writing iv

i do not write, i say.  i live, i void, maybe i create, i say and am said. these glyphs you see are not writing, they are no signs – signs are lost; these are dead shards shed from the unknowing of my pupils – empty, yet use does not drain them; dark, imageless images. 

see the rabbit cross the monkeysection against the violent lights. the coops shall miss their bunnies, the scars shall not rain. who may abide the day of its hopping, and who shall stand on a shibboleth? for we are like an orphic liar. i say uh 3 2 1 0 -1 …

give me darlings some rough petunias

give me sweets a bakêd ass

i shall nibble on thine titties

thou shalt dine on lentil gas

we were then and now were once we

who can tell the paths of ways

when you’re in my ebenezer

on that rubber leopold chaise

here’s the end – it’s spanked and heaving

like a sunset on a dump

let’s go forth and juice an altar

with the ancient rump’n’hump

but. in and through and by and outsie

aren’t what they were supposed to used to be

bakeries are now just laundries

you and i are they and we

so : that is it and it is this

what is come is just to go

where’s the outhouse when i need it

got a load i gotta blow

writing is this a moon in desolations of a solstice sparring with a sun across a court of bottomless sky writing is this i in shitheaps of i snorting happiness from flammable bhutan writing is this an arrow in a rabbit and that rabbit yet undead and its suffering ours and those sorrow-stricken shall win writing is this nothing and sums of nothing and doktor nothing and mayo nothing and nothing of nothing to nothing denothinged donne and undone, dung

in the old debates about the moon and the sun – these now branded and reproducible – it was sometimes agreed that the moon by itself was more beautiful but the sun with its starting and closing effects could surpass the moon. the movement of writing away from these debates into the techniques of branding and reproduction is an evolution and, like all evolutions, beyond, except in detached sectors of moments of time, judgment. writing about writing traces the movements. writing about writing about writing traces the traces.

despite appearances, writing like time is not linear – or at least linearity is a dimension of writing, only gross cultural bias advocating its supremacy or exclusivity. writing is circular, enfolded, interstitial, linear, turned and returned, urned, stationary, punctiliar, holographic, hollow, abyssal, gyral, tessellated, meandering, waved, foaming, cracked, fractal. i long for a species desirous and capable of living in time – and so language – its attributes equal and plodded and explorable.

in an end that is not an end, one cannot help specializing. and if i have been specialized in the art of not-writing through an excess of generalizing and if this art is necessarily obscure …

writing, if i am going to write in writing – which is to write in i and i in writing – and not in money or its extensive families, is a disaster.

to speak of writing in this age when everyone writes might be as it was speaking of god in that age when everyone believed. a disaster then, a disaster now. who would dare it? no one. yet there are those who, despite any obvious desires or gifts, are placed in that daring – which to them is no daring but a necessary sorrow. these are the no ones of writing and once of god, strange duende in atimed sorrow.