How in the world

The world is a weighted haunting –

– some complex surround –

to be dreamt and/or measured, and felt

with-in time

I amended the ‘haunting’ to be –

not the thick and illegible “world,”

but the compulsion of ‘figuring-out’ –

for with-out

the ‘figuring out,’

an ‘haunting’ is ghost –

and only just happens:

a nexting,

a breathing,

relation;

a missing,

a moving,

a touching,

a feel:

in convulsion.

 

Within which is conceived a convergence –

event

(some humanish word for ‘what’s happened’).

This ‘we’ –

what is it?

what part does it play

in the muddle?

And ‘what happens’

what means?:

That-which-is

(for us)

some occurring.

 

So diverge,

and tri-verge,

multiply in the mess –

the ‘world,’

as you feel it

and think it

and be –

 

how it wholly

might be

with itself.

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Fragment: Brief Conversation

“How come language (or drinking) makes the pain of language (or drinking, or relationships) go away, recede, soothe…and then becomes language (drinking, relation) and its pain…again?” he asks.

I smoke.  I look at him.  He is examining (with obvious pretend furtivity) my pale, smoothe legs, coming out of my singular light dress.  At my arms, my skin, my cheek and throat, my hair.  Lasciviously thoughtful, he.  Almost curious.  Almost authentic in his desire.

He is trying to daydream.

I am trying to be.

We are drinking now.

I am young, he less so.

Or neither.  We do not know.  Anyone can be so near their end.

So the story goes…

“The world smells good,” he says, and the delectability to the nostrils clearly depended on death: burning wood, smoking pig, a nostalgia of forests…

I knew not what I felt.  Mixtures.  Pleasures and sorrow.  Excitement and fear.  Doubt.  I did not respond, just masked placidly.  Pleasantly, I hoped.  Ambiguous.  And what does he sense?

Making Words

My dear friend @ Jean Lee’s World (https://jeanleesworld.com/) resurfaced this to me from more than 5 years forgotten… I don’t suspect I could say it any better today… thank you any/all who engage my lettered objects.

Precipitate Flux

Action: Writing

Woven in the circles of making, I felt and I thought, I wrote (I thought) “What is called writing?”

An action, a process, a braiding of becoming.

In that way it is like breathing, sensing, walking.

Also not.

I wouldn’t, for instance, “do it anyway” – wasn’t born with the instinct of muscle and nerve to be verbal, textual.  I needed other people for that, and the whole history of the world, and the tiny stories of my community and location.  All those things, all those “others” – elements and entities NOT me trained me to language.  Taught me to “mean’ something with a sound or a gesture, out of an enormity of possible sounds and motions, infinite and miniscule in their variety.  So that I utter and behave as a Kansas boy raised in the 1970s in the United States of America; I can say “what” about…

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Rough Draft: “Compatible Solitudes”

Let’s do it this way:

in silence

near, breathfeeling

as if we knew

.

everything

there is to know

without

accumulating

the decay

shared knowing

becomes

.

Let’s be together –

in quiet

this time

without

plugging our ears

with talk

.

the more we know

the less,

and more

we wish we didn’t

.

as if intimacy

were a relation

we have with mirrors

loving everything close

the ways we love ourselves –

not much.

Labor Day

“To begin with, he would know nothing”

– Maurice Blanchot –

I was just wondering how we might use the abilities of language to end talk.

The silence of a raised hand, yet still a sign.

“To begin with, he would know nothing,”

in other words, a not-even-what that cannot be known.

The same one-of-us who “to express the ineffable” : a wisdom in oxymorons.

What I strove for as an end.

.

“You go further into the blank paper” (L. Levis)

Perhaps with no further to go, unless there’s another side.  A side that is empty.  Which side is that?

Two hands, almost transparent, indecipherable and meaning.

.

When she says “yes” or “now,” he hesitates.  Pause created by language.  A ruin.

Some vaccine made of words?  Is that a poetry?  A philosophy or wisdom?

I’ve heard musical compositions that seem more silencing than sound.  Breeze over stone.

No one heard.  I was writing.

“To begin with, he would know nothing” (something silent, attributed to a name, representing a person, whom no one could find).

.

Antidotes.  Self-negation.  Freudian dreams?  Something curing itself…ministered in doses.  It’s dangerous.