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.

To Be Silent and Speak

I wait and I sleep.

As I silently wait I walk.

How do I walk?

I walk silently.

I sleep little, because I dream,

but I dream quietly when I sleep.

..I'd like to talk about it because its boiling up inside me, I gave up journal writing, because I thought my life was boring. I kept my thoughts though. My autobiography is a history of my thoughts. My thoughts have been useful to me, not right aways though. They seem to need a while to gestate in my notebooks; until, with enough time they reappear and combine with my current state of mind to make a form, or something whole, something I send out into the world

Balance on the centre of a sound until you fall to dream

I was born a fool, and I will grow old a fool, I will only become more devious.

Continuity

All agency is with the auteur, and I think that this is a problem. I don't want all the control, I don't want to know whats coming around the corner, I want to be surprised like my readers. How do I get myself not to look? Sometimes authors can write a novel or a story in such a frenzy that they say they feel like a channel for the story rather than its author. Is that what happens when the author manages to loose control, or lose control? How much should an author read, how much should an author seek adventure?  Well, I bet you these are bad questions and false choices, although they dominate my mind at this moment, I am sure I will ask them of myself again, and all the while keep writing, just as I have before and today.

We are so tiny.

We can't accurately estimate how much we know, nor how much there is to know. I suppose though that the totality of knowledge is proportional to the volume of the universe. But never mind, pride comes before a crash, and today it seems pride is considered a virtue.

Yourself Writing

Come on please,
It's all about you, all about me.
and tonight pretend to understand
people like you,
who I am,
walk another's walk,
in your shoes.

Can I know myself,
when I can be no one else?

A self writing and a self on the page,
a voice on paper and a voice writing..