It’s a normal proposition to delineate a reason
For the being of a process that already since begun
Retreading every surface like a wheel spinning in circles
And arriving at a point it thought had never not been done
A discursive lens for pondering, dialectical economies
Begot endless apologies elaborating speech
To try to stick together all that had been strewn about
In the cacophony of meanings that had tried to drown you out
Theoretical submissions closer than you had assumed
Arithmetic operations adding up towards the confused
An algebra of secrecy, a varied aristocracy
A hierarchy of meaning waiting still to be renewed
Rhythm is hypnosis and inflexible on purpose
As a string that’s pulled by gravity is surely rendered straight
On the opposite its tangent wants to rip itself apart
Into a thousand little pieces all as disparate as the stars
A brick thrown through a window, taped inside it was a note
That said all of the things you could have sworn that you had wrote
As if there was a tunnel in the corner of your room
That you could crawl into
And find yourself on the otherside of a life you knew
In the blink of an eye, it was all a bad dream
and I found myself in bed again
a dreamer all along
hands outstretched into the deep blue sky
never to wake again
greeted everyone i ever knew down the stairs
toward the kitchen where mom was cooking & dad was reading news
eggs bacon & toast — rushed to grab it & headed out the door
just like the movies
its all in my hands; i have the power to change this; i have the power to be myself
but i knew it wouldnt last
in the corners of my eyes, film frays at the edges
narrowing my frame into a little box
how many lives have i lived like this — thinking it was real?
when its equal and opposite feels just as unreal?
i dont want to be a symbol, another line in a poem
a metaphor to ponder over;
no! --- this is not poetry, the only difference is the frame
its the same difference between the substance and the name
its a normal sense of purpose though it blinds me to the truth
that when i talk about myself i talk about you too
it’s a symptomatic reason pathologic in its head
A masquerade of masks exchanging glances with the dead
When I ripped apart the sinews and the tendons of the flesh
Amassing schemas crystallized inside a coffin’s bed
A fact redacted anxiously, symphonious facsimiles
Illusions of infinity refracted through a glass
And tides rolled up into the shores in TVs books and other pores
which led us to where we are now inside the new machine
I stumbled through this vision wrapped inside my own despair
I took off all my clothes and I cut off all my hair
Found a treasure chest with my name labeled inside
Apropos of nothing I found where I had to hide
and it fit just like a glove — every memory of you
as if we’d actually had met and you were not just a cartoon
or a vision i had sought when all the angels found my bed
and sewn my body up so i could fake not being dead
it was a lie, acrimonious and hollow in the end
all “the people posturing and playing pretend”
and as one does they start somewhere in this mess
a spiral jetty downwards to eventual catharsis
I force it all to rhyme — take notes: poetry is violence.
Squeeze out every single memory to the point of self-destruction.
Kill every darling you have stolen from the artists that you love —
and pray eventually that it will ever be enough.
Praise me — make me look good when I die on TV.
I’ll immolate myself until you say that you like me.
a cyborgian invention, this hyperflex tension
attenuated circuits mangling all self-reflection
laboriously anonymous repetitive exegesis
cybernetic hyperstitious machinic autopoiesis
But even then, in the stillness — (can you hear it?)
Even now, there’s still the reason...
Even now, through all the ciphers of our youths
and the times we took for despair and hope,
when it was cold in the winter and my hands froze;
in the play and assemblage, whether dreaming or awake —
Even now —