Waxing Intractable

2/8/2001, 10:48 AM

Hi. I'm on Molly's computer (the one with the strange keynoard problems).

There's a lot that will happen when everything becomes whatever it will be that enables me to support the claims made at the beginning of this very sentence (remember that?).

This will be a brief post.

In mundane news, I am still trying to ken how Blogger works. It seems to be somewhat limited. For one thing, I'd like to have the posts be listed in chronological (rather than reverse-chronological) order--anyone?

For now, I will classify my whole please post comments as fodder for discussion attempt as a failed experiment. Since I've been thinking such a lot about failure these days, I have decided here to post an old poem, from 2002.

a failed haiku

at ten nineteen in the morning this morning; in the face and/or faces of foolishness; in the spirits of our captors and their unintended kindnesses; for the sake of both argument and concord; suspended by our own cables under the thumb of this as-blisterful-as-it’s-infinite ether – i with you am alive and living and we together never have known less

at this exact second that’s now-ago over by, i speak in present tense as if to report from some-or-other scene, but i lie without trying, for the body of time that anything takes in its transit makes it like everything sudden and untouchable i forget why

solitary wanting never roots right and even though it’s written plainly all over our aging bodies it’s never sufficient to cripple a system that banks on there being a next moment and a lot of anothers, all of whom employ different techniques (many of which are tediously mirrored in printed literature) in order to say the same thing: “a new past has arrived and more is forthcoming – try not to think too much about it”

so there

and in that torsion that rending that rapture that rupture that turvy and swerve and inverting, we behave accordingly. we fall in love with someone/something/someone’s things (and it is only a story a portrait in reverse forever and irrevocably partial a mosaic both gray with doubting and radiant with serenity) for what

i could combine into one sentence all of that which everybody knows but doesn’t say and let its broadcast lull me into wherever it is that i am, or combine into one unfairly abbreviated dream all of that which i say without knowing, but a memory’s present is only and ever an irrelevant elegy

New Age against the Machine

1/27/2011, 1:36 PM


I've chosen to stop cusping. It's been ages that something of outrageous substance and/or significance has been "just around the corner," like anybody ever specified which corner, and imminence bothers me, and the things that have done have only been muted by comparison to how they feel in the intractably amorphous alchemy whence they originate. Where have the wires frayed? Is there merely a shyness of signal? I have innumerable carcasses that were never bodies of any kind, and it's a good idea to stop gathering (dust? acorns? senses?).

So, I'm forcing my own hand, and love not knowing what that means or if that means anything. Where do I begin? I was gonna, and have attempted to, write about how dog breeders should be prosecuted (which is true--they're a bunch of profiteering pervs).

Or about how a way to reduce unemployment while solving a myriad of infrastructural crises au courant would be to build an extensive and thorough cross-country network of underground trains, all with subway stops that are each denoted by a Subway™ shop (they already have signage, restrooms, and cash registers). 

Also, I was gonna write about my ages-old wannabe contributions to the Lexicon of Millennial Youth, now that they're older and their innards are rotting just like everybody else's always have (the term chilling like pie filling is the only reasonable antidote to the hopeless moronity of of chillin' like a villain and/or the obscenely insipid chillin' like Bob Dylan). But I won't get into any of that.

Instead, I'm going to celebrate my wife's birthday. She's absolutely marvelous.