Wednesday, 29 December 2010

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.

Wednesday, 22 December 2010

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

Saturday, 11 December 2010

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

Wednesday, 8 December 2010

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

Wednesday, 1 December 2010

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

Tuesday, 23 November 2010

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.

Monday, 15 November 2010

yay for pills

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ALL need it.


Wednesday, 10 November 2010

"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

Tuesday, 9 November 2010

a few scattered thoughts

the simple
the small
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
life
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
and
taking away the words that I have no use for
eventually
the water I drink
the pauses,
when
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
misused conjunctions.
overused punctuation
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
nothing
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

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

Friday, 29 October 2010

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


Tuesday, 19 October 2010

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?"

Wednesday, 13 October 2010

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.

about editing

what is edting for?

this is nonsense.

is there a pattern?

I'm trying

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

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


Monday, 27 September 2010

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

Wednesday, 15 September 2010

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

Tuesday, 7 September 2010

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

Thursday, 26 August 2010

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?

Thursday, 19 August 2010

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

Wednesday, 18 August 2010

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

Tuesday, 17 August 2010

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

Sunday, 15 August 2010

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

Friday, 13 August 2010

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

Friday, 6 August 2010

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

Thursday, 5 August 2010

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

Tuesday, 3 August 2010

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



Sunday, 1 August 2010

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

Sunday, 6 June 2010

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

Saturday, 5 June 2010

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.