| ditransitive* |
|
| *She gave him words. |
| (A verb that requires three complements:
a giver, a receiver, and something to be transferred. |
|
| Imprecise speech is one of the major
causes of mental illness in human beings...The inability to corectly perceive reality is
often responsible for human's insane behavior. (Tom Robbins) The word which will not die, should we all perish
in battle. The word can never die on this earth, for it is the heart of it and the
meaning and the glory.
The sacred word:
EGO
(Ayn Rand)
[I Sing the Body Electric]
|
The expression of the body of man or
woman balks account, / The male is perfect and that of the female is perfect. (Walt
Whitman) |
|
|
|
leave
sex alone |
My thin skin is lined |
|
|
With blank pages |
|
|
A fleeting word |
|
|
Gives the impression |
|
|
Of mouth or |
|
|
Eyes |
|
|
Though even the whites |
|
|
Are as white as |
|
|
The teeth |
|
|
Betrayed in a smile |
|
|
Here a story glimmers |
|
|
On a lip The |
|
|
Tip of a tongue |
|
|
An iris around |
|
|
A deep set pupil |
|
|
Here color and life |
|
|
Are vivid |
|
|
|
| All sphincters tighten and the mucus
riding up and down my throat chokes harder, but still I cannot write fiction.
Everything I know is real, like the friction I feel between my pen and paper. |
|
|
leave sex alone |
|
|
|
All that I am |
|
Comes from trained thoughts |
|
And hands |
|
I love that you have a separate breath |
|
And a body |
|
|
| I wrote that last night so it's
out |
|
of my system |
| Systematized and riddled |
| I should always listen to myself |
| And give things more time than it
takes |
|
to get them on paper |
| This is just how I feel most comfortable |
| I just should have heard myself earlier |
| having
already |
|
been seen at my most vulnerable |
| I am strongest when I am naked |
| What does all that physical stuff have
to |
|
do with anything else anyway |
| If you can't take my edgy words |
| Then this obviously won't
work ever |
|
leave sex alone |
|
| I just want to lay my eyes down |
| To rest |
| As if upon some memory of a white moon |
| Without dream or torment |
| I need to want nothing |
| But to lay my weary head down |
| And rest |
| Just lend me a dead calm |
| To ay upon and bind my wrists |
| As is under some full white moon |
| With only blue around the edge |
| As though meant to rest |
| Upon the cadent still embodied in your chest |
| As though upon a white moon |
| No chimes up in the bell tower |
| Lay me down to rest |
|
| The Word: |
|
| All of these poets are dead |
| And I am left |
| Iron standing in mud |
| Treading my wrist |
| To the beat |
| Of white aimless signals |
| That jangle |
| When I turn my little head |
|
| The only symbolic traces remaining |
| Are the strings of diminished liquid pearls |
| The you left around my neck |
|
| I am crouched now |
| In the misuse of metaphor |
| In the terrible ground |
| Where a drop or flood of water means nothing |
| I just died of it |
| In the dry cannibal pot |
| Where men don't fuck |
| And women don't stare |
| man evolved and woman made the err |
|
| absorbed deafness |
| intransitive tracking |
| hip-hop voids in |
| sensitivity owned |
| white open spaces between |
| letters |
|
| "Secrets" is a daily |
| word
/ print |
| and place
is a |
|
step |
|
soft in |
|
pencil work |
| on stationary scrap |
| tongue and ear dumb |
| to margin / redefining |
|
the edge |
|
| I hate that I can't control / communication |
| halt vision |
| One pattern tends to repeat indefinitely |
| on generated re-presentations |
|
| syllabic / in-trapolated, possibly insipid. |
|
| sounds (punctuative / |
| impulse up / Serotonin guide-grid leveled |
| down) |
| drift toward daily compulsion |
| to ritual |
| on to free nerve ending. plused / pulsed. |
| Recreate assimilation. |
|
| Interrogate. quiet rain falling |
| Thick and bright like metallic day |
| Only heavy air slides along the earth |
|
