Spit this out in the workvan yesterday morning. Like most of them nowadays.
vision of reason
I want to occupy your mind,
Make you crawl to me on the ground.
Let's not be stupid and waste time,
It'll always be the other way around.
I'm lost in my thoughts of beautiful music,
where everything has that big carnival sound,
swept up in the dust of friendly faces
and like-minded enemies.
It's been only 17 years,
can we do 16 more?
For a head so full of ferocious intent,
growing bigger and unbalanced.
I don't want your folksy approximations,
names and numbers, please,
to ease my worried mind.
Driving alone again,
again and again, these suburban streets,
have been my only home,
nauseate my haunted dreams,
shaped me into this mediocrity,
where toil goes no further than acceptance.
I love how you live right down the street,
yet you act like we've never met;
duly noted, I'll get lost alone in the snow.
My heavy head looms to the precipice,
like some deranged Kilroy, staggering
to the threshold,
clouding every
vision of reason.
Love the snow,
the way it suffocates
this scent of delusion and hope,
and binds the telling of the tale,
paying the highest cost of being safe and free.
I can't take the sun anymore,
flagged down by boundless stupidity.
Don't give me your vague generalities;
give me the incision nearing my heart.
It's been only 17 years,
give me another 16,
to sweat you out of my system.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
falling off the shoulders of giants
It's sad what has happened to poetry in the last 50 years or so. Where before, it was a select few who outshined all others, now the artform has lapsed into the hands of the masses. This is not to say elitism should be the rule, but the anti-elitism mentality that has swept the genre has, in turn, cut itself loose from the foundation upon which it was built. This not in favor of stagnation; one must always progress, but lacking a proper base, collapse is inevitable. It was in the Reader, I believe, that I read an article on this very subject. The author of said piece, however, was praising the transformation poetry has undertaken where now anyone and everyone is a poet. But are they really? I love music, but I lack any formidable musical talent, so I don't pretend to be a musician. It's more difficult, with a written genre, as we all use language, and thus, anyone can poeticize, right? The market is saturated. There is no point in the idea of being a poet anymore. It's become a pasttime rather than an artform, just some odd antiquated activity with which people occasionally consort.
But what's the point of poetry in the first place. I've always seen it as contradictory: utilizing language to transcend language into a much more profound yet sublime substantiation. It has to move beyond the trappings of the mind and break through into consciousness, and more importantly, to communicate between subject and object in a way inexpressable to the simple mind and concurrent words. Who else in history could have a better, more exhaustingly exacting view, however, than Ezra Pound?
'Good art however "immoral" is wholly a thing of virtue. Good art can NOT be immoral. By good art I mean art that bears true witness, I mean the art that is most precise.'
"True witness" is what gets me here. It conjures up that sense of progress to the profoundly experiential out of the mere referential. This is what all true art aspires to, toils for, is suffered over.
'Colloquial poetry is to the real art as the barber's wax dummy is to sculpture.'
It is not simply a matter of writing in verse, it is a discipline. But I understand that things change. I'm trying not to lament a forgotten era or anything of the sort. It's unfortunate that poetry had to dwindle in stature and relevance so much. It's no longer about the passion and transcendence, now it's about "expression" and acceptance. The aim is altered now. No one strives for such a glorious vision anymore.
It took Pound more than 70 years to finally achieve this, after thousands of poems, countless translations, and the inimicable Cantos, standing monolithic in the vast field of modern art and thought. If you (whoever's still actually reading) ever read the Cantos, it will take time, more than most could ever have patience for, you will see the exemplification of this movement from a barren, anachronistic mentality into the precision of a mind unbound by time, into a pleroma of consciousness. One must sift through a dozen languages, 10,000 years of history and myth, and countless names and places that have lived and existed, some only in idea. But after pushing through the density, one arrives possibly the most beautiful verses ever written, none so unabashed and raw, the essence of language he sought for all these decades.
—‘The hells move in cycles, / No man can see his own end’
-‘A blown husk that is finished / but the light sings eternal / a pale flare over marshes’
‘And as to who will copy this palimpsest? / al poco giorno / ed al gran cerchio d’ombra [in the small hours, with the darkness describing a huge circle] / But to affirm the gold thread in the pattern / . . . / To confess wrong without losing rightness: / Charity I have had sometimes, / I cannot make it flow thru. / A little light, like a rushlight / to lead back to splendour’
(palimpsest = A manuscript, typically of papyrus or parchment, that has been written on more than once, with the earlier writing incompletely erased and often legible.)
It's doubtful anyone will truly grasp the magnitude of his work, or that he even did. Clearly he thought himself a failure at the end, a miserable old incapable bastard. Let's face it, the man himself was not an easy one. Genius like that, more often than not, creates fractures in the personality, making it difficult to differentiate between said genius and other, more ignoble thoughts. He's often cited as a notorious anti-Semite, but it's just not that simple. It's not that he hated Jews themselves, moreso the Judeo-Christian outlook that had seized Western civilization for almost two millennia. He saw the advent these religions as the downfall of the traditional, heroic and mystical way, as the world delved deeper into materialism and money. He wrote a lot on economics, namely how credit is a dangerous thing on such a large scale. But credit couldn't wreck an economy could it?
Pound stated that "maldistribution of wealth due to insufficient purchasing power is the cause of economic depressions. Pound had come to believe that a misunderstanding of money and banking by governments and the public, as well as the manipulation of money by international bankers, had led the world into a long series of wars." (Encyclopedia Britannica)
While his demeanor certainly lent him to be a rather bizarre and sometimes incoherent man, it doesn't get much more prophetic than this. There is only thing that modern civilization operates on: money, moreso the control of the distribution of wealth. It seems to be the primary focus of Americans especially. Your entire childhood is controlled by other people setting you up to be controlled by the dollar. 20 years of school, of pointless "extra-curricular" bullshit, of meaningless structure just to make sure you fit into the scheme of the money-making machine.
And it's all those who find this system insane that are cast out into ignorance, deemed as lone nuts, madmen, fascists, commies, etc. It's so very easy to demarcate someone outside the system in simple terms, simply because they're incompatible. Of course, some people simply are fucking crazy, but how could you know unless you tried to understand? That's one thing this world really needs more of: empathy. Not sympathy, not guilt for situations beyond your control, but basic understanding of others. Everyone's perspective is different, and a universal worldview will never cohere. We lack so much real communication between us.
I've learned, however (the hard way), that if you want others to act a certain way, to think, be a certain way, you will never EVER be satisfied. You can't control your environment, only your perception thereof. And some people will grow more selfish, some become more distant, and some just keep getting lovelier, while some forget you unfortunately, and some you fortunately forget about, your worst enemy might become your best friend again, vice versa, and love is only what you can piece together out of the chaotic hearts and minds of others and what you can connect with, to the ends of your short lives that nothing could ever last longer than in your eyes, or for only a few moments, when all other time, past, present, and future, is spurious at best.
But what's the point of poetry in the first place. I've always seen it as contradictory: utilizing language to transcend language into a much more profound yet sublime substantiation. It has to move beyond the trappings of the mind and break through into consciousness, and more importantly, to communicate between subject and object in a way inexpressable to the simple mind and concurrent words. Who else in history could have a better, more exhaustingly exacting view, however, than Ezra Pound?
'Good art however "immoral" is wholly a thing of virtue. Good art can NOT be immoral. By good art I mean art that bears true witness, I mean the art that is most precise.'
"True witness" is what gets me here. It conjures up that sense of progress to the profoundly experiential out of the mere referential. This is what all true art aspires to, toils for, is suffered over.
'Colloquial poetry is to the real art as the barber's wax dummy is to sculpture.'
It is not simply a matter of writing in verse, it is a discipline. But I understand that things change. I'm trying not to lament a forgotten era or anything of the sort. It's unfortunate that poetry had to dwindle in stature and relevance so much. It's no longer about the passion and transcendence, now it's about "expression" and acceptance. The aim is altered now. No one strives for such a glorious vision anymore.
It took Pound more than 70 years to finally achieve this, after thousands of poems, countless translations, and the inimicable Cantos, standing monolithic in the vast field of modern art and thought. If you (whoever's still actually reading) ever read the Cantos, it will take time, more than most could ever have patience for, you will see the exemplification of this movement from a barren, anachronistic mentality into the precision of a mind unbound by time, into a pleroma of consciousness. One must sift through a dozen languages, 10,000 years of history and myth, and countless names and places that have lived and existed, some only in idea. But after pushing through the density, one arrives possibly the most beautiful verses ever written, none so unabashed and raw, the essence of language he sought for all these decades.
—‘The hells move in cycles, / No man can see his own end’
-‘A blown husk that is finished / but the light sings eternal / a pale flare over marshes’
‘And as to who will copy this palimpsest? / al poco giorno / ed al gran cerchio d’ombra [in the small hours, with the darkness describing a huge circle] / But to affirm the gold thread in the pattern / . . . / To confess wrong without losing rightness: / Charity I have had sometimes, / I cannot make it flow thru. / A little light, like a rushlight / to lead back to splendour’
(palimpsest = A manuscript, typically of papyrus or parchment, that has been written on more than once, with the earlier writing incompletely erased and often legible.)
It's doubtful anyone will truly grasp the magnitude of his work, or that he even did. Clearly he thought himself a failure at the end, a miserable old incapable bastard. Let's face it, the man himself was not an easy one. Genius like that, more often than not, creates fractures in the personality, making it difficult to differentiate between said genius and other, more ignoble thoughts. He's often cited as a notorious anti-Semite, but it's just not that simple. It's not that he hated Jews themselves, moreso the Judeo-Christian outlook that had seized Western civilization for almost two millennia. He saw the advent these religions as the downfall of the traditional, heroic and mystical way, as the world delved deeper into materialism and money. He wrote a lot on economics, namely how credit is a dangerous thing on such a large scale. But credit couldn't wreck an economy could it?
Pound stated that "maldistribution of wealth due to insufficient purchasing power is the cause of economic depressions. Pound had come to believe that a misunderstanding of money and banking by governments and the public, as well as the manipulation of money by international bankers, had led the world into a long series of wars." (Encyclopedia Britannica)
While his demeanor certainly lent him to be a rather bizarre and sometimes incoherent man, it doesn't get much more prophetic than this. There is only thing that modern civilization operates on: money, moreso the control of the distribution of wealth. It seems to be the primary focus of Americans especially. Your entire childhood is controlled by other people setting you up to be controlled by the dollar. 20 years of school, of pointless "extra-curricular" bullshit, of meaningless structure just to make sure you fit into the scheme of the money-making machine.
And it's all those who find this system insane that are cast out into ignorance, deemed as lone nuts, madmen, fascists, commies, etc. It's so very easy to demarcate someone outside the system in simple terms, simply because they're incompatible. Of course, some people simply are fucking crazy, but how could you know unless you tried to understand? That's one thing this world really needs more of: empathy. Not sympathy, not guilt for situations beyond your control, but basic understanding of others. Everyone's perspective is different, and a universal worldview will never cohere. We lack so much real communication between us.
I've learned, however (the hard way), that if you want others to act a certain way, to think, be a certain way, you will never EVER be satisfied. You can't control your environment, only your perception thereof. And some people will grow more selfish, some become more distant, and some just keep getting lovelier, while some forget you unfortunately, and some you fortunately forget about, your worst enemy might become your best friend again, vice versa, and love is only what you can piece together out of the chaotic hearts and minds of others and what you can connect with, to the ends of your short lives that nothing could ever last longer than in your eyes, or for only a few moments, when all other time, past, present, and future, is spurious at best.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
"Enlightenment is a dodgy proposition. It all depends on how much you want to risk. Not money so much as personal safety, precious time, against a very remote long shot coming in. It happens, of course. Out of the dust, the clouds of sweat and breath, the drumming of hooves, the animal rises up behind the field, the last you'd've expected, tall, shining, inevitable, and passes through them all like a beam of morning sunlight through the spectral residue of a dream. But it's still a fool's bet and a mug's game, and you might not have the will or the patience."
-Grand Cohen Nookshaft
Against the Day by Thomas Pynchon
p. 239
One has to wonder if a life of total failure as a possible outcome is worth the most important search in the world: enlightenment, to create a profound brevity of consciousness, imperceptible to those not there. I guess most people just carry on, indifferent to this sort of thing, but my outlook doesn't allow for that. As long as life is seemingly absurd and irrational, my mind will focus accordingly. This viewpoint itself eventually becomes ridiculous and in line with the madness of the world. You fall right into the trappings of these subtle mindgames. Fall right in and become object to your subject. In other words, you're far more fucked than when you started.
Hope certainly isn't lost, though. In fact, hope always dies last. There are companions to be found on this road. D-lysergic acid diethylamide-25, for instance. I certainly wouldn't recommend LSD to anyone, but it certainly worked for me, in the sense of freeing my mind, or rather me being freed from my mind. For the first time, I felt in control of my mind. Before (and since) the first time, my mind was always ahead of me, dictating and deciding before I could even get there, ruining groundwork and souring possible relationships. On LSD, though, I felt completely in the moment; it was me, and only me, living my life, a unity of mind, consciousness and body. I had no fear, no anxiety of all the situations that, in a "normal" mindset, would've made me uncomfortable or bored. All those stresses dissolved over the course of the day. Of course this is just my subjective opinion here, but I believe that for that day, I finally knew what it was like to be mentally clear, unburdened of any sort of neurosis. I could make profound decisions that before seemed so distant and impossible, like ending a very unhealthy relationship that became my worst addiction and my greatest waste of time. Not that I'm bitter toward anyone (well over a couple things, but that's being human), but I just realize that I could've been doing so much more with my life years ago. Let's take a trip back, let's try to figure out what's been tearing me apart all this time.
The earliest matter of pertinent information began, I think, when I skipped first grade. This was at St. Walter's Catholic School, an extremely secular private school. What I mean is that, in religion class, we were taught the metaphorical validity of the Bible. The stories were never meant to be taken literally; they're just guides for life. They even taught us evolution. Anyhow, even before 1st grade, in kindergarten, when it came time to read a story together, I was set aside to read my own story then write a report on it. Already standing apart, the first steps of being "different." Apparently someone higher up believed me to be smart back then, and seeing how old St. Walter's didn't have a gifted program, I was displaced into second grade after two weeks in the first, away from people I had just sort of made a connection with. Ostracizing was instantaneous, as you could imagine. I did not fit, at all. And it certainly didn't seem like I was wanted to fit in, and for all the right reasons, surely: because I'm younger than you, and smarter than you. Thanks, class of the ought, for exposing your insecurities to me repeatedly over 7 years. I learned a lot. Well, to be fair, a couple people were all right (even if I still feel you had adequate desk space), and I have resolved issues over the years, but, overall, I was never a part of you. That has been the pattern: not fitting in with any group.
I think it rather safe to say that this displacement from a somewhat normal standing to being the obvious outsider profoundly affected my outlook on life.
(to be continued, at some point)
-Grand Cohen Nookshaft
Against the Day by Thomas Pynchon
p. 239
One has to wonder if a life of total failure as a possible outcome is worth the most important search in the world: enlightenment, to create a profound brevity of consciousness, imperceptible to those not there. I guess most people just carry on, indifferent to this sort of thing, but my outlook doesn't allow for that. As long as life is seemingly absurd and irrational, my mind will focus accordingly. This viewpoint itself eventually becomes ridiculous and in line with the madness of the world. You fall right into the trappings of these subtle mindgames. Fall right in and become object to your subject. In other words, you're far more fucked than when you started.
Hope certainly isn't lost, though. In fact, hope always dies last. There are companions to be found on this road. D-lysergic acid diethylamide-25, for instance. I certainly wouldn't recommend LSD to anyone, but it certainly worked for me, in the sense of freeing my mind, or rather me being freed from my mind. For the first time, I felt in control of my mind. Before (and since) the first time, my mind was always ahead of me, dictating and deciding before I could even get there, ruining groundwork and souring possible relationships. On LSD, though, I felt completely in the moment; it was me, and only me, living my life, a unity of mind, consciousness and body. I had no fear, no anxiety of all the situations that, in a "normal" mindset, would've made me uncomfortable or bored. All those stresses dissolved over the course of the day. Of course this is just my subjective opinion here, but I believe that for that day, I finally knew what it was like to be mentally clear, unburdened of any sort of neurosis. I could make profound decisions that before seemed so distant and impossible, like ending a very unhealthy relationship that became my worst addiction and my greatest waste of time. Not that I'm bitter toward anyone (well over a couple things, but that's being human), but I just realize that I could've been doing so much more with my life years ago. Let's take a trip back, let's try to figure out what's been tearing me apart all this time.
The earliest matter of pertinent information began, I think, when I skipped first grade. This was at St. Walter's Catholic School, an extremely secular private school. What I mean is that, in religion class, we were taught the metaphorical validity of the Bible. The stories were never meant to be taken literally; they're just guides for life. They even taught us evolution. Anyhow, even before 1st grade, in kindergarten, when it came time to read a story together, I was set aside to read my own story then write a report on it. Already standing apart, the first steps of being "different." Apparently someone higher up believed me to be smart back then, and seeing how old St. Walter's didn't have a gifted program, I was displaced into second grade after two weeks in the first, away from people I had just sort of made a connection with. Ostracizing was instantaneous, as you could imagine. I did not fit, at all. And it certainly didn't seem like I was wanted to fit in, and for all the right reasons, surely: because I'm younger than you, and smarter than you. Thanks, class of the ought, for exposing your insecurities to me repeatedly over 7 years. I learned a lot. Well, to be fair, a couple people were all right (even if I still feel you had adequate desk space), and I have resolved issues over the years, but, overall, I was never a part of you. That has been the pattern: not fitting in with any group.
I think it rather safe to say that this displacement from a somewhat normal standing to being the obvious outsider profoundly affected my outlook on life.
(to be continued, at some point)
Friday, October 2, 2009
purpose
The pattern is beyond apparent. This exasperated poetical progress of the past couple years or so has been interesting. It has the followed the journey of attempting to bring some sort of understanding to a troubled mind (mine, I guess), and the struggle that has occurred. Is there a more difficult journey than the search for mental clarity? There are only two tools one has on this adventure: mind and consciousness. Both are omnipresent, but we are overwhelmingly aware and influenced by our mind, while the consciousness, the truest part of our selves, seemingly slumbers, awake when we dream. On occasion, consciousness permeates the unsteady mind, and in various moments things appear clear and right; they actually make sense! In a world that has almost none!
And I've been trying so hard to bring that world of abstraction out of my head and into the real, onto the page, to create some sort of lasting connection, to make some things truly matter, to make life count, to know what vitality is, to have a world worth living in, people worth dying for.
Will I ever succeed? No one can say. But goddamn it I'll try, for as long as I can write, type, speak, think, I'll carry out these thoughts to whomever will listen, if only for a second. I will find my way, I'll get over all these crippling and crippled obsessions, all these needless attachments that drain and drag on, all these hateful people and faithless ingrates I will overcome and cast them into the past that doesn't change. I will make it. Do it and see it done.
And I've been trying so hard to bring that world of abstraction out of my head and into the real, onto the page, to create some sort of lasting connection, to make some things truly matter, to make life count, to know what vitality is, to have a world worth living in, people worth dying for.
Will I ever succeed? No one can say. But goddamn it I'll try, for as long as I can write, type, speak, think, I'll carry out these thoughts to whomever will listen, if only for a second. I will find my way, I'll get over all these crippling and crippled obsessions, all these needless attachments that drain and drag on, all these hateful people and faithless ingrates I will overcome and cast them into the past that doesn't change. I will make it. Do it and see it done.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
where to start
doesn't it feel strange
to only be the sum
of countless minute constructions
of vibration and frequency
catalyzed by electricity
arising from no place
where does love fit in here
if not in all this empty space
(This is what I do. All the time. It's the only thing that's ever felt right.)
hang it all, there is no way out of here
speak the same words and pretend to care
lies told long enough become sweet and true
could i stop thinking i think i'd make it through
this mess i've built on so many dreams
where nothing i expect is what it seems
and knowing i've only learned two things
to care is to suffer
&
good deeds are the most readily punished
it's all changed so much
hide behind your covers
listen to the flow of the Okkervil
let your heart bleed to another's
read all the books left out of the
Bible
keep on with half-truth and indecision
Pynchon doesn't nearly have the words
to explain my position
the more i try
to change my alignment
the more it diverts
surely this wide world
is not nearly wide enough
to hide my love or conceal my contempt
you were once mine, and that's my only lie
told to make sure I sleep at night
another attempt to keep out the waking light
I get lost in my own worlds
resting weakly
hinged on a single word
I'll never uncover
because I've seen what's good, and left it behind
so many times
all this a callow attempt, to bring myself out
of a chaotic mind
and return to see all of you
trudging along inside my head
without it you'd be dead
it's simple: existence makes no sense, never will
the answer's been right in front of me
since that freezing february
night when up went down
black into white
and could see the full measure of my demise
in three colors
this is for every pen that went dry
for every piece of trash that became treasure
when it accepted my words
you tell me to wear purple
but it's all blues to me
For you, I wrote out my heart, my brain, the pain
in my lungs, blackened with nicotine
burnt carbon and THC, plants from 3000 miles away
hacking up the unease of my stomach
nearing my throat
where the words stop, dissipating into every vein
my blood racing
that I won't drop dead
rushing to my face for that glimpse
for you, I wrote my heart out
sans lechery, the realest measure of what
falls out of my head
I asked if you read anything good lately
"No I haven't had the time."
what else can I say?
that my mind is a flaw, a mistake?
that I fear my love for the world will-
be less opaque
I'll come around full radius
and be no longer a note
bent sharply out of tune
even on the run, lungs pumping acid
I wait for you
all you had to do was ask him
because he who you see is not me
he is bound by indecision
and lethargy
he can't piece together cosmic coincidence
and follow pattern to its meaning
without conscience
he waits in the kitchen
our sun loses feeling
yet my eyes
still shrinking to pinholes
and I'm choking on the light
it's the same with you
as I slip down
over the side
out of this town
to only be the sum
of countless minute constructions
of vibration and frequency
catalyzed by electricity
arising from no place
where does love fit in here
if not in all this empty space
(This is what I do. All the time. It's the only thing that's ever felt right.)
hang it all, there is no way out of here
speak the same words and pretend to care
lies told long enough become sweet and true
could i stop thinking i think i'd make it through
this mess i've built on so many dreams
where nothing i expect is what it seems
and knowing i've only learned two things
to care is to suffer
&
good deeds are the most readily punished
it's all changed so much
hide behind your covers
listen to the flow of the Okkervil
let your heart bleed to another's
read all the books left out of the
Bible
keep on with half-truth and indecision
Pynchon doesn't nearly have the words
to explain my position
the more i try
to change my alignment
the more it diverts
surely this wide world
is not nearly wide enough
to hide my love or conceal my contempt
you were once mine, and that's my only lie
told to make sure I sleep at night
another attempt to keep out the waking light
I get lost in my own worlds
resting weakly
hinged on a single word
I'll never uncover
because I've seen what's good, and left it behind
so many times
all this a callow attempt, to bring myself out
of a chaotic mind
and return to see all of you
trudging along inside my head
without it you'd be dead
it's simple: existence makes no sense, never will
the answer's been right in front of me
since that freezing february
night when up went down
black into white
and could see the full measure of my demise
in three colors
this is for every pen that went dry
for every piece of trash that became treasure
when it accepted my words
you tell me to wear purple
but it's all blues to me
For you, I wrote out my heart, my brain, the pain
in my lungs, blackened with nicotine
burnt carbon and THC, plants from 3000 miles away
hacking up the unease of my stomach
nearing my throat
where the words stop, dissipating into every vein
my blood racing
that I won't drop dead
rushing to my face for that glimpse
for you, I wrote my heart out
sans lechery, the realest measure of what
falls out of my head
I asked if you read anything good lately
"No I haven't had the time."
what else can I say?
that my mind is a flaw, a mistake?
that I fear my love for the world will-
be less opaque
I'll come around full radius
and be no longer a note
bent sharply out of tune
even on the run, lungs pumping acid
I wait for you
all you had to do was ask him
because he who you see is not me
he is bound by indecision
and lethargy
he can't piece together cosmic coincidence
and follow pattern to its meaning
without conscience
he waits in the kitchen
our sun loses feeling
yet my eyes
still shrinking to pinholes
and I'm choking on the light
it's the same with you
as I slip down
over the side
out of this town
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