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.
