You. There. You. Here.

A gold, glaring like sunlight, like foil paper,

glints out of the hands, gathered to plead,

like tears with their measure of salt, gleaming

an eye, like the viscous reflecting residue

of pleasure – piss, blood, the living sweats

and leaks, we run, we water the dying.


You there.  You.  There.

Far cries (moans, wails, echoes) from here.

You here.  You.  Here.

Murmurs, whispers, gasps, and laughter.

Breath upon an ear.


Blue radiance from the heart, red running out the vein.

The wheeze that squelches exhale.

Stuttered stumble – each mistake…the trial being

to sketch, to trace, erase.

Once we waved at one another.

Each goodbye a beckon.

And all digress.


Too often, once more… for Thucydides…


Feathers, flowers, for Filbert,

little donkey he must be,

ass-braying poems – silt and muck of muddle,

collecting stones and eyes and sunsets,

almost any gaze.  Almost an acknowledgment.

To be.  For.  Anyonething.  Anywhere.

Once necessary.  Once.


And then more…



The Confession, or, “I am a thing that breaks” – Laurie Sheck

I’ll map it out for you.

No, I’ll inscribe it.

47 cuts (myopic) in everything.

  1. That’s as far back as the lineage has been traced. A patchwork of stitches, genes, and lines (or lies).

Unfinished.  Inability to understand apparatus.  Has not accomplished death.

Librarian, parent: attempts to track, preserve, and access – things precious, silent, useful.

Pseudo-scholar (any otherwise?), thinker: an inability to avoid pollution when considering or engaging relics of world.

If desired sexually, probably will… it depends.

Begins halfway.

Sometimes only in pieces.

Life is hard to figure.  Mostly illegible, as well.

47 marks on anything.

Read what you can, listen.

Smells are.

Skin-shaped textures.  Walks on land.  Occasionally tree or canyon.  Mountain, river, ravine.

As easy to trace as wind.

Whatever being.

Kiss for kiss.  Breathing.

Something (someone?) called “melody.”

Hurts too.


Intimate uncertainty?  Certainly not.  Perhaps.  She would know.

Maybe furry, fuzzy androgyny.

Offspring reveals: “Crow’s a Decomposer.”




What is poet?

Said all things grow, cannot hold, to dust and such.  Singing.

Some might remember.

Touch.  Taste.  Trying.


Loves deeply.  Expects nothing but passing, passage.

Fabricates patterns.

Dances.  Slowly.  Grasslands.  Prairie.

AND.  OR.  NOT.  (every day. moment) +/-?

What equals?


Like erasure.  Accumulation.  Obscurity.



Decomposer.  Lover.  Friend.  Everenemy.



“Love” (used, spoken, felt, lost, wished-for, pondered).


Language, landscape, living organism… perhaps that equals.


Sing “You Fucking Did It”

When does death arrive?  Why?


Glossy haze = language, landscape, living organism.


Children.  Music.  Language.  Elements of play.




Stretched out.  A boy and a girl (E. Whitacre).  A boy and a boy.  Girl upon girl.  They and them.

Exchanging foam.


A poet working a way to an underworld.

Death is.  (a “thing”).  Exists.  =.


Kansas:  what gives silence for silence.

As easy to trace as wind.


Igloo.  Cabin.  Family farm.

DNA.  Bacteria.  Cancer(ous) cellular cell’d activity.


The living.  The dying.


Unfinished undoing.


47 paces toward the dark.


Re-membering foam.


How life gets made.  A ratchet, a sprocket, an engine and a wheel.  Add water.  Fuel to the fire.  Desiccate.


Perhaps it will rain.  A slight ritard.  Some sounding quiet.  Remediate.


Take 47:

Watching flowers blooming to dissolve.  A capture.

Sight slated to dim.  Shuffling ensues.  The stoop.

In a chair nearby, another.  More better for company.  When alone.

Exchanging foam.

47 paces in the fog.

Take three, four, and so on.


Circle round.  Loop back.  Never again.


Easy to trace as wind.


Leaving lights on.

Reading words, far from men.

Lost facilities.  The stakes.

Dwindle toward final.

The effort, the offspring, the progeny.



47 accounts of the night and the wheel-well thickened with road.

Splashes the mill.  Grinds crank.  Pressures to turn,

turning back, away, toward.


47 gaps in the shawl.  Inconnu.

With something like delight.  How to stand before them.

Poeting down for underworld.

Looking back.


Was there ever progress?

Thinks over.

Takes the hand.

Strikes the key.  The 47th.


Saturate for stupid.  Loses steps.  Must wake.

A happy mess.  Weighted results, dependencies, accumulation.

As easy to trace as wind.

Utilizes snow too much.  The rain.

Abandoned places.  What removes.  The melt.  What remains.

The unfinished.  Undoing.  Become.


For ‘I’ is a thing that breaks.


47 footprints from the hands.  The notable.

Swirly ways of working.  Feels like – .

Inspiration hopelessness.  This language.

This living organism.  Landscape.

47 miles to go.  All the cracks and divets.

Bolt after bolt unscrolled as flesh.  Laid out.  Stretched out.  Smoothed.  Sagged.  Ironed.  Smelt.

Felt for quality.  Caressed and examined.

The lonely wonder.  Represent.

47 X x = ?


Confusion persuasive.  Revelation / insight.  Chords resolve.  Dissonance.

Language + landscape + living.  47 measures.

Months go by.  Chairs and couches filled by others’ beds.  Warmth weighs.

Waits on wisdom.  Depletion.  Adventure as excited strain.


Poison intravenous.  Copulating cells and fluids.

Ends of the guilty.  Interpret unfinished systems.  Dis-ease.

The long whine wail across the prairie.  Animal manual.  Wind wires rain.

What gets whispered and transcribed.

Stumbling toward the underworld.  Looking back.

Eyes up, ocean bottom.

Some things are out of hand.

Like danger.

The grey and black.  The dimming.

47 warnings.  The morning comes.


Making it.  Happens.

Diagnoses and analyses.

Shuffles, stumbles, strikes the keys.

Easy to trace as wind.

Chorded coagulation, confounding,

comprehending (very little, almost nothing)

language, landscape, living,

another note tunes the swing on the porch –

inconnu – 

what’s wide open, open wide


Shrewd and undiminished.

Minimize = understanding.

A matter of scale,

for I am a thing that breaks.


47 slices of nothing.

Taking the word(s) further…

Once again Jean Lee ( digs up an old post of mine that was useful for me to revisit… Thanks!

Precipitate Flux

Part the Ninth: At the Thresholds: Afraid

the torture of meaning is the vain and interminable agreement between what there is, on the one hand,

and ordinary language, on the other”

-Alain Badiou-

Fear is the original and basic feeling of man; from fear everything is explicable”

-Friedrich Nietzsche-

Fear is the basic condition, and there are all kinds of reasons why we’re so afraid.

But the fact of the matter is, is that, is that the job we’re here to do is to learn how to live in a way that we’re not terrified all the time”

-David Foster Wallace-

Only reality has frightening us as its goal”

-Helene Cixous-

We produce imaginary causes because an explanation of a thing helps to alleviate the fear of it”

-H.L. Hix-

Our culture likes to think of everything as true or false – this is…

View original post 729 more words

Remembering. Repeat.

To try.

Try to



Stitching together the dismembered, again.

It is “us”?  “That”?  A substance?  A trajectory?

A subject?  A story?  (Fable)?


What might re-member, and re-member what?

Sensations?  Who?  Events?  When?  Experiences?  How?

Is re-membering an aspect of Why?





Where are the members to be re-stored, re-gathered, re-composed, or freshly constituted?


That pre-(before)-fix (secured, pinned, stayed) “re-“.  To do over, again, re-peat.  Peat is a furry humus, a difficult detangling.  Nigh impossible to dismember without caveat or faith.  Some belief in categories or divisions, de-cisions, parts and wholes, composites and particles, atoms, scales, cells, waves or functions… no longer “peat.”  How would one forge that again?


Moist and messy tangle, eons into bog…


I thought.

Thought “it” – “I”.

Knifeblade activity.


Peat.  Re.  Member(s).


Desire.  (Mood?  Emotion?  “Drive”?).


Prompted to thicken.  The caked, flaky, dry – toward some humid, muddy moor.  A memory.


To re-member one must pre-fix.  In order to carve members to append and rivet.  Desiccate to gather.  Continuous forgetting forging together.  Organic?  Decomposition’s ritard?


Where does one go for the matter of “parts”?  Ingredients for concoction, for the rotten mixing and blend.  A meaning dependent on decay.


What is it we spoil in re-membering?


Experiencing.  Out of – perceiving – in to.  Wherefrom, wherefore, this ‘out of’?  And the in-to flows – ?  The membering limn.  The meeting-joints. The fields of grave. Are there objects?  Is it obstacle?  In-to-eruption?  Happen-stance?


Vivisection for autopsy – our arbitrary blade.  Figures cut.  Marking the joins, indivisibly.  Perception.  To sieve-for.  For what?  For whom?  In the mire.



Try to re-member without division.

Immersively, immanently, experiencing… without within, within without.



More fears….

stumbled across this old composition… and realized how little I’ve changed…

Precipitate Flux

This post does not occur formatted as I have written it, but near enough.  The inserted quotations are actually sidebars in the original text, not inserted, but I couldn’t find a way to do that here.  Let me know what you think!

“Fear – No Fear” by Robert Frank

“Experience teaches not to trust experience”after Robert Frank

-Lynne Tillman-

“It may be that to understand ourselves as fictions,

is to understand ourselves as fully as we can”

-Jeanette Winterson-

The “Talking Cure” they called it.


It occurred to me to talk to myself again.

Finally, after five months of my life during which I could write nothing that would have satisfied me and for which no power will compensate me, though all were under obligation to do so, it occurs to me to talk to myself again”

-Franz Kafka,

Diaries 1910-

I’d gotten lost. In images. In…

View original post 947 more words