more pure to give an accurate list than to defend a well-crafted argument, or it is less pure. I have often felt pain due to an overdependence on initial response. It is an investigation into the non-efficacy of the dominant method. It is to further aggravate this problem without uniform, or at least to shake the large hive of bees until the potency of their response can be observed. Interpretation is left to those who wish to destroy and illuminate the arrangement.

church modes

settle back the girl put her
knees keep you weeping
your bones stay within you
and clap









at such times
face flamed with augmented blazonry
it was to avail myself
small head in hand











now valuing his morning
is real but nonexistent in this world
was dropped in dipping
was absolute and sky-light
will, options
I would prefer not to











settle breaks
he does not want to know why


















a deadwall reverie

a parallel life in terms of having walls

food porn

& when

On April 12 i'll be critiqued for the second time this year in workshop. The "manuscript" is coming along- working title is 'Printbook.'

Here's the latest installment, entitled 'What is the chart create

& when.'

Structure corrupts. Like time so plenteous. Like snowed & food. Like the bulk of reneged cancellations. Like fruitful & time. Like seen luck & destined. Like flirtatious & foresight. Sight to scene & wings collapse. Like brimful & hot & a high-pitched believe. Like developing links & a close-cut head. The disposal of secrets sang comrade. Like question & pushing. Like what one ends up wanting to be. Place corrupts & a legend of Good Women. Like when schedule reveals. Like renaissance & a new need. Indulgences lessly create. Like the Pardoner is a traveler of crying. Like crying is a traveler of thinking. Like whistling, soft & known & various. Much like birds.

& when

it has less of a face than does daytime; a quite hum’s a seesaw and it lifts its hand from off of its neck, to think; it puts the bottle back not to favor;

hats keep your heads in my friends are here they all of them sing

two sharps relate three scratches/ see sharps minor/ take away two down days/ you can hear now how it is blank here, and the rhythm is good/ our relatives have positions and names, look down and learn quilting, and the rhythm is sad/ look at the light collection of ice, they’ve probably been cooking in the cold world since before we began/ there is no before we begin//

sing with me our major key/

we have restored our tonic memory/

those two wont go for walks again//

it’s a sort of a new growth when you set yourself up to forget to go to bed/ Lift lifts devil in a sky so brown with heels of fleeting fancies “a

diamond tear-tier waits,”

tremulous in the eye of the cloud dropping

A speculator in land;

Her chief delight lay in good manners.

If someone struck it a handsbreadth wide

As an A with an ornament. Provided with

Green beads to mark certain ridden lines

Overspread strands. She work pack fashion

A piece to bag or pillowcase

I believe so close we are seized & found

All discharge does. Don’t push through not oh not well. Press back purple. Shafted lace, design. We and shared weft are oft left to see north plowing. We are left under and downing tape. Stick to the last. Oh mister sun, so, sinister golden sun

Won’t you shine down on me I’ve lost the gatelock. We’ve been seen as a guesswork friendship, patchy. Stripe. Soumak. Rya knot. Stone— Black out the day its body looks like a head with eight long gentle

cures

A fat person will help you to eat your lunch.

A young man may make you breakfast. Wide out the day our feats are scale based

seized upon. Our neck not wrapped up in tensile cures. Pervade the south mark rapt and safe. Traps in line stack pressure,

case.

I'll let you know how it goes.

Also, sculpture. Thomas Saraceno, Alan Watts, Cornelia Parker.

post-language language/ language language

Ron Silliman, a large and legendary figure in the field of conceptual writing, keeps a fantastic and frequently updated blog detailing current events in the world of contemporary literature and art. It's pretty sick.
He recently linked to a news piece on the University of Texas's recent acquisition of David Foster Wallace's surviving notes and personal writings. If you've not heard of David Foster Wallace, you simply must, because he largely completed and surpassed the contemporary relevance of what can be called Post-modernism.
Anyway, they have his personal dictionary and compiled a list of the words that he underlined. They include such gems as

dis·ti·chous:

–adjective

1.

Botany. arranged alternately in two vertical rows on opposite sides of an axis, as leaves.

2.

Zoology. divided into two parts.

and

cete:

–noun

a number of badgers together.

as well as my favorite,

leg·a·tee:

–noun

a person to whom a legacy is bequeathed.

and many others.
Abagail Adams, my new thrash/spaz/hardcore project, had its fourth practice tonight. We've been writing a new song every practice, and it takes about an hour and always comes out very productive. Lots of moving around in these newest ones. I'll post recordings the very day that they exist. Hopefully that day will be very soon. I recently came across photos from the York PA music scene that i was a part of when i was fifteen. Reminds me of original things.

-Fixed my bike today. It was the first warm day in a while and i rode around 5 or 6 miles in the streets today. It's a pressing and visceral charm that my sweat cannot ignore.

conceptualize, factualize

I recently attended a poetry reading at TUCC by poet CA Conrad. His reading included selections from his newest publication, the Book of Frank, but most exhilarating and illuminating were his Somatic Poetry exercises. They are built around a set of conditions offered in imperative prose that often resembles a poem itself, filled with obstructions around which to impel the reader to construct a poem. For each exercise he would read first the obstructions and then his poetic response. To give you an idea of the depth and complexity of these exercises i'll include #36, which i saw him read:

#36 CONFETTI ALLEGIANCE
Is there a deceased poet who was alive in your lifetime but you never met, and you wish you had met? A poet you would LOVE to correspond with, but it's too late? Take notes about this missed opportunity. What is your favorite poem by this poet? Write it on unlined paper by hand (no typing). If we were gods we wouldn't need to invent beautiful poems, and that's why our lives are more interesting, and that's why the gods are always meddling in our affairs out of boredom. It's like the fascination the rich have with the poor, as Alice Notley says, "the poor are more interesting than others, almost uniformly." This poem was written by a human poet, and we humans love our poets, if we have any sense. Does something strike flint in you from the process of engaging your body to write this poem you know and love? Notes, notes, take notes. The poet for me in doing this exercise is Jim Brodey, and his poem "Little Light," which he wrote in the bathtub while listening to the music of Eric Dolphy, masturbating in the middle of the poem, "while the soot-tinted noise of too-full streets echoes / and I pick up the quietly diminishing soap & do / myself again." Take your handwritten version of the poem and cut it into tiny confetti. Heat olive oil in a frying pan and toss the confetti poem in. Add garlic, onion, parsnip, whatever you want, pepper it, salt it, serve it over noodles or rice. Eat the delicious poem with a nice glass of red wine, pausing to read it out loud and toast the poet, "MANY APOLOGIES FOR NOT TOASTING YOU WHEN YOU WERE ALIVE!" Take notes while slowly chewing the poem. Chew slowly so your saliva breaks the poem down before it slides into your belly to feed your blood and cells of your body. Gather your notes, write your poem.


His response was direct, crisp, staccato, and carried elements of accusation and of overt remorse. It was also heavily abstract.
My personal response to come, with photoes.