Signification

Signification is the act of making a relation between a word per se and an object. The word is the signifier of the object and the object is the thing signified, this relation between signifier and signified is called the sign. Signification can only be accomplished by a subject, which is to say by a person. Signs do not occur naturally. The act of signification is the basis of language, and can only exist within language (whether spoken, visual, or otherwise). The study of signs which is semiotics must use language to understand language and as a result has become very cumbersome. In a sense we are trying to come to know ourselves knowing ourselves, and have found that intelligibility beyond language is not within our reach. Julia Kristeva says that we are, “speaking subjects” she equates signifying with speaking, and that this is can be a “capacity for enjoyment.” This is a humbling idea, and seems to complete the discourse of semiotics. If this is the end point of semiotics, then what comes afterwards must be writing, which is the greatest enjoyment one can derive from language.

Writing Myself to Sleep

I am asleep now, even before I found sleep tonight. I feel asleep, my thoughts feel asleep, my eyes feel asleep. The lamp I turned on to write this is waking me up. The refrigerator's noises are pulling me back towards sleep, my eyes burning are evidence I haven't slept at all.

I haven't slept at all. I have been around sleep but I haven't been sure whether I want to sleep. I've been enjoying my fantasies and memories too much to let myself fall to sleep. I am becoming even more awake now. I am starting to feel my exhausted nerves and swollen eyes beat with my pulse. My heartbeat only makes me sure of myself. The tick-tocking of my bedside clock only makes me think of the night. So I can only think right now about myself in the night, myself in my bed, myself next to my lamp. Myself writing to sleep, writing myself to sleep.

Don’t Track Back Me/ And Unmappably Map Me

Don’t track back me, / and unmappably map me.
Don’t keep the collapse / Lastly, track me,
No evermore, lose me / Flash me with flashcards.
Back where you know / Force me to speak
Logically no no / Grab me from behind
Doh, don don / Don’t drag me out
Don’t do that / Don’t do that
Don’t drag me out / Doh, don don
Grab me from behind / Logically no no
Force me to speak / Back where you know
Flash me with flashcards. / No evermore, lose me
Lastly, track me, / Don’t keep the collapse
and unmappably map me. / Don’t track back me,

Regular Words With Broken Geometry

Rereading this stuff feels like sleeping on my dirty sheets. I am daydreamer, I burn away idle hours. I will write out my voice until I get hoarse. I'm writing and struggling to work back, to show myself a few things. I'm getting meaner and I don't really mind. Instruction to follow augments previous instructions, so please let contradictions glide past.

ITSAHORSE

The Times' Whistle: Or, A New Daunce Of Seven Satires: And Other Poems R. C. (Gent.)

The Times' Whistle: Or, A New Daunce Of Seven Satires: And Other Poems
R. C. (Gent.)

Page 23.

the science of 

thought

and the right

of art,

the logic and

steel will of 

force.

A Way Through the Words

I have studied carefully how to speak in confusing and esoteric ways. How strange, my very literacy makes it harder to express myself. It was only by bumping into ideas about rhetoric that I could see a path through the jumble. It is now through my conscience I can recognize the tyranny of rhetoric...

Please Water Me Sometimes


Please write empty things for me


Write me empty writing


Nothing writing to please me


Inquire nothing

The night of day is a blank whiteness, light comes into focus in the dark. We make the light in the dark and it falls away so quickly. Our night lights help us sleep, our porch lights, door lights, garage lights, and street lights make little territories where we huddle exposed. We are blind in the dark with too much light.

The Author is Naked

Everything is happening on the surface, nightmares are reflections of the day fogged by desire.

One is proud who is ridiculous, everyone else looks disheveled. Fictional exits abound but they are trapped. So many are missing toes, each one worse than each other curled up around the corners.

These Writings Overwhelm Me

In the terror increasingly fortified

the starless sky works above

the eve that lifts me up

will pique contentment

around me is a fire

beginning to speak

don’t abandon me

in the world patiently wrapped

I don’t know

didactic, ontology

Does the pavement regard me?

An insane man once asked me,

Who speaks for the street?

I grow dim the closer I get

I’ve lived alone

These Writings Overwhelm Me

He seeks power, at any cost for its own sake. This is his only rule, his only moral. He rewards only those who bow down to him. Their incantations and invocations are truly symbolic acts of servitude and not in themselves magic. His closest human disciples replicate their power relationship with him, with their own followers, therefore he becomes the point of a pyramid of power. He is not cynical, I don't believe he doubts himself, he is sure, at least sure of his near destruction. He lives on the edge of death, reckless, cruel, and trapped.

I haven’t kept much to myself

Have I been honest with myself?

Is there something I wish for I don’t know?

I know what I want

Is there something else?

It must be beyond the reach of a word for it

Does it feel like the fading shadow of a dream?

Is it a feeling?

Is it an idea?

Is it a thing?

Is it a place?

Is it a person?

Is it a book?

Is it a poem?

As I Recede Into the Darkness the Lightness Grows Dim

Laughing far away grips me

and pulls me down closer and

a soft turf raises 

and darkness to meet my 

step as I walk into 

the dark.  I'm snapped forward

and lay sprawled out on the 

grass.