about being silent.

Switched lights target low flight

scattering feathers of

constant re-hashed time flow

the weaving thoughts of

pre-poetics clamor for

the front lobe pole position

on page and drawn reality

these spirits of miss-formed

P's and E's

grumbling sigils of

peace and ease

easily piecing together the

frozen leopard

from cross-state

we can walk on it

and ignor the cracking doom

of ruined sweaters and

substandard living

gasping for an overhang that

can keep us out of the cold

it brings you to me,

shivering with the

spirit of lowell and

san fransisco, chicago, and

cardiff

I walk through a miasma

of reconsideration to find it,

breathing underground

with the heaving chests

of social alcaholism

I twist my body and mind around

it's pointed pen, vessel for

spirits of lowell, san fransisco,

chicago, and home

I write you down so that

you can be small on the page,

and so

so

so big when I breathe you

out

out

out onto the new

freed from my mind but

contained in images of

the silent, wanting to

be silent

the silence

silence

being silent isn't knowing how to make no sounds, it's knowing what sounds you can make and still not be heard.

be silent.

snow day

it's not the snow

coming down in a steady winter coat

a rested hand upon the head of

our slush filled shoes

unreal to us until it

sticks

at our slush fearing feet

the anticipation of what

comes after the fall

my unrested mind trying

to imagine a world with

calm, rested presence of

earthly context

this universal feeling we get from this

worldly phenomenon

this crystallized realization of

the worth of our roofs, jackets,

and communal warmth

it swirls around lightposts

illuminated and uniformly

lit

the golden halo now grey and

bright

so bright and grey

so bright and grey

sinking through the souls of our feet

the souls of our walking and wishing

forward feet

framed by tree and lamp and this thought and

it's not

the snow

it's how the world might look after

how the spaces will be filled

and the burners in our

hearts will be stoked with

anticipation

it's not

the snow

it's how I imagine you might look with flakes in your hair

and how you might squint so you can see

it's not

the snow

it's

the things that might come after

and how they'll all

look

about fixed form and the lounge

the sound amplified by the

sound of my dying frequent friends

sequentially dying friends of

subsequent things that end in

super-ceded thought of dreams

snake skinned tambourines

dictionary poets with eyes the size of wings

could concieve the fashion

but terrified of things

that sleep away the rainy days

and bring us to our knees

what are these things these stupid things

that take away our dreams

these jabberwocky, made up monsters

face eternal screams

these fixtures in the walls of carvings

made of brick and sex and starving

fueled with liquor, soda, frosting

caked with sweetness, sad, and roasting

kicking it with teachers, teaching

breathing

breathing

breathing

breathing

fade away you tired things

you ghosts of what that could have been

you mock me with your cheerfull grin

you take me through the phases

I try to pass but stop some how

my mind is teatherd to the crowd

and murmmurs with this silent. loud.

and cracks with stifled laughter

the room the room the sacred room

protected by 3 gold dubloons

could open up the sun and moon

and steady nihilistic crazes

face yourselves and prey good health

on those who share this wordy wealth

and thank you, for you share yourself

and that's what we're all after

thinking

thinking

thinking

thinking

the barriers of minds are breaking

talking, speaking, cracking, quaking

falling into sleepers wakened

and by 7:30 these seats are taken

we angels covered in the dirt of the world

breathing underground and sing

through wood and ground and jazz and stairs

our pen and paper bring

from passing through it seems

I saw between these things

we are steel, we are flynt

god given and sent

believed the walls for their scent

but we never relent

smaerd fo thguoht dedec-repus

ni dne taht sgniht tneuqesbus

fo sdneirf gniyd yllaitneuqes

sdneirf tneuqerf gniyd ym fo dnuos

nht yb deifilpma dnuos eht

something about the tears of oblivion, Brighton

what if these baby-blue gifts from the maternal aegis,

were nothing more than protective

threads

torn from the blinking reality of

assume existence

do you die when I turn my head,

can you feel it,

does it hurt?

interrupted meta-narratives of

meta-understanding and meta-

knowledge\

cannot save me from \the screaming idea

that when I cannot see you,

you are not there.

I am the cross-stitched pattern of flesh

that you are dreamed from and

I have not heard silence since

I kissed you\and the blood in my head

rushed [out of my ears, onto the floor,

and dissolved in the amen filled void

down near the Matterly Bowl

when I cannot feel your skin,

mine shivers

when I cannot hear your voice,

all I can hear is the ringing reminder that I am not the master of reality.

You said I looked good in blue.

and you stitched the green

into my hat.

and sometimes I look at it, and

visit you in the void,

where it still might be silent (but we are probably dead)

for every texture, there is a shadow and

I stitch a portrait of you, using threads that I find

between them.

untitled, in brighton

Tea and the implied smoulder

of half ribbed terran hearts

spinning dervish of Hackneyed

shorditch passing counter culture

fiends

eyes with condor wings, the

bald spinning, virginal smoke

ring

what ground that we tread on

with shakey, whole fear

the burning spiral of terrestrial hearts

the greatest rival of

the cosmos

we hold and control you

with names, starting with

I, as you, and the beginning

dance endlessly upon the

beating chest of gia

the wind can only destroy

your form, obliterate your

significance from the

visible spectrum

strumming Joe's and others

of narcissistic Shorditch

endless fear, and

referential glory

the best is the ground that

does not tip us over, and

the whirling smoke is the

best we can do

Tea, brewed with the hearts of

crashing test pilots, shoved

up our noses, mellowed

with a curl of fractal

knowledge.

and we are with it

and through the smoke, I can

see you swirling

digits rigid with euphoria

legs rooted in with terrestrial

vows

we we we they we they they we

they are weak

and we are they

the lack

I write on neglected

pages

passing through moments

of silence and

forgotten phrases of

beauty

eager to find

the living green

deconstructed

form of star

growling black and

green growing green

I look to you from

the unseen angle

------------

the you when

unfound you and

unseen lines

you have gilded

edges and worn

corners.

a dark panel with

gemmed lock

I look to you from

the unseen angle

trying to remember

a face that will

always be more

beautiful in the

third dimension

I write on neglected

pages, simple words

and green growing

black

I look to you from

unseen angles

digging deep into

tattered pockets for

pictures of time

that do not exist

I am the traveler

I am the face of

unfinished thought

I am the lack

I write on neglected

pages, trying to find

the unseen angel

of growing life on the

deconstructed form

of star

the neglected thought

of preservation

I am the lack

I must continue

and push

through

the empty

to find you again

the tower

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.

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"the tangible aspects of the concept of nothing" by nicolas babbington and joseph stohlman

alone amid a night of sweet sincerity
I wonder how such silence could have voice to me

it not, it without, these words. these words. behind the all shadow of all. the non finite. if all is. this.

the idle times in my existence,
survive with a voice,
the shadow of all drinking deep in times of no resistance

the dried rotten edges of glowing all dive into
small
fetid pits, outlined by
the upright diagonal, spaced with

during the fall, at night

and as I walk these colonial streets

careful not to step on dead leaves

wanting to be part of the silent and calm

inobtrusive to the night

as it breathes cold into the streets of new england

it is the warm hum of a passing bus

the golden halo

yellow and orange

dark and

scattered molt of summers burn

the painful warmth of

sheltered hands

fear the night

fear the night

the cold can kill and

fear the night

fear the night

the cold can kill

I have walked from brighton center

to mt. auburn hospital

refusing faith in

acronyms

my hands burnt with fall presence as I fell forward

through the inevitable

but the cool dying air around me

couldn't be screamed at

we can only curse at it under shallow, shivering

breathes

as it chokes our bitter throats

fear the night

fear the night

the cold can kill and

while I gaze from an electronic window

ancient lines made with contemporary

beauty aids

beautiful children, in ways of

untouched wildness

cracked mudded stick woven

quiet noises silent fingers

lines of age and knowledge movements of

knowing

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

and movement

of growing historical knowledge

marching bright colors as a penance to the angry gods of

spellcheck,

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

crashing

connection with the all in his eyes

the implosion of sense

the scarred caverns of human wound

implications of shared thought

Riding through the desert with HST and GS

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."

"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?"

a failure in deconstruction

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

NEon Toe

NET

and in the end, I was lost.

for those that were with me, there, in the field

we vibrate in such ways

and to keep ourselves from shaking out of control, or

losing that way that

we vibrate

we must find others that quiver in the same

sort

of way

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

care

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.

it said

mumuh muhhuhmmumhuhhh

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

happy birthday Joe Stohlman

is it a tick?

or is it a tick?

or am I imagining it's a tick?

I am punctuated with

severe pauses that

force thought of empty thought

and

strangled artistic endeavor

this page, my words are

released into the mind space

in patterns of delightful

frequency

but

at the same time I am ruined

by my own lack of thought

I can't think

there is only a feint buzzing now

drowned out by the incessant ringing of my

ruined ears

I am a scared puff of whirling

dissatisfaction

unwilling to save myself

from being formed into

rings of

unnecessary candor

flailing out my grey fractal thoughts into a pit

which I made for myself

so I can sit, and be

alone

the morning routine

when I w w a a k k e e up

I lie in my bed

and lie

to myself that I don't need to

get up

the warm sheets that I cling to

never judge me for having a bad month

"just stay a while longer"

-they say

just like the body that's never

next

to me

I roll and turn, trying to find the elusive vein of sleep that I lost when I woke, and eventually I give up

I wander around the empty

s p a c e s

in my thought

filling each one with humming nothing

and then I get up

I look over my shoulder at the

chance that someone might see my lonely shame

and draw a cigarette out of my dwindling pack

I stole it from my parents

not the pack, but the indication that might let

me buy one

I move

down

towards

the

back

porch

and open

locks that

keep me in

I think about what I'm doing

and light up among trees and

dirt and leaves and the remains of my feigned apathy

and I think about you

we sat once, outside the dance hall

and the talking heads around us jabbered like a quivering blob

they said hurtful things but

we couldn't be touched

because we thought we had each other

this is usually when I cough,

and choke on your memory

and I couldn't describe it, I just

don't remember the words

but

when I look people in the eye

and they steal my energy

through opened valves of the iris

and black nothing in between

I can see you

maybe

and when I looked in yours

you just gave it back to me

with more than I needed

so I developed a taste for it

and that addiction causes

these horrible withdrawals

that I satiate with more smoke

before I forget

I finished my cigarette

And that

End that

I flicked off

It layed in a pile of dead leaves and dirt and decomposition

That I put there

Over years

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

written in a notebook, out of frustration

with what screeching halt

stops breath and doesn't think

things

through

the hyper flavored tongue

as does the ended

wisdom

fluttering over a gas leak

that blends our vision and

speaks to us in tongues

it licks us,

its wounds

with such powerful care

that it might tear us

away from the scars

that we call our home

and if it doesn't make

sense,

or use phrases that we hold

to the light

to reflect

a knowledge

of these

words that

creep down feted alleys

in the wrong part of

our minds

and will only open to us

if we are broken, or torn apart, bleeding and

scared

clamoring for a word

better than GOD

better than INFINITY

and unwilling to admit

that it cannot exist

especially among our

terrified wills

unable to defend ourselves

with any thing but

ignorance and gritted bliss

it is a mirror,

stacked face down

shining through slats

of lacquered cherry

put there, mercifully,

by mom and dad

so forgive me if I get lost and can't return your calls

god has me now, and he

is taking reparations for all

the belief that I have

denied it thus far

I am a lost nothing, being

shoved down a larger, bigger

everything

that is angry with my apathy

and nihilism

I can refuse it

and write, sleep, love, smoke, drink

but it doesn't ever let up

its waves are arms with ten thousand fingers each

its tide is a feeling that sends us down

it is laying on the ground in the rain

cold and grey

flowering through the sustained disbelief of

philosophical misspellings

and under-used silence

it shows through your eyes,

who I write about especially when I am not writing

and it causes me to invoke nothing,

and confusion

more than the everything it is

I'm the quill, undipped

because the answer is so busy looking at my

shiny

new

tip

and you are the page that I'll never write on

because my handwriting needs

so

much

explanation

jesse's favorite poem

old poem, like the others

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

Close

Off

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

Just

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?

written on a bus, between putney and brixton

when I was

walking and

saw the set-

ting sun

and the purples

and pinks

slid across

a silent sky

I couldn't see

the sun but

in my mind i

saw your face

and your

eyes, green and

black and

white and

fixed like

crystalline bolts

and I thought

of all the

beauty

and thought

that you

are such

a big part

of it,

and I smiled

eh

I sit and watch as fractal trees breed

fractal thoughts like fractal bees

and the mind splits

and becomes the

m m i i n n d d

and maybe that's just

the chemicals in my

that leave blank lines where

thought should be

or where thought should be should be

or could thought be

on this page or in

another mind and will we see

fractal trees

and recognize them

when we are older

will we look through windows and see fractal bees

will we dream of these fractal beings

will we see these fractal things

w w i i l l l l w w w e e e

moment of weakness (not current)

what if when it all falls apart you're not there

and the cracks get too big and the apes get too scared

and the silence is damning and the ringing has stopped

and there's nothing

not meter

or foot

or kilometer

and the ground that we walk on it shakes and it peters

and Paul died too early

and I saw it from too far away

so in case it all falls apart

please stay

status

status is upgraded by thought

flowing but repetitive line drawn spells put many mistakes

to rest

I wonder if wandering like I do

will make that same sense

that you do

you make sense and fill thought

and therefore are

sandpapered

to

a

taxi stand

under the

side of the

road

we are roasting in our own sadness and you are you and

I can't finish

but it's always the

why oh you

written on a bus, between Bristol and London

this word is no longer in the darkness

it is red but not

it is lit by lamp and sun and fire

this word is out of shadows

and doesn't expect another delivery anytime soon

this word doesn't exist without all the others, but it is still this word

it is abstract and attacked

from different eras of

statistical listing and

instances of jumped

thought

and

assumed

silence

and this is

a crack for

the light to

come through

so that this may be true

deconstructionist word games?

the page MUST be arbitrary

the page must be ARBITRARY

the PAGE must be arbitrary

the page must BE arbitrary

must ARbitrary pagE be

muST arbitrARY page be

must arbitrary pAGe bE

ARe sTary age

are staRy AGE

ArT ragE

Ate

a

thought CANNOT be stopped

THOUGHT cannot be stopped

thought cannot be STOPPED

cannot THOught StoppEd

canNOT thought stopped

nOt tHose

oh

basic but NOT all alone

basic but not all ALONE

basic but not ALL alone

BASIC but not all alone

noT ALONe all basic

not alone All basic

noT Alone all Basic

talON a tab

talon A Tab

on At

a

my new (old) context

Is this context the one I want?

is this the context of cambridge?

I guess I don't have the patience

to guess

I guess I don't have the context

to know

the flashing lights are

a

hint

and I decided

to

jump

because I'm rushing to

the end

and eager to find that

cambridge context

cantabrigian smudges

undermining my train of thought with shit songs

and

good company

demanding nothing but asking

for me to accept

this

context

The Wales Sequence

1.

I want to be here in this

rain-proof pod

singing rain-proof

songs

with two philosophers and

a master of discourse

who I'd love to talk to but

I'm stuck

on the page

in this pod

in the rain

and I'm stuck in this loop

in this pod

in the rain

with two others and one more

the same

stuck on this page

in this pod

in the rain

and one of them has something written

on her hand

in this pod

in the rain

and I'm happy and here

in this pod

in the rain

2.

I don't know why you took me here

by the sea, and the cliffs, with the rocks and

you

but I love it, and it almost seems too much right

now

and the sand and the messages and

love

that you write

would be

almost all

of everything

to me

and this moment hurts because I know it will end

and I can be so cynical so often but I'm honest right now

why did you bring me, and why can't I just let it be as

perfect

as it is

3.

There is no fire, but just

a dull, unofficial and repeating

smolder

and let me explain

I keep trying to light it but I've run out of gas

from idly flicking and

burning my fingers

I don't have anything left but the case and the case is colder than a flame but

it still hurts to touch

eventually I'll have to give up

and I think I'll be ready soon

4.

Just promise me that when I

have something to say again you'll listen with kind ears.

I've got nothing now, but I'll try, I'll try

until I can't try again.

I'm not sure

I'm not sure

I'm not sure

I'm not sure

I'm just repetition

5.

We're sitting at the social club with not a hint of metaphor about us

and Mr. Makoto is dancing back

and forth with his silent fingers and

heavy hands

he does not tickle or mingle but he does

kill us where we stand

so I'm glad I'm sitting

and when he pauses and his feel leave the ground

you can hear japan travel through his sounds

and the pint is bitter

but the bassist is sweet

and pudge on the trumpet,

well he was just cool, man

6.

She and he are figuring out the comings and goings of complex courtship, but they ain't dancing.

it's song and rigid practice so that they might just flow

I can hear through floors and was once there

and her voice with such b-

but something even more, that might need a new word

the accented warbles finish my thoughts like colors

and colors that I can't describe

but she could sing it

and he could drive it along with her on the hood

more desirable than a Cadillac shield

more slick than a mermaid

more soul than all heaven and hell combined

and hell, I ain't going to heaven,

but they sure as heck should

7.

dots

d o t s

d o t s

d o t s

d o t s

arrows to the end and

we point at patterns that hold

nothing for us

can you hear my voice?

do you remember my name?

I am he who raised a bastard child that would become

king in our dreams

and the dots that lead you to me

were placed there by him

or maybe it's all rubbish, and

I'm losing my way

but as long as you can see them

it's all going to be OK

8.

I thought I could see you walking

but maybe just a hanging pair of legs

without your voice, or eyes, or smile

so not worth all of this thought

right

now

and I could babble like a tower of old

and I would write every word with care

but you wouldn't be there

just some hanging clothes, tricking my eager eye

9.

I'm sitting, and waiting

and for now I'm someone else

it's still me, but a different form

form

formed from concepts of

normality

and

peace

and I'm peaceful and waiting

in another man's shoes

taking up space where another

man should be

and scrawling quickly from

side to

side

and my form is calculated to

draw your gaze

not for vanity but for a wish

of another life

a form in which I make more

sense

so I sit

and wait

in another mans clothes

and someone else might come to

say

hello

and hi

and I might draw your gaze

one of the wales sequence

I thought I could see you

walking

but maybe just a hanging pair of

legs

without your voice, or eyes, or smile

so not worth all of this

thought

right now

and I could babble like a tower of old

and I would write every word with care

but you wouldn't be there

just some hanging clothes,

tricking my eager eye

why I didn't go to tish

over and over again is a memory

a used memory that I used to go back

through a

t

u

n

n

e

l

to get to the beginning of what I was trying

to

say

there is a large space between but I don't know if you're paying attention

or if I'm reading or if you're

finally

just tired of the same same same same same same same same same same

and we create every [ T H I N G ] but we still don't

F U L L Y

understand

what

we've

made

Romantic Deconstructionism, a very long confusing collection of paragraphs.

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.

Love,

Joseph Mack Stohlman

What is this?

What are these: L E T T E R S ?

No, and punctuation

Punk

I feel lucky but you are probably just reading

Did you see that R? And those E’s?

I’ve taken E’s and they don’t taste very good

But letters get you high as fuck

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.

No

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

Is

Dark

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

Is

Dark

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

A flourish

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.

post script to a book

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

I have to do this

How can I act like I don't care about this without seeming like an asshole?

Answer, I can not. I'm going to post some poetry and other words.