a future will be, if a future will be

cigarette ash on my keyboard
i can barely write

it is overwhelming
the doubt of two forges the ideas of both
and they remain strong.
this is true of love and friendship, of which
there is more to be said

the absolute only exists, at the moment, through god
god only exists, at the moment, through humans
human only exist, for always, through language
once language is superseded,
through chromosome-based spirituality, god will die
but the absolute will prevail

contagious enlightenment

feel the space
just there, the space

it is there that we all dream of
beyond the world, then the word.
this is determined upon factors we cannot foresee

a future will be, if a future will be.

shooting range

from the hollow by your hip,
i fired glances.
i used you as a rifle range.
sorry.

vote my soul

i took saint jude
to have and hold
as my confirmation ranger
in a clapboard dusty pew church
i attended at parental gunpoint.

c’mon saint j,
i thought under wafer breath
as i slouched to the altar
so a bishop could lay fear
on my bald head
with egg white misery.

c’mon saint j,
patron of dump life
and safety pin girls.
don’t give me an empty wallet,
hip music parents,
some sign you sip my confessor’s cup.

i bent my head shy,
let god’s man brush my forehead
with heavy silver precision,
and i rose saved lashes
to see his distaste.

response to anything anyone asks ever

because it had to be. the things that don’t happen are always impossible.

transit theory

on cleaning my room last weekend, here are some things i uncovered, revealed, disturbed:

• exotic chandelier fascination
• imaginary weblog; posts of science and war
• flagellated anger of a misinterpreted homecoming
• cold strikes against hot summer
• a certain regression of peace
• galleried decoration soiled light fittings
• a well-bred carpet hidden beneath boxes like frozen neanderthal with closed eyes
• mountains curving away, desolate and full of future
• arrogance haunting the self
• cultured community
• you-are-my-berlin antidote
• opposing natural forces lead to dead inuit, worn away appalachian trail
• struggling to deal with the inertia/with the hardcore/with the organization restraint
• the reveries
• tired eyes, kind of like a mascara of regret and manifest and manufacture
• fields raging with sex

symbol cymbal thimble

there are symbols and you know what they are, and what they will be. pay attention for it is the projection, not the worth, that is the meaning. it is the realization that overwhelms, before the actuality. it is the need, not the confirmation. this is it, that is it. naming is an abstraction that kills and births, denies and confirms. naming needs the word, hates the word. the word is a symbol. today, the word is the symbol of a symbol, forever.

too many miles

distant love is a whisper that
articulates to the metronome of
broken dreams
forgotten particulars
single souls
reactionary longing
spun emotion
borrowed friendship
stolen glee
and the thought that words
fill the spaces between kisses.

positively phototactic

i have learnt the beauty of photographs.

i suspected them for a long time, but today i confirmed the suspicions: it is all in the looking.

they are working, vital examples of beauty as a source of truth, or rather beauty as a source of non-truth, the confirmation of nothing, the acceptance of the outside as itself, nothing more.

i look at your photographs every night, they contain more than ink and hue. there are stories there. i take some of my own but they do not work. i take photographs for the wrong reasons. you have heard this before.

people die in the face of photographs, they refuse to believe in them and become confounded by the difficulty of their revelation. photographs present more than the unpresentable. within the borders, the entire notion of play that ebbs between the present and the presentable becomes accountable; it is a relationship that of course resides within the unpresentable and it is this that surfaces, more than simple images of obscurities.

(most of all, i hate the photographs that present an irony or a contrast. that is setting up a world that does not exist; the world that you see. ironies and contrasts are present but that is not at all the world.)

people love schematics. i can understand, they say, how emotion can be distilled into a painting. i can see the physicality of the stroke and the texture of the feeling. i can perhaps, they add hesitantly, even see how that holds an inherent resonance that passes through the work to the onlooker. but photographs? no, that is not possible, they say. there is skill, but it is clinical. you need a manual.

they! idiotic voyeurs! damn willing victims! passive reluctant audience!

the camera is not the subject, capturing steadfast objective landscapes on a whim! we do not simply open the aperture and fill it with life! moving the camera does not change the picture!

(i think i am coming to a shuddering, unfounded, but perhaps still valid conclusion, so please relax.)

one can find out exactly how a person views themselves in relation to the world, by how they think of photography. it is connection and distance, involvement and separation, denial and love. it hurts to a core to think of it, but the sense that it involves provokes the thoughts we deny.

(once again i feel forced into a disclaimer: “all that from just a photograph,” i should say, just to let you realize that i realize. i do know, i promise you.)