“I is Another” (or pronouns as shifters; after Jon Fosse)

Like the first,

the every new

dependent of change;

agent of again,

now this

.

the starting

that continues

into while

.

its struck

and tumbled

and keeps rumbling

a murmured name

.

an other, again,

an I, again,

iota, (the smallest mark),

now this

Promptings

Now we scrape away the hair.

this is the act of remembering;

new growth.

Next we explore the beauty –

of women, of plants, of men,

and other things;

of rocks, of beasts, and everything.

This is called rejoicing –

often emitting in sighs, and songs,

and pain –

And so we slice our flesh –

joining the inside with out

through searing and drowning,

the fluids, the ashes –

This is how we mourn.

.

And morning still comes,

the seeds, sperm, germs,

and dawn all continue

their leakage and drift,

And thus we are released –

like tears,

like dust,

And something absorbs

it all:

the hair, the blood,

the love, the screams,

the differences and repetitions

of traumas and loss

such awesome gains

each beauty its’ evening,

And so we reach –

receiving

“Now” “again”: or, desire in times of control

The times are not easy.

Time never was.

Yet we insist

on enumerating

our lack of control,

unknowing…

.

“God,” we say, (in 3 digits)

“atom” at four, or the “facts” being five,

“knowledge” (as 9) over

“wisdom” – contrived in 6 letters

resembling “power” (which is slightly less-than) –

.

pretending we’re nearer

a “truth.”

Splintering this countless discourse

making babble –

pathways dividing again and again

.

Not to worry,

No-One,

least not here,

never there, nary hereing

we strive to forget –

.

the small fractions

we are,

even increments fail –

our instrumentation –

excrement turning to soil.

.

We say on,

calculating

in terms.

Splits on a dial

or bits switching voltage

to light

and/or sound –

inexplicably deafblind

we human – perceiving,

depleting, reduce.

.

The times never easy,

or real,

and all barely broken apart –

what we call the “fantastic”

(9 marks) nearly actual

.

what goes on

is a “now” and “again”

without ceasing…

a particle-waving

at sea

and to stars

.

an endlessness

born of its end.

On Thinking

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

machine, unhinged

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,

nothing known.

Nil

We could have played other games,

ever so many on offer

whiling the distribution and dissipation

time might be

.

Yet “I” became,

constructing choices –

the parenting,

the poetry,

philosophy,

and family;

addiction,

restriction,

believing all the loving –

each complicity

.

To be

.

At least some things,

anything,

.

everything

one knows not what

.

but still

less (or more)

than nil.

With Out

I never had to pay for words

yet how much my words have cost me

.

There is (there seems to be):

.

Experience.

.

I am insufficiently prepared

for it.

[how each beauty hurts so much in joy]

I am.

.

Ever unprepared:

.

Experiencing –

.

always sourced with outside

and ever without sides,

filled up, as is.

.

This is

.

Differing to ‘I am’

An other

Any

other

.

All thens

and equaling nows

complete without –

.

the wolf howls

bear bellows

in woods –

.

my lingering past –

.

with out.

.

somehow

I never learned what words are for

so

I begin

.

Again

almost

Drunk Like a River in Flood

Swelling my banks,

perturbedly turgid,

effervescently carbo-

nated, almost,

(or perhaps it’s entire…

depending on who

&/or what you believe,

with their reason…)

Swollen, in flow,

a thundering racket,

flotsam and jetsam

I wail at the bends.

A “bender” they call it.

I’m here, all the while

passing through. 

Drenched (or “besotted”) –

the rain.

I am home

and I’m rushing

to-ward and away,

instinct with desire,

for which fire

is no  match,

only patience…

I’m a patient

and ill to the bones…

you will see.

But I gurgle

these songs

as I pass..

filled with belches

and farts,

it’s unseemly…

Drunk

like a river

in flood

[too apparent] –

here’s

where the poem

begins

Some Kind of Elegy

Great grandeur of light

Your laughter tinkling its tent

A poet has died

Like a raven

We watch him pass

Rivers and trees

There’s probably more

Words

Are like that

– suspended –

Over silence

You’ve heard her

Read the dictionary…

Everyone disbelieves

Only I drink it in

 – sufficiently –

Everyone’s doubt

Grand Canyons

are like

the unknown

we feel

of any other

(or each)

I put clothes on

have hairs trimmed

appear

and once again

guess at meanings

In other words

I “care”

insofar as an organism

hopes to live

Which I continue

to exhibit

because I think

I love

you

And no one knows

Not-knowing (yet)

What “love” is

“Yet” such an

Empire-ical promise

(some day our greed

will pull through) –

you hear it:

“I love you”:

that evil

devoted

inspired

and diabolical

urge, disturbed

and ravishing

As long as

we win something

we’re almost happy