06-27-2022, 02:15 AM
There are no clouds, the horizon is the shore, the light at the end of the tunnel, what is being turned towards. Ever up ahead. On the horizon. Nothing fancy about it.
Vitality is now. This moment. Not this moment, exactly. There's something grotesque about communicating through technology when I'm already equipped.
There's no explanation at all. There's no exception and no excuse. There's only roaring and raging vitality. All else is talk. By the time you've put something into words, whatever it is that stimulated that thought is chipped away at beyond recognition. Diminished. Beauty mutilated, like Khloe Kardashian's face. I once saw her nude in a magazine. She was the comeliest of all the family. Now she's a pterodactyl. This is what's said in my poem All You Have To Do To Survive Is Live. My poetic program is to make a poetics of the diminishing effects of poetic thinking.
Everything in the world is great beyond words. And everywhere I look it's diminished before I make it to it. The demonic impulse is to preserve it in a tomb of words for some affect of grasping whatever is forever outside my grasp, my experience. The beauty on the horizon is annihilated by morning. The love-curse isn't limited to human relationships. Whenever I get the first hint of a budding sensation of love for anything, a mob runs through with chainsaws and paints over it with paint the color of a computer screen. The Vitality is in the moment, and everything else is dead.
Some may find the screens on buildings and cameras on every tree the height of spirituality and aesthetics.
They are as valid as my impulses and loves.
But I must run roughshod over considerations of that kind, or be a limp carcass nourished solely on timid and polite acquired tastes. The dark pit of understanding.
Vitality is now. This moment. Not this moment, exactly. There's something grotesque about communicating through technology when I'm already equipped.
There's no explanation at all. There's no exception and no excuse. There's only roaring and raging vitality. All else is talk. By the time you've put something into words, whatever it is that stimulated that thought is chipped away at beyond recognition. Diminished. Beauty mutilated, like Khloe Kardashian's face. I once saw her nude in a magazine. She was the comeliest of all the family. Now she's a pterodactyl. This is what's said in my poem All You Have To Do To Survive Is Live. My poetic program is to make a poetics of the diminishing effects of poetic thinking.
Everything in the world is great beyond words. And everywhere I look it's diminished before I make it to it. The demonic impulse is to preserve it in a tomb of words for some affect of grasping whatever is forever outside my grasp, my experience. The beauty on the horizon is annihilated by morning. The love-curse isn't limited to human relationships. Whenever I get the first hint of a budding sensation of love for anything, a mob runs through with chainsaws and paints over it with paint the color of a computer screen. The Vitality is in the moment, and everything else is dead.
Some may find the screens on buildings and cameras on every tree the height of spirituality and aesthetics.
They are as valid as my impulses and loves.
But I must run roughshod over considerations of that kind, or be a limp carcass nourished solely on timid and polite acquired tastes. The dark pit of understanding.