For the Sake of One Good Poem

It is rare that I read something so moving that I feel motivated to find it and post it.

[From Rilke]

"... Ah, poems amount to so little when you write them too early in your life. You ought to wait and gather sense and sweetness for a whole lifetime, and a long one if possible, and then, at the very end, you might perhaps be able to write ten good lines. For poems are not, as people think, simply emotions (one has emotions early enough) -- they are experiences. For the sake of a single poem, you must see many cities, many people and Things, you must understand animals, must feel how birds fly, and know the gesture which small flowers make when they open in the morning. You must be able to think back to streets in unknown neighborhoods, to unexpected encounters, and to partings you had long seen coming; to days of childhood whose mystery is still unexplained, to parents whom you had to hurt when they brought in a joy and you didn't pick it up (it was a joy meant for somebody else --); to childhood illnesses that began so strangely with so many profound and difficult transformations, to days in quiet, restrained rooms and to mornings by the sea, to the sea itself, to seas, to nights of travel that rushed along high overhead and went flying with all the stars, -- and it is still not enough to be able to think of all that. You must have memories of many nights of love, each one different from all the others, memories of women screaming in labor, and of light, pale, sleeping girls who have just given birth and are closing again. But you must also have been beside the dying, must have sat beside the dead in the room with the open window and the scattered noises. And it is not yet enough to have memories. You must be able to forget them when they are many, and you must have the immense patience to wait until they return. For the memories themselves are not important. Only when they have changed into our very blood, into glance and gesture, and are nameless, no longer to be distinguished from ourselves -- only then can it happen that in some very rare hour the first word of a poem arises in their midst and goes forth from them."

Merry Christmas

dreams

fffound these on deviantart

finding things too

found with ffffound

Dis-OWN-ing the digital

Benjamin wrote something somewhere about how one of capitalism's goals is to allow the freedom of expression without changing property relationships. Once our freedom's expressions are reducible to 1s and 0s and can be flickered out with the flip of a switch, it's time to say they've (WE'VE) won. We must confront death at the speed of light in a world of disjointed space and time. I'm disowning the digital. I will use it, but on its terms, in its space - not my own.

- For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.

THEY are going to let me write again

BE
WaRe
Y

Release Postponed: FALL 2008

this is not fun but
this is all fine
müssen nur wollen
and then we'll done.

new things

http://inthisdigitalspace.blogspot.com/

if I should die before I wake

How much would it cost to buy into it?

To get my foot started in the door?

I want to think that art for art's sake

or life for life's sake

of food for food's sake

means something other than

my sake for my sake

but buying into anything means

spending on a Thing

as if my wealth were mine.

realizing that my wealth is not mine

comes even with no wealth at all

so

even if I have a life

it cannot be my own

because that would be cheating.

there are only two ends:

myself or not myself

: Who am I to make much of me?

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softenher

ending with a dis
connect

(

)

with a dis
sipated satis
faction

: two sperate static
factions

both are rightwrong
and rightly wronged
(hoping for wronged
rightly)

and once things are rung and hung and dried
they will feel crisper because we forgot
the fabric softener.

those not ghosts are cocoons of ghosts
but at least the war is over now.
at least now we don't have to list deaths
under Category:Casualties
Category:Collateral Damage
now at least there's no Reason to die.

given the choice between death and taxes
I'll choose to live towards death
and pay my taxes.

at it's finest

precious little
little things to worry about
so i'll stick to the larger
and wiser worries
which include
but are not
in a sense
limited to
but may include
and certainly will
be certainties
before i'm through with
beyond these things
stuck distracting
myself from things
otherwise known as
not being
a waste of
precious little time.

Marbles spilt
on linoleum floors

A chair touches
a paper wall

Minute vibrations
signal something lives

Under the rug.

I remember time when we used to watch films
together
or at least
try
to watch them together.

Here's a wave to the good old days
that are scarcely older than today
and maybe
scarcely better.

Everything works for the goodbetterbest.

You cannot be more passive aggresive than writing.

a toast (pre.emp.tive.ly)

I feel a rift approaching -
one that only needs uncovering
as the foundation's laid and set -
as we're set in motion towards it.

Good luck to you and you
Here's to the new You

cheers.

A toast to last
until we find the bottom of the ravine
and can begin to crawl ourselves out of it.

I won't say that it's unbearable
because it's not un-
bearable.

But it begs to be
to be laid bare
like my own bed
lays
alone.

As I barely
lay my head
and ruffle sheets
before I realize
that sleep will not come soon
enough.

Given a moment before I pass
into dreams
I consume myself
with thoughts of you.

Thoughts of you that
make me feel that next year
will never come
soon
enough.

optimism strains in searching: something real
something almost more than this.
lyrical-ish verses-ish make me uncomfortable
in their inability to express what I feel
-ish
perhaps a signal for turning to prose -
only that too fails here. everything is failing here.
language is falling apart at its seems
as its stitches dissolve
and its insides fall out and begin to unravel themselves.
not uraveling themselves (which would indicate an agency)
but rather that they are themselves unraveling.
unmotivated entirely.

optimism strains in searching for
motivation for anything.

on the bright side

finding yourself between a rock and a hard place

means at least you found yourself.