Wednesday, 29 December 2010
Wednesday, 22 December 2010
Saturday, 11 December 2010
Wednesday, 8 December 2010
Wednesday, 1 December 2010
Tuesday, 23 November 2010
on the first level, you are sitting on a council couch, reading late articles about recreational equine sedatives, scoffing at their lack of relevance
on the second you are dancing, two bodies in front of me, dipping to terrestrial lines, anchored in faith
on the fourth you are a tailor, sewing flannel patches into a pair of beige trousers that I tore on my bike
on the seventh, you are a voice, tied to a string that I cast out into an electrical storm, you are my genius
on the sixth, you are a staircase, from the seventh, to the fifth
on the fifth you are the number three, and I cannot erase you from my mind
on the eighth and ninth, you are empty spaces on a calendar that I'll never bother to own, waiting to be filled with roast dinners and rolled cigarettes
on the tenth, my head is light and you are looking at me, looking at me, looking at me
on the eleventh, I lay down beneath you
on the twelfth, you are a cherry dresser, with round knobs and lacquered drawers.
on the thirteenth, you are descending
on the fourteenth you are gossamer, and my arms an unworthy loom, too jagged and splintered to hold your delicate threads.
on the fifteenth I am drowning, and you are the last gulp of air that I took
on the sixteenth, you are the truth, and I am the destroyer. I eat your heart with both hands, my face so splattered with blood that I cannot see how you are dying with each bite. I am so caught with gore and nihilism that I cannot see how large your wound, or how much you've bled into my mouth.
in the cellar, there is a table, a lamp, a picture of you, and a bottle. the walls are stone and the floor stinks of reality. I can either be drunk and in darkness, or fuel the lamp, so that I might see your face.
Monday, 15 November 2010
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Wednesday, 10 November 2010
I wonder how such silence could have voice to me
survive with a voice,
the shadow of all drinking deep in times of no resistance
fetid pits, outlined by
the upright diagonal, spaced with
Tuesday, 9 November 2010
the quiet need but for the tapping of keys,
remembering romantic nuances that other writers might've used
in their imaginary workspace in your own mind,
created without the necessary narrative of shitting and the rest of
the glass, with etched name was given by friends who wanted me to remember my sense of self and of grandeur.
the corrections made by my computer on my behalf, guarding my beliefs with the infallibility of good spelling
taking away the words that I have no use for
the water I drink
the inner critic takes it's hold on my throat
the feeling of anticipation before I realize that now is my chance
to name envy, a snake, which wraps around my throat and whispers doubt
and the poison of it's bite goes to the belly, and the heart
the failure of that anticipation
the regret of forced correction and
punks with I pods eating big tastys across thousands of miles
correctly informed of what the rest of the world expects
almost defiant in his conformity
I am scattered and strewn across a violent coastal ocean
and you were a jutting rock, a point of reference in the chaotic waves of being
I clung to you, ignoring the jagged edges and crushing waves of influence
I bled onto you
and drank my own blood, so sick of gulping at the salty
and I let go
and allowed myself to bob underneath the cosmic waves of reality
making something called a "metaphor" out of symbols created by others
and the wounds in my hand sting with realistic confines of a normal life
the jug of water, jug which
usually filled with sweet lemonade
that protects me from the scrutiny of witnessed descent
Tuesday, 2 November 2010
Friday, 29 October 2010
ancient lines made with contemporary
beautiful children, in ways of
cracked mudded stick woven
quiet noises silent fingers
lines of age and knowledge movements of
knowing movements of
knowing from long ago the
movements of old knowledge and
growing community the patterns of
growing knowledge of movement and
history growing movements towards knowledge
of growing historical knowledge
marching bright colors as a penance to the angry gods of
tribalism and beautiful curiosity of horrible social science
dances of reality, of making form from
the red brown clay beneath our feet
pierced pink and white flocks of migratory fluidity.
the power of changed perspective and flowing
crashing and bounding down lush green cliffs collecting in
ambient pools of stuttered prediction
the filtered light of obliterated river
sending the all into a spectrum of our sight
mirrored pools dotted with the remains of flight
an endless everywhere stretching for longer than I'd want to travel
and the tree
the fractal totems of natural beauty
they who catch wind and give perspective to travelers of the world
who demand odes and scream when severed
and who's torn flesh shelters us and who's blood we pour on our pancakes
screaming saws tiny life
cracking ringing crashing
connection with the all in his eyes
the implosion of sense
the scarred caverns of human wound
implications of shared thought
Tuesday, 19 October 2010
We're doing 120 and doc turns to me and says
"you seem uncomfortable, here."
he shoves an orange pill in my mouth and I turn to stein
she seems amused, and smiles, her eyes drooping
"what did you give her?"
"Nothing, she's been drinking absinth the whole time"
the desert is the perfect place to drive, just as I had imagined
the blurred definition of the horizon beckons us forward, towards nowhere
"These bastards won't catch us in this rocket ship, we've got too much power"
"yeah man, cosmic power" I say, doc looks at me and frowns
"What are you blabbering about, you maniac?"
"Have you read tender buttons?"
it's the fifteenth time she's asked us in the last hour
"Yes, I loved it." I say
"No" doc says and takes a swig of the rot gutt he's been keeping in his lap.
"here, drink this, it'll calm you down."
whiskey never really calmed me down, but I guess I should trust him
I drink deep gulps of fire, ignoring the fact that I thought I was being relatively calm already.
"Have I told you about Fitzgeralds drinking problem?"
"Yes" me and doc answer
"savages..." doc mutters, I can tell something is bothering him.
"what's up, doc?"
"Do I look like that cartoon rabbit?"
"man I don't even know right now, what the hell did you give me?"
"what color was it?"
"blue, the doctrine of, docking above the melancholy dock of blue things..."
"Will you shut the fuck up!" Doc pulls a cannon out of his jacket and points it at stein, never taking his foot off the gas.
stein looks at him, calm as ever, and he lowers his pistol.
"You'd be a much better writer if you let go of some of that anger."
"I'll let you go in a minute, you old wench."
"Hah, you're just used to women bending to your will, you cantankerous stoner."
I can't take it anymore
"Will both of you shut up! you're totally harshing my mellow."
Stein looks apologetic and doc just turns around and continues driving
"I'm sorry, joe, it's just that we've both been dead for a little while now. you should probably be looking at the road."
"I thought that being near you two would be this amazing thing, this amazing adventure, but you've spent the entire time just being cartoons of yourselves."
"I'm sorry, it's just that we've been dead."
"I'm sorry too, I shouldn't have involved you in my depravity." doc says finally.
"It's ok, lets just drive, we'll get there eventually."
the car moves from warp 5 to a steady century, and the sky grows darker.
Stein chuckles, and looks up.
"Have you read tender buttons?"
Wednesday, 13 October 2010
i've been EDITING nonsense for so long
i've been editing nonsense FOR so long
i've been editing NONSENSE for so long
I'VE been editing nonsense for so long
i've BEEN editing nonsense for so long
i've been editing nonsense for so LONG
eDiting for nonsENSE i've been long
ediTINg for nonsense i'vE been long
editing fOR nonsense i've been long
editing for NONsense i've bEen long
edIting for nonsense i've been lONg
denSE Tine or none ion
dense tine Or None ion
dense tine or nONE ion
dense tine or none Ion
seT On oNE i
set oN One i
sEt On oNe i
toNE nO eoN
TOne no Eon
and in the end, I was lost.
what is edting for?
this is nonsense.
is there a pattern?
what is editing?
nonsense is a pattern
try editing a pattern is
editing nonsense I'm
editing patterns of
trying to edit
editing is trying
edit nonsense is trying
trying patterns this nonsense is
editing with nonsense patterns
what is nonsense
what is a pattern of editing
of nonsense editing patterns of nonsense and patterns
I'm trying to be nonsense am I trying?
trying to edit patterns of editing and I'm trying
trying to trying to edit and editing what?
I'm editing what patterns
what patterns edit I'm nonsense
I am nonsense of editing patterns of editing
patterns of editing nonsense is editing am editing
what patterns of editing nonsense is editing patterns of
editing what patterns of editing nonsense is editing patterns of trying
trying to edit nonsense editing patterns of
is there a pattern?
patterns of editing pattering footsteps of editing patterns
beats of editing patterns of paternal not paternal
but not but what editing patterns of the wrong patterns
of adding editing to my pattern of nonsense I am nonsense
I'm patterns of editing
I'm editing I'm editing
I'm editing nonsense patterns of editing patterns of trying
to edit the there if they where I am editing
where am I editing am I editing nonsense?
which nonsense am I editing which editing is patterns
patterns nonsense patterns of editing patterns of
is there a pattern
aammmm eeyyyeee seeing eye with patterns of seeing
seeing is editing in mind in mind keep within the pattern
patterns of editing nonsense patterns of editing
is there a pattern?
editing is nonsense what is nonsense what is nothing but a pattern?
what is a pattern of nonsense is it editing without trying the pattern but finding the pattern of
I've been editing nonsense, trying to find a pattern for so long
that I've lost the ability to make any sense of my own.
Wednesday, 29 September 2010
we vibrate in such ways
and to keep ourselves from shaking out of control, or
losing that way that
we must find others that quiver in the same
and maybe we find someone who is so close to the same
that we carefully contort our frequency to come close to theirs
and they do the same
we place delicate fingers on our dials, tweaking with such
that we are alarmed when someone might want to turn them for us
we reject change, unless it is one or two notches away from where we already are
I am 19 to 24 years old, and I shiver without Q's sometimes and
try not to repeat myself
I have spoken to mayan gods from inside a tent, borrowed from Tom, for the purpose of keeping me warm and out of the rain. He gave it to me in good faith and it was almost destroyed by the gibbering wonk.
but I stood my ground, and picked it up with brainwaves that shook the goblin that had plowed through it
the god spoke to me in murmurs.
and I told it, lying, that I understood.
but I could've. (understood)
I could've lept from the top of spinning slides onto carpets of christmas lights, held up by fingers of joy and acceptance
I could've been shot by cannons of infinite death and the humming void and it would've bounced off my crystalline shell and dissipated without harm to others.
I destroyed minds with thoughts of divine perfection
I was buddah
and so were you
and there were geniuses with brains full of undead plants, telling stories full of guitar strings and the remnance of a cosmic infinity band that played brazilian soul and let us know
that we were right where we needed to be
our resonance was perfect, for at least two hours.
and if I close my eyes and warp the past, as I always do, we were perfect from the start
we shook together, on that english field, surrounded by every freak that wanted to keep a secret
and we failed at that
but at least we saw the laterns float away in droves, laden with the wishes of hopeful deviants, unaffected by the hatful glare of doubt, and fear
a week later, I floated off too.
but I carried a lantern with me
Monday, 27 September 2010
Wednesday, 15 September 2010
Tuesday, 7 September 2010
I finished my cigarette
I flicked off
It layed in a pile of dead leaves and dirt and decomposition
That I put there
And that I couldn’t be bothered to clear
And as it died it hummed and lived on through the wind
Unwilling to give up its last moments
Pulsing with somber orange energy that
Just killed me when I thought of what I’d done
Thursday, 26 August 2010
You cannot allow the mind to stop, it has to go somewhere
And whereever it goes is whenever you are going to know
As if as if you could
You can’t you can’t know the kind mind and iit’s infinite misspelled it’ses
And everything is a brilliant different color of the same thing
We are muck and grime and beautiful flowers and flames that open and
And stop for seconds but don’t stop for more than a few
And if I was stupid enough
I’d probably be smart
But I don’t just don’t just can’t just get it together and I
Do it to myself
And I am a collection of random things and that collection of random things
Is sometimes stoned and really usually all of the time high
At least in this state of mind, that one this one that you are reading and sometimes seeing
And I talk in absolutes
And I am absolutely positively uncertain of absolutely maybe everything
But all I can think about is nothing
But then nothing becomes the realization of everything
And my mind cli i i i icks
And sometimes I say clikZ and I’m cool
But most of the time I’m not
Did you see when it snowed last winter,
And while I was walking home I thought I might’ve been in massachusettes
And my ID would probably already be horizontal, and I wouldn’t know you like I do now
And what if this is a rant or just a few letters that might
Sound good if I use all of the stupid extra unreal extra-terrestrial and by that I mean other than the structureofthewordsoftheneverendingsentencess
The mind hits a block and you worry if you’ve fallen over. Are you there typing? Am I here reading this? Is the page mine or yours, or mine? Have we fallen together and maybe I am the page. And maybe all the and maybes in the world won’t stop us from eventually crashing together in an under-lying theme of absurdity.
What if I’m stuck here, on this page, getting better, simpler. But is each of those a breath?
Do you want to know me when I’m older? I don’t. I want to know you for the rest of your life, and I also wish that I’d known you when I was younger, and you were younger. But I don’t want to know me when I’m older. I don’t trust my mind to age with grace. It feels frayed enough, and I’ve heard that sanity is best built on a solid foundation. But I want you to know me when I’m older, so that I can know you when you’re older too.
And I can think so much of myself, but most of the time I’m thinking of you.
And is this a love letter? Can a letter be in love?
Can I be in love with you? Still? Or is it too early? Or what if it is beautiful, love? And why has that become a question?
Thursday, 19 August 2010
Wednesday, 18 August 2010
Tuesday, 17 August 2010
Sunday, 15 August 2010
Friday, 13 August 2010
Friday, 6 August 2010
Thursday, 5 August 2010
Tuesday, 3 August 2010
Sunday, 1 August 2010
Sunday, 6 June 2010
Saturday, 5 June 2010
The main concern with Romantic Deconstructionism is the struggle between stream of consciousness and deconstruction of thinking. One that wants to create a piece of work in this style must not just let the thoughts flow onto the page, they must feel their way through the concepts that their mind is putting forth. To clarify, if you’re thinking about writing, you can’t just say “writing”, you must deconstruct that even further. Writing, the creative process, the acceptance of others, expression, validation, repeated thought, flowing thought, un-flowing non-thought, concerns of existentialism, understanding, any other concepts that might drive your “writing”, all of these must be explored instead of just saying “I’m thinking about writing”.
While exploring these concepts, do not merely write down the thoughts that make sense, write down every utterance, every sound and beep and whistle and cock beep that panda fucks its way into your mind while you’re trying to write. And then get rid of “panda fuck” because it makes no sense. Romantic Deconstructionism isn’t about not making sense, it’s about making things that don’t make sense stop making non-sense. And be careful with what you write. There is a difference between nonsense and non-sense. That difference is a - .
These detours that we take between coherence and non-in-un-coherence are what make romantic deconstructionism what it is. It is the ability to accept your mind's thought process. We are not perfect, our thinking and our thoughts (non-thoughts, un-whatevers) constantly wander and explore the opposite of what we are thinking. The mind does not need to be clear to create things that are beautiful, or sound beautiful. The beauty of life, for me, and for many others, comes from moments of clarity and calm.
Even when you are in a situation of chaos and destruction, if you are able to distance yourself from that situation, to look at it with silence and care, everything is beautiful. We live in a world of repetition, complication, confusion, and uncertainty, but we can be certain of that, and that is beautiful. Allow your mind to be “crazy”, entertain every off off off wordd every off word that every ever ever never word off of off word that your mind can’t seem to get past past.
Recognize the beauty around you, but do not allow it to become your obsession. Never take your own advice, but never allow yourself to not take your own advice. Become, be, am, what. And then there is a silence. Get excited about what you are writing, go off on a rant, have it completely make sense and then realize how little sense it makes.
What we witness with this isn’t just a jumble of words that are pointless and un-worthy of reading, or of even being called writing. We are witnessing an acknowledgement of the fallibility of the mind. Once we realize this, we have those moments of clarity and silence, and the romantic side comes through.
Through the deconstruction of thought, we gain calm. And then we remember something. For one to write in this style you must have a strong sense of the romantic and tragic bits and pieces of the world. Physics is beautiful, the falling of leaves is beautiful, but so is the manner in which we stack and list ourselves. Human beings are so concerned with surviving that we have created all these superfluous things such as footballs and butterfly catching.
Sometimes all I can think about is what I can hear, and then my entire mind thinks about how the rest of my mind can’t think about anything but what I can hear. And then I write that sentence. And then I have a moment of clarity and I remember the way that you shrugged your shoulders once when you couldn’t find a cigarette and I realized that it was then that I loved you. But then I think about how you don’t want me to love you and it makes me want to erase what I just wrote.
It is OK to be sad as long as it’s beautiful. It’s OK to make no sense as long as it all makes sense. I might not really love you but I really love the world. It’s just that sometimes I find it difficult to make sense of it all.
So I invite you all to explore your minds and share those minds and explorations of your minds and non-minds with others. Remember, as long as you get there it doesn’t matter if you even get there.
Joseph Mack Stohlman
It seems like I’m sitting there and you’re sitting next to me, but on a different seat. And it seems like I’m talking to you but sometimes I don’t know and I’m not sure about if I’m talking to you or if any of this is really happening. I take a breath, I look at you, and the moment is paused. Why can’t I remember this? Why can’t I see you and why can’t my mind see you. Seeing you is seeing you and if seeing you is then why aren’t I? And why aren’t you and this moment in my mind and why can’t I remember this moment in my mind and why can’t I every do i every and I ever can’t never can do?
And I’m confused and scared that I can’t write but you told me I can and it makes me believe that I might.
And every sentence I start seems to start with seems to start and and. And when I triple and or double what or double up on what I said I think that maybe I might be doing it wrong
But you told me I am doing it write and that I can do it right and it makes me believe that I can but I just don’t know right now.
The flowing ever-limping sentence structure of my feeble attempts at innovation seem to slow me down and keep me from being.
I am worried that I can’t write anymore. I’m worried that I’ll never again be that person that you saw. When you saw a light behind me and in me and that light really was there.
I promise it was there but I think it might be fading.
I’m tired of thinking that I’m unable to write. I can write it’s just that I’m not sure that I have a suitable subject. And the subjects in my mind are subjectively shit and the objects in my writing are objectively intangible and therefore cannot be written about. but I can try. I can try but it might not come out right.
And then maybe you won’t see that light ever again and maybe my light has faded.
What if the sounds were more than just sounds. I’m trying to think of ways that this could be but I but I be what I can’t and I can’t and I’m obsessing with the small words too much. When i concentrate on my typing and that typing becomes looking at words and not thinking then the words the words then become the words and all the words ever become is the words “the words. Do you understand what I’m trying to say? Believe my I’m trying not to repeat myself but sometimes it’s difficult because all I can hear is the clicking of the keys and the popping of messages being sent from electronic winds across electronic waters and into my electronic brain.
Have I uploaded myself into some sort of other world? Have I fully let go of my internal, but not internal but it seemed like internal at the time, but eternal. And am I eternal? And are you eternal and will you still be there when I’m old or will you at least still be in my mind when I’m old.
I hope you will and I think about you all of so much of the time, but the other times I’m thinking about things that are right in front of me like the words on the words on the words on this page.
Please just and can’t and I please and can’t and I just and and and I just and can’t which witch can’t and I just and the words just don’t make sense when they’re about nothing. And I can spend all the time and effort and energy in the world on making sure that I don’t have to make sense but I just don’t feel it when it happens like that.
This is the problem with letting go of meaning. If I deny it I feel less. The insanity of the mind is not as beautiful and emotive as I want it to be. And is this my self-referential moment of clarity? And was that “self referential” too early and did my mind jump to it too soon?
And is too early and then too soon too redundant to be written on an electronic page? And is the clicking and typing of my mind drowning out the clicking and typing of my computer yet, or is it still the other way around?
I’m not as afraid as I once was of asking questions but I feel like you should be afraid of me asking questions. I’ve given up on grammar and meaning but I desperately want to be a good writer, and I want you to like this and I want you to love me for it.
Someone very wise which might have been you once told me that when I read and I write I have a beautiful light inside me. That I become a different person, and when someone wise who might’ve been you said that to me I almost cried because it was the one thing I wanted to hear.
And I stopped there for a moment and thought about the fact that I was writing. And when you are reading this or perhaps hearing it are you hearing it from me? Are you reading it from me or are you reading the paper? Are you seeing the letters or are you seeing the letters I wrote?
When does it come back to the mind? Does it? I question myself and a lot of the time the sentences in my head make no sense and the senses in my head cannot be formed in sentences.
Please help me, or please read this and then tell me that I don’t need help.
And when you do that, can you let me know? I’m no good at guessing those things for myself.
It’s dark and I’m taking commonly used shortcuts to seem like I don’t care that it
And I don’t allow the capitals and the unmeant capitalization of my words to deter me from
Whhhhhhhhhhatever it is that I needed to think
Shrill trumpets without S’s do the work for me, they think for me
Shrill trumpets that make me think of dancing feet beneath a piano holding on to a kind eyed japanese man that I doubt I’ll ever top
I called you, or I didn’t call you but I used the thing that I use to call you to speak to you and you didn’t respond or haven’t responded yet and I’m not sure that it matters
Because the trumpet is just there, and a cool cat on a windowsill is just there and it
What’s wrong? Is it loneliness or boredom or is it loneliness and boredom or is it the lack of everything but loneliness and boredom or is it that I can’t seem to get away from this loneliness and boredom and I keep wanting to spell it with a Y but I know it’s not right.
You is still there, and the trumpet is now a ssssaxaphone. And a period and a sentence started with and.
I know you’ll get it
I know you’ll get that you don’t have to get it and I know my words are short and somewhat meaningless but I just have to get have to keep getting have to just get out of this loneliness and boredom
Or just a spurt
Spurt isn’t “poetic enough” and neither are quotation marks. Do they call them quotation marks in this country? What country am I in? and why is it so dark, and why haven’t you called back, and why do I care?
This is a moment, but I want to forget it.
This is a moment too, but I want you to remember it.
I miss you. Even when you’re here. You. Me. you is eye.
When i’m tired and dried up I just sit
And you’re sitting there but i can’t see you because when you’re sitting I don’t look
And when I’m tired and you’re sitting there I just can’t sit, so I lean
And you’re so many ands to me sometimes
But most of the time I just sit