Thursday, August 18, 2011


the tickle that leads to a hiccup and the anticipation of the next one.

doors closing and opening or opening and closing or doors stuck somewhere between in an ongoing fluctuation between these two points

arrival and departure, the moment of being aware of going or of having left as well as the moment directly proceeding that first step and the few varied breaths that immediately follow.

crowded spaces - preferably public ones. you are most likely to witness ghostlyhood in the moment in which you realize the divergence between your physical and cerebral locations; the moment in which you unconsciously acknowledge that you can think thoughts that no one in your direct proximity can hear as well as the non-voice, or rather non-verbal, aspect of internal self in which you question or doubt the truth of this mental privacy. The consideration of the possibility that somewhere someone is listening or can at least perceive or tap into these 'private' thoughts from some indeterminable distance. The imagining of one's thoughts (especially those which seem to manifest outside of intention/choice) as transmittable- of creating a kind of mass or wave or graspable or perceivable separateness of thinghood outside of oneself, of floating or flying or wafting or melting or diffusing into the universe of some other space where you are not- or your thoughts as some vaporous substance- radio static - separate from you and still yet a part of you only insofar as the narration that you have perceived via human logic - thinking that proclaims authoritatively that one is connected to that which has emanated from within oneself that the umbilical cord is never, nor can ever be, severed.
symbolic narrative as a filter of perception may be just as tangible and 'real' as ones own feet. are they still your feet if you have lost them to frostbite or had them taken from you - a roadside bomb, a madman with a bloody fetish- or took them from yourself- sharpened flint or a dull steak knife in a camping trip gone sour, or a desperate desire for otherdom of the furry or crystal or pinewood variety? replacement? are they still 'yours' once an otherness enters their former position, fulfills their former function, purely on account of a history of having-once-been of you? (once the black sheep of the family has been made vulnerable to (or sold for) slaughter- do we refer to him still as a member of their tribe? does the local obituary list them as his survivors?)

curation of the self

* real wood vs. particle board and the generally age and weather-worn

*nature vs. nurture. nurture as an element of or revolving/evolving out of nature.

*visible invisibilities and Kafka's friendly ghost

*the political correctness of political incorrectness-turned-kitsch

*poetry (of both the sucky and non-sucky varieties)

*comfort and coddling as a form of survival-huntress-warriorship

*masculinization of feminine magic/witchery

*the orchestration of non-structure; the painterly composition of chaos

*trust in the inevitability of deterioration and revolution/evolution; deterioration as a active dance/movement/action providing evidence of life

homeless wisdom

from a homeless man i bummed a cigarette to on the East River pier:
"you can't put consciousness in parentheses."

1. we do not live in a vacuum; lonliness is an illusion; God is a blanket of wind and sometimes she makes herself known more forcefully or discreetly according to her own whims and whimseys.

2. strangers are that which we perceive as having a capacity to act upon us in unpredictable ways. There is something to strangers as there is to danger; we make ourselves available to be acted upon. Danger can be an addiction. we are capable of being or providing strangerhood for ourselves in a way that suggests we have more control over the situation and its repercussions- however it is not decided whether self-strangerhood/dom is in fact more dangerous or not. everything that is - is merely a perception.

awaken the fire-mind

A clean slate, fresh.
It is true that I begin here now- hazy- spiderwebs and cotton cloth filling any space in my mind.
I am rusty- out of practice-out of devotion and dedication, but today I declare I am ready to clear myself out to awaken the fire-mind.

I am ready to breathe ink-cinders.
I am ready to feed my thought-flames.
My Hot-self. My alive-self.

a burning, sweating self
turned on to this life,


for survival.

Progress: my new whisper hymn.

(i will progress...i will progress...i will progress...i will progress...i will progress...i will progress...i will progress...i will progress...i will progress...i will progress...i will progress...i will progress...)