don’t really know why I’m writing you or why I’m writing at all, since writing that remains unread is like a poem without a reader, or a forlorn dream, sad, forgotten, abandoned. It might even sound desperate if it appeared to arise as a surprise, like something bizarre, some artifact of derangement, a fire caught in a sculpture of water, like Romeo and Juliet’s speechless speech, for instance, endlessly speaking in the silence that is under water. Mightn’t there be a hint of desire in it too, but it’s too early to tell, or too sublime, too ethereal, digital, abstract like an endless comma or the stutter of an ellipsis, a type of speech that doesn’t reach its destination, music on the radio overheard in the interstices of channels when surfing for more. Surely, this is meaning of desolation, a post-modern extreme, hovering in between nowheres, a desire not even to look for or looking like that queer bird ‘u-to-pia’… only me, here, a flutter disturbing me. Me as a message for you that you may never read, or, a message read, then, just as soon fled.
once the words ceased to matter to me, their repetition and decipherment, and language as it was written, spoken, and thought about, ceased to be other than a kind of music, only then, did I seek a new beginning…
But, how do I know ‘you as muse’ exists? How do I know there’s a voice behind ‘the sounds and sense’ the sentence makes, someone listening/reading to these stuttering utterances of failed speech? Wholly inadequate to the task of living, I hold to no words of guarantees even in the after-life. Condemned to Markov’s chain, my cognitions no longer seek re-cognition, in after-worlds antecedent to chance. Despite this, I seek for you, like a cry in dimensionless space(s). I am repeating myself now, in the silence that greets us when that time we read upon Dante’s turning page, it is/was written ‘and then, and then, they read no more that day…’
On that day of the perpetual turning, the angelus of such things as kisses in far away places, hidden for the most part or no longer visible, perhaps they never were, except shimmering above it all, like the vigilance of a bird caught in mid-flight, its wings haunted still by the hunter’s eye or by another’s in a gesture of surveillance. Perhaps, love surpasses these and lovers still. The medium entraps, then dis-entangles us. And these slow motion diminishings, receding in time, decompose as though they had never been.
And for sepia she turns, but a little more read then normal.
We speaktalk lang-edge, and by this I mean in a tense of no future but that of a consonant that is not followed by a vowel.
What about Maslov in language, is the eulogy one that is provided, given a circumstance of grieving? And yet about eulogy as peacemaker wordmacher on highest only to an uploaded heart of an infantry of updates?
Where would the 1400′s have been without eulogy? For it is from man to god, yet priest is a god, is he not on earth to preach, give bread, drink wine?
A combination on a locker is 6.17.23, do you know what time it is?
in crucible of post-death: nothing remains of the heart except love, love itself, mea maxima culpa. this notion confounded me, until, in spite of myself, I scaled the form… unable to be a priest or medium for the same,
unable to download new life, I came to accept myself as one of the fallen, undead, mourning the passing away of the future, stillborn, before it had ever been and the present too without any chance of recovering simple speech: thus, from lamentation to past grieving..i passed the second gate. flotando, suspension in the elemental void, only the essence of sleep awaits me… Did I share in your open spaces? Perhaps, for a moment perhaps. Shy as my question was, I phrased it wrong: technology will never know me, nor will my voice remain but a scroll of indecipherable words, castaways of oblivion, desolate among the debris, detritus of the digital insouciance… segue, contingent among so many absences, waitings, sojourned amidst shadows, deafening silences, just to know if you, finally, existed. I didn’t know if the formula was correct and I didn’t even know it had a name, but by some miraculous combination of the earth, water and fire, I found it, hidden in the cascades of your hair, in the rivulets of your voice broached by the gods…
but as soon as the storm lifted before my eyes, as if awoken from a strange ancient dream of recollected time, in midstream, I heard him reciting his silent prayers
the beadsman’s fingers’ chimed, in the stillness
mist intoned..
CAMERA LUCIDA DIGITALIS
Like an exhausted tear
or like wood, draped in mist
she surprises you
She is a blur
digitally touched
a character hastily scribbled together
shall we?
Mustaches and beards
some beads and dark glasses:
are you a hippie inspector?
Time’s mocking their undressing..
among geese
and corridors of snow
the silence is
sharp shooting
and in a few moments, the rosebud..
still unripe
small in senses connubialis
and yet most definitely red,
as still as the four points of light
of the satellite’s iridescence…
the bird pecks,
my twin climber
in thoughts epicene,
hovering there in perpetual summer
for the scent of dawn in anaglyph
a kiss in triplicate
flutters her feathers still;
poised at pause..
in a few moments the rose
will be all rose and red
but for now sufficient
in amarinth affidavit
this is where the angels meet
with their spiked eyelashes against the blades of sun
wars of heaven on heaven
in cool embrace
I make a fuss about the trees,
dancing above the gravestones,
her memories bounded by walls and buildings
speechless
in the guts of the wind’s scream
I measured the hows
by the shifting shadows of the curling
railing
and shy doorways
somehow, I made it thus far
to breakfast, the newspaper and coffee cup
the cutlery ready
upon an old tablecloth
while the pigeon floated
against daylight
I refused to give it away:
the light streaming through,
the French doorway,
the married couple, kissing…
and the balcony of cigarettes
I held her hands on the bed
like a homeless man
who had found a lake with mountains
disappearing into the rain
the seats at school
kept me gliding
to this announcement
of chandeliers I’ve been
seeking for..
The sun behind me
in partial darkness,
I rebuke your shortened radius
and radio contact lost
on the dark side of the moon
I was leaving earth’s gravity
and my camera’s self-wounding
took you in, in one rotation,
inside the time-lapse of one day..
there to the left, there to the right
the probability of myself spreading out
as if there was no more to me than empty space
an expanding height and breadth
in winter’s exhalation
why don’t I fall through everything, then,
how many times must I re-visit you
where I am;
for you to know me,
and me to know you..?
since everything that has ever happened
has happened on that pale blue dot,
all the triumphs, all the tragedies
all the wars and all famines,
all major advances, etc..
why do I still seek you ..
in the particular solidity of your home
in the particle, the size of a blue pebble?
I would exchange myself
with the air you caressed
& fuse with the earth’s music to arrest you
and let my breath traverse the distances
hemmed in
by speechlessness
since light needs no medium.
So I shall never stand still, always
dissolving myself in your movements,
our love laboring along the lines
of your valoration,
like the arches of the eagle’s flight
against the prodigious memory of the sun
impressions best protected in the shade…
but, the composition is subjective,
artificial,
without emphasis or gesture.
I don’t see your face, or your body;
only androgynous sleep
superimposed on innocence,
dreamy wings
among ghosts not yet departed
eclipses,
tendencies only,
soft-tipped as ifs, as if we had already
drawn the faintest of virtuous lessons;
caressed them like old friends,
feigning the truth with falsehoods clung to
blown in by numberless seas
between shadow and substance
drawn, to this distinction,
among suspensions of white light
& tinted distances,
amid memories defrayed
but just as sweet
as this moment,
to this moment, then, salud…!
& your visits consoled me
when I couldn’t trust anyone,
and your flowers
from the meadows wore me out
of my seclusion
I was the joker
and the dancing clothes
on the washing line,
where the light refused to die
I would understand this
in the morning
when I awakened,
when there was not enough time to pray
Coursing through you
it was enough that I remembered myself
as a book lying open at mid-day
analogous to a season of stars
deciphered or combusting in full flight
mourning the thing and its properties
against time and indifference
dancers
expectant
first dance
chance steps taken in the turning
numberless dreams among them
realized in the tendency to deferral
scented with the virtues climbing
over the walls of time,
the past’s insolvent waves,
hardened streets,
and deserted dreams,
yielding to the earth
after death..
I walk alone to catch up with you..
an old man
with snowflakes of honey
and random signals
burning my cigarette to sleep
if I did nothing
perhaps then..
the question will collapse
into an outline of answers
each one Holy Writ
come down into the roaming snow
or the empty frame
some years later
when the sadness had to come
I would be healed
like the bear
singing for his lair
& I will write you from my mementos of bone,
the words…
‘I will never forget you’
and like the puppy’s sleepy eyes
hiding among the rough grass
in untouchable isolation
through tunnels,
out of cages,
like a burst of freedom
or the ghost of a star
clearing jaded clouds
accountable:
in 1 hour and 49 minutes
I will lament for the ocean,
beseeching the council of tides,
rise, so she would
rise for herself,
to the question:
don’t really know why I’m writing you or why I’m writing at all, since writing that remains unread is like a poem without a reader, or a forlorn dream, sad, forgotten, abandoned. It might even sound desperate if it appeared to arise as a surprise, like something bizarre, some artifact of derangement, a fire caught in a sculpture of water, like Romeo and Juliet’s speechless speech, for instance, endlessly speaking in the silence that is under water. Mightn’t there be a hint of desire in it too, but it’s too early to tell, or too sublime, too ethereal, digital, abstract like an endless comma or the stutter of an ellipsis, a type of speech that doesn’t reach its destination, music on the radio overheard in the interstices of channels when surfing for more. Surely, this is meaning of desolation, a post-modern extreme, hovering in between nowheres, a desire not even to look for or looking like that queer bird ‘u-to-pia’… only me, here, a flutter disturbing me. Me as a message for you that you may never read, or, a message read, then, just as soon fled.
i have three claws preserved in a jar,
Dear Keni,
Your words survive as a medium
Claws worn in, as hooves
You create the media of language
How can you explain how you claw
Technology?
What is left inside of the claw in the afterword of your work/ the after life?
Respond to be known
How did you find this blog?
Forever the spaces that fill the name
M E G A N
once the words ceased to matter to me, their repetition and decipherment, and language as it was written, spoken, and thought about, ceased to be other than a kind of music, only then, did I seek a new beginning…
But, how do I know ‘you as muse’ exists? How do I know there’s a voice behind ‘the sounds and sense’ the sentence makes, someone listening/reading to these stuttering utterances of failed speech? Wholly inadequate to the task of living, I hold to no words of guarantees even in the after-life. Condemned to Markov’s chain, my cognitions no longer seek re-cognition, in after-worlds antecedent to chance. Despite this, I seek for you, like a cry in dimensionless space(s). I am repeating myself now, in the silence that greets us when that time we read upon Dante’s turning page, it is/was written ‘and then, and then, they read no more that day…’
On that day of the perpetual turning, the angelus of such things as kisses in far away places, hidden for the most part or no longer visible, perhaps they never were, except shimmering above it all, like the vigilance of a bird caught in mid-flight, its wings haunted still by the hunter’s eye or by another’s in a gesture of surveillance. Perhaps, love surpasses these and lovers still. The medium entraps, then dis-entangles us. And these slow motion diminishings, receding in time, decompose as though they had never been.
I wished her in all the wrong places, sepia toned
And for sepia she turns, but a little more read then normal.
We speaktalk lang-edge, and by this I mean in a tense of no future but that of a consonant that is not followed by a vowel.
What about Maslov in language, is the eulogy one that is provided, given a circumstance of grieving? And yet about eulogy as peacemaker wordmacher on highest only to an uploaded heart of an infantry of updates?
Where would the 1400′s have been without eulogy? For it is from man to god, yet priest is a god, is he not on earth to preach, give bread, drink wine?
A combination on a locker is 6.17.23, do you know what time it is?
in crucible of post-death: nothing remains of the heart except love, love itself, mea maxima culpa. this notion confounded me, until, in spite of myself, I scaled the form… unable to be a priest or medium for the same,
unable to download new life, I came to accept myself as one of the fallen, undead, mourning the passing away of the future, stillborn, before it had ever been and the present too without any chance of recovering simple speech: thus, from lamentation to past grieving..i passed the second gate. flotando, suspension in the elemental void, only the essence of sleep awaits me… Did I share in your open spaces? Perhaps, for a moment perhaps. Shy as my question was, I phrased it wrong: technology will never know me, nor will my voice remain but a scroll of indecipherable words, castaways of oblivion, desolate among the debris, detritus of the digital insouciance… segue, contingent among so many absences, waitings, sojourned amidst shadows, deafening silences, just to know if you, finally, existed. I didn’t know if the formula was correct and I didn’t even know it had a name, but by some miraculous combination of the earth, water and fire, I found it, hidden in the cascades of your hair, in the rivulets of your voice broached by the gods…
but as soon as the storm lifted before my eyes, as if awoken from a strange ancient dream of recollected time, in midstream, I heard him reciting his silent prayers
the beadsman’s fingers’ chimed, in the stillness
mist intoned..
CAMERA LUCIDA DIGITALIS
Like an exhausted tear
or like wood, draped in mist
she surprises you
She is a blur
digitally touched
a character hastily scribbled together
shall we?
Mustaches and beards
some beads and dark glasses:
are you a hippie inspector?
Time’s mocking their undressing..
among geese
and corridors of snow
the silence is
sharp shooting
and in a few moments, the rosebud..
still unripe
small in senses connubialis
and yet most definitely red,
as still as the four points of light
of the satellite’s iridescence…
the bird pecks,
my twin climber
in thoughts epicene,
hovering there in perpetual summer
for the scent of dawn in anaglyph
a kiss in triplicate
flutters her feathers still;
poised at pause..
in a few moments the rose
will be all rose and red
but for now sufficient
in amarinth affidavit
this is where the angels meet
with their spiked eyelashes against the blades of sun
wars of heaven on heaven
in cool embrace
I make a fuss about the trees,
dancing above the gravestones,
her memories bounded by walls and buildings
speechless
in the guts of the wind’s scream
I measured the hows
by the shifting shadows of the curling
railing
and shy doorways
somehow, I made it thus far
to breakfast, the newspaper and coffee cup
the cutlery ready
upon an old tablecloth
while the pigeon floated
against daylight
I refused to give it away:
the light streaming through,
the French doorway,
the married couple, kissing…
and the balcony of cigarettes
I held her hands on the bed
like a homeless man
who had found a lake with mountains
disappearing into the rain
the seats at school
kept me gliding
to this announcement
of chandeliers I’ve been
seeking for..
The sun behind me
in partial darkness,
I rebuke your shortened radius
and radio contact lost
on the dark side of the moon
I was leaving earth’s gravity
and my camera’s self-wounding
took you in, in one rotation,
inside the time-lapse of one day..
there to the left, there to the right
the probability of myself spreading out
as if there was no more to me than empty space
an expanding height and breadth
in winter’s exhalation
why don’t I fall through everything, then,
how many times must I re-visit you
where I am;
for you to know me,
and me to know you..?
since everything that has ever happened
has happened on that pale blue dot,
all the triumphs, all the tragedies
all the wars and all famines,
all major advances, etc..
why do I still seek you ..
in the particular solidity of your home
in the particle, the size of a blue pebble?
I would exchange myself
with the air you caressed
& fuse with the earth’s music to arrest you
and let my breath traverse the distances
hemmed in
by speechlessness
since light needs no medium.
So I shall never stand still, always
dissolving myself in your movements,
our love laboring along the lines
of your valoration,
like the arches of the eagle’s flight
against the prodigious memory of the sun
impressions best protected in the shade…
but, the composition is subjective,
artificial,
without emphasis or gesture.
I don’t see your face, or your body;
only androgynous sleep
superimposed on innocence,
dreamy wings
among ghosts not yet departed
eclipses,
tendencies only,
soft-tipped as ifs, as if we had already
drawn the faintest of virtuous lessons;
caressed them like old friends,
feigning the truth with falsehoods clung to
blown in by numberless seas
between shadow and substance
drawn, to this distinction,
among suspensions of white light
& tinted distances,
amid memories defrayed
but just as sweet
as this moment,
to this moment, then, salud…!
& your visits consoled me
when I couldn’t trust anyone,
and your flowers
from the meadows wore me out
of my seclusion
I was the joker
and the dancing clothes
on the washing line,
where the light refused to die
I would understand this
in the morning
when I awakened,
when there was not enough time to pray
Coursing through you
it was enough that I remembered myself
as a book lying open at mid-day
analogous to a season of stars
deciphered or combusting in full flight
mourning the thing and its properties
against time and indifference
dancers
expectant
first dance
chance steps taken in the turning
numberless dreams among them
realized in the tendency to deferral
scented with the virtues climbing
over the walls of time,
the past’s insolvent waves,
hardened streets,
and deserted dreams,
yielding to the earth
after death..
I walk alone to catch up with you..
an old man
with snowflakes of honey
and random signals
burning my cigarette to sleep
if I did nothing
perhaps then..
the question will collapse
into an outline of answers
each one Holy Writ
come down into the roaming snow
or the empty frame
some years later
when the sadness had to come
I would be healed
like the bear
singing for his lair
& I will write you from my mementos of bone,
the words…
‘I will never forget you’
and like the puppy’s sleepy eyes
hiding among the rough grass
in untouchable isolation
through tunnels,
out of cages,
like a burst of freedom
or the ghost of a star
clearing jaded clouds
accountable:
in 1 hour and 49 minutes
I will lament for the ocean,
beseeching the council of tides,
rise, so she would
rise for herself,
to the question:
what is life?
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