Now and in the hour of our deaths, the radical effervescence of what men call the Spirit—its gradual dissipation of this world into combusting irreducible elements: it decides that I am dust walking, a mania of scattering dust: a body spent its whole lifetime in crouched stillness, anticipating movement, trying to get itself up out from under the earth, which seems always to defeat us. For The Deep Heat Lifts Us Up From The Earth, we Wither, and it is called Glory—; or, “You lift me up and I carry your body to this place and we x, and it tumbles down madness because y, and O how does a body survive the destruction? Oh, as we were young (only the young bring anything new in, and they are not young very long) and easy in the mercy of its means (and what is new is always true), Time held us green and dying though we sang in our chains like the sea!
And we have drifted into the Future, you and I, and so we’ve come here from a haunted wood, children afraid of the night who have never been happy or good: a dark wood (that leaf-encumbered forest, the soul) where the straight way is lost, and it’s just this—and what’s left of it? Broken jaw of our lost kingdoms—Lo! As if possessed by magic powers, the monster Time had blinded us to his real intentions! We victors stand guard over an empire of rats! A counted number of pulses only is given to us, a plot—of data; therefore, aye, therefore poetry must enact a wholesale renunciation of this world, not only because it is intrinsically evil or fallen, but also and consequently because all that it can offer is never enough for these craving hearts. O Human Creature: such a song & dance—a song; a Song, to push the glaciers back.
So push we the glaciers BACK! Push at the Strange Ice: waters strange and so pleasant, so merciful, oscillating, purple and blue, effulgent, coy, filling every dimension; now faint, now tumbling, spreading out above the heads of the living creatures, taking me to the limit, taking me to the cleaners, taking me into its maw (what that looked like an expanse), dropping me out of itself like I were a heavy fruit; and now gone placid, gone hollowing, hoary and wet, dry as a bone, ash in the wind that collects in my throat—all dust, indeed altogether gone (this century). So proudly they rose and fell (the days of our lives), so superbly (the species): would have sent us all mad. But we would not go mad. We would shut our eyes; we would see no more, amen, sigh out of it.
I know a lot about you, for example that you can’t stop trying, even though it hurts you very much. Do you know:
- That you pick me up where we left off, that here in the reeds where Pan transformed his first lost “love” into music, that I am bound by blood, that I am blinded, that this book is in a bind.
- That A Crystal Speck of Sand—what came before, beat into disassembled pieces and scattered—divides a—
- That there’s Nothing Else, just this moment of falling—“falling,” indeed, as the implications would have it (??)—and that there is no BOOK strong enough to read me back to my senses, nor vice versa.
- That what remains elusive I am doomed to chase.
- That what I would like to write here is “that there is no geometry to contain what I am full of” but that instead what I am compelled to offer is that I am capable of no such geometry or otherwise, that there are only these scrapings of dust, a broken fingerprint;
- That this mark threatens to break me up into words OH SHUT IT, SHUT YOUR MOUTH ALREADY
- That when I am “sad” that what this feeling is, if I could conceit to describe or “out” what sadness is, oh hell:
- That when I am “sad” that what this feeling is is this: a feeling of my brains being slightly overcooked—dried out, with all the good, fatty juices leaked out, collected in a small cup near the sink. Start over:
- That what sadness is is a concealing of oneself from oneself. That indeed it is a great conceit, a great conceit, to position the self as something that must be DISCOVERED, that it is something by its nature mysterious (from the Greek mysterion, “a secret”—there, that makes it easier, doesn’t it?), that the self must be sought out and reclaimed somehow. That indeed it is a great conceit, that what we are is aslkdfja;w3892 j3tka;, and that’s that OH SHUT IT, SHUT THE BOOK
- That I am a writer of gimmicks and I am indeed a forest of gimmicks, for example this one: THAT by making a show of abusing myself on the page in this way, THAT I somehow escape my douchebaggery as a writer: THAT I somehow make up for the fact (simply by accounting for it) THAT I don’t know anything about what “people” want unless they’re standing in front of me and I can read them. Please dear paper allow me to explain why: because
- This is an exorcism of sorts: to speak what hurts in order to claim power over and finally reclaim it;
- That I just want to punch everything;
- That I miss you very much, your breath (sometimes good sometimes bad) and your wicked sex and the tiny mammalian hairs on my back that I become aware of only inasmuch as you make them stand on end with a certain manner of looking at me which only you possess;
Amen and what have you,