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Great to read this again… thank you FragileKeys
To theorize is only one way to respond to the call to exist. In this post, I’ll contrast it with what I’m calling “poetry.” I’m going to explore what I see as the limit of theory’s usefulness by contrasting it with a poetic-resonant view of words and the world.
To begin with, both theory and poetry are written down in some way. What for? Let’s set aside the idea that the very activity of writing is what generates this diversity or division between theory and poetry, and instead focus on what theory and poetry mean to achieve by being written and shared. I realize that many will object that I am painting with strokes too broad, but so be it. I mean to draw a contrast between ends.
A theory is written down so as to be transmitted in some way. We can say the same of poetry, though elsewhere…
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jackrabbit mind, dashing –
here thick grass of nothingness
there a frenzied masturbation –
to and fro, quick left, jab right,
the daydreams, grief,
and absence fore and aft.
It’s a wonder, this pondering
of its bearings, moorings,
bodies baring everywhere
and not a drop to think.
What drives desire?
Seems pushed and pulled
and craven. Erotically
erratic, playing at its gloom
“it’s nothing,” says the mouth,
always caught between
the breathing and the axons
blood swelling pounding through.
The feral hind leaps out,
ruminate sparkle, devious
flux of concept, fact, or notion,
swimming in emotion,
I always wondered at my naming – “Alias V.” Not knowing where I come from, and finding all locatable Harlequins tricky and at play.
“Alias Verbum” – who would name an infant that? Another name, a word. Also known as, logos. Usually I identify as iota subscript, after Robert Frost.
No one knows my origin, but he’s very hard to find, everywhere, continually on his odyssey.
i‘m reading a book entitled “How Words Make Things Happen.” What have we made? Ideas, spells; subjects, objects, and actions. Incantations all. Beginnings, I suppose, but not the first.
As I understand it, aging along, someone had to be there for me to come about, and coming-about would be my story. Who or what might tell it? Acted, sung, or read? Becoming other after other after other. Known again as… by any other name. The player. The trickster. The Joke.
In the beginning was… and I began, an alias of something… and everything its word.
We could have played other games,
ever so many on offer
whiling the distribution and dissipation
time might be
Yet “I” became,
constructing choices –
believing all the loving –
At least some things,
one knows not what
less (or more)
I never had to pay for words
yet how much my words have cost me
There is (there seems to be):
I am insufficiently prepared
[how each beauty hurts so much in joy]
always sourced with outside
and ever without sides,
filled up, as is.
Differing to ‘I am’
and equaling nows
complete without –
the wolf howls
in woods –
my lingering past –
I never learned what words are for
I don’t know what ‘else’ I might have…to offer