reasons n reasons
pile up round the frame,
like,
kids on stairs on christmas morning

but we're mom and dad, too:

scurryin round in dead dark night

to keep the secrets safe

to keep god's will pure

when we should really merge lanes

on the intersection of the good life and sadomasochism

pedal to the me d/t al

there isnt a moment to lose

i can't stop thinking about

what has to be done
what has to be done
what has to be done
what has to be done

i know and
then i don't
i won't and
then i will
i will and
i don't wait
for the kids to go to bed

rough amalgams
of Christmas' Past
line my longjohns
i'll never escape them
don't want to escape them

constricting...

...invigorating

like,
some psychic primae noctis,
i can't help but bow to my Lord.


_________

"did i?"

"should i?"

"are you?"

a woman's pov (from within a man)

i'm beautiful
i'm pretty
i'm gorgeous
i'm something new

i'm an epiphany
i'm a star
i'm the first pick
and i dont want to play

i'm your antidote
i'm your toy
i'm your poster
i'm a stone

i am a human being
i speak in sentences
i speak in paragraphs
i am not your thing

i am blinding
i am not a present
you cant see me
i am a human being.

prospective portfolio poetry

Vole-Human Ontology

i haven't sat in the dark

if we write about ourselves,

let's not lie please
let's not dress it up
shred it
make it carouse with others

i haven't sat in the dark in months

since ive moved to the city
not one night in complete darkness

or at least not many
none memorable

what in darkness(')ence

brings me closer to myself

unifies, silences:

is it the illusion of anonymity,

the basking in self-obscurity,


like lovers that think

it's always best when the lights are off


like the stuttering beauty

discovering her brain


like an elderly leper finding jesus

or happening upon sorok island

likelikelikelikelikelikelike
something else at all times
and never pavement
only a breeze, a whisper
an abstract's abstract

mounts me
and carries me through the day
desperately seeking a night
in which no one can see me
in which my own dissident, diurnal critics
can't intrude on the small

fractious yet fracturing

dense morsel of beauty
living somewhere off the grid

yet there, too,

among the fears,
the scientific studies
left unpeerreviewed

(dubbed peerless)

prior to canonization.


____________
on the possibility of ethical domestic abuse

writing, please meet the drug I-can’t-seem-to-quit-long-enough-to-determine-the-effects-or-intensity-of-usage-but-suspect-that-I’m- addicted-to-in-a-maybe-innocuous-but-certainly-more so-than-most drugs-sort of way.

cannabis sativa, please meet the drug that I can’t become addicted to. No matter the syringes, hands, and opiate flushed pockets.

-I was completely naked and alone
sitting in my deskamong many desks
at work today.
External impassivity; internally, raptly, watching my own personal horror flick: I spoke with estimators and secretaries while my mind hemorrhaged from this unique, rarely reported, domestic abuse. Domestic abuse
of the most possible proximate cause. Domestic abuse,
the resolution of which is a(n ethically ambiguous) kind of career for the modern alchemist,
the psychologist.

for, like the alchemist, what strong foundational knowledge does the

psychologist stand on besides a more contingent, individual pragmatism:
where is psychology’s attainable
(ok; kind of, maybe attainable)
theory of everything?
(the origin of origin...
who is
this
...
how is
this
...
speaking
...
now
...
now
...now)

I was completely naked and alone
sitting in my desk among many desks
at work today.

The crime is typically rife with battered wife syndrome:

"No, no. You don’t understand: I deserved it
I-
I-
I-
I was weak.

He has a point.
The horizon is here
The sun has set.

No, he doesn’t mean to hurt me.
Really.
He doesn’t.
He really just loves me
Too much."

--I sat at my computer today and whipped myself
like the Jesus I would all too certainly love to become
messianicnflagellated
[why

we know not
best guess is fertile offspring

borne of passion,

some(

archaic god complex
modern, conditioned, rat-in-cage, karm police begging, pop culture metaphor regurgitating
victim)]

- The boy stands at the chalkboard, his legs and his back hunched. His words ring out as his hand scrawls.

I will remember my dreams at all times.
I will remember my dreams at all times.
I will remember my dreams at all times.
I will remember my dreams at all times.
I will remember my dreams at all times.
I will remember my dreams at all times.

I will remember my dreams at all times.

(ad infinitum – or relative infinitum:
a life reduced to second and minute watching)

The young man looked at us all with his mouth sewn shut and his eyes pleading:


“Throw me on the fire. Please, let me thaw out. Don’t make me go back there. I promise, I won’t forget my dreams anymore. I won’t. Never. Never again. Please. No. No.No.NO..NO!!

I will remember my dreams at all times.
I will remember my dreams at all times.

I will remember."

"forever." *

* This poem w/could not have been written without radiohead's 'melatonin', an ok computer era b-side, lyrics by thom yorke.

don't forget that you are our son
now go back to bed

we just know that you'll do well
you won't come to harm

death to all who stand in your way
wake my dear

__________________________
i touched your arm
to let you know
you should ring the bell
ill be your soul's waiterdog

your big eyes can rise to meet me
and we won't want for
you won't want for those eyes
that abacussed earnestness
will miss the bus
hitchike lost and alone
will whither
sterilized
by fifty-four and
greygrey skies

i touched your arm
to touch something
anything at all that
might move our unmoving unmoved movers
to move.

___________________________________

i want to end the monologue.

i want to end the inner monologue.

i want to end the inner monologue that kills.

i want to end the inner monologue that kills via adjustment.

i want to end the inner monologue that kills with calibrating second thoughts.

i want to kill this judas, this calibrating inner monologue before it kills me.

IWANTTOENDTHISMIRROREDMENTALTREADMILL
IWANTTOWANTTOENDTHISMIRROREDTREADMILL
IWANTCONTROLOFCONTROL
IWANTAPIECEOFMIND
NOTEVERYTHING
GRASPABLE

___________________________________________

the gun slung over his shoulder, his
body perpendicular with the ground
neither his loose shoelaces
nor his fraying cuffs - no,

NOTTHE MOON SLIVER-

can rouse facticity's flatlining stoicism

__________________________________________________________

those longlong days formed of a newly known absence,
whether a trembling eternity or confident, placid moment
turn on the faucet, fill my abscess heart, rawpink, tense
in nearlynotime. your red sweater sits empty and cold.

my apologies wreak and reek
psychohavoc and locker room sock puss:
idon'treallyknowyouyoudon'tseemtowanttoknowmebutmaybeitsjustagamed
idn'tsomeonesay"playthtegameKNOWYOURAUDIENCE"butmaybethegam
eisbeyourselfbeyourselfandmultiplyflourishpursuehonorobeynotcareeverjust
staystoicstoicstoicmaybbeittakesamaybeittakesafewmonthsihearmanylegend
arypassionateromancestolastforevertogetstatuesin-
maybeyouhavereadthatstorymaybeyouhaventjustignoredmeiamastormchaser
maybeittakesa-
maybethegameisbeyourselfbeyourselfandmultiplyflourishpursuehonornot
maybeshehatesmaybeshe'strappedbehindadesksittingtherelikeaprefracture
wishbonebutnotawishboneyouonlyseemlikeawishbonetomereallytoyouyouare
anuncomfortablepolitegirlwhoreallyjustwantstodoherjobandmakesomemoney
somaybeshecanactplayapartwalkuponthestageandattemptomoveatheatreofmay
beunmovablepossiblypatronizingpatrons maybe
ittakesafewmonthsihearmanylegendarypassionateromancestolastforever
togetstatuesintheirhometownstartfromdisdainorworseambivalenceorworseyet
midnightlakeignoranceawellspringofabsolutenothingnesstotaldisinteresttothe
pointofnonconsciousnesswellmaybesubconsciousrightmaybesubconscious.

___________________________________

"... -s ball hit well...TO THE TRACK (!),
TO THE WALL (!)..."

the batted ball lands in a mitt
impotent as
uranium with ghandi


"...5 seconds to go.
...he crosses over.
FADE AWAY JUMPER..."

the ball loves to become
tremble on rupture
spinspinspinning
spinnin'round that rim:
it falls off the wagon
into a gray oblivion

_____________________


"...right on, right on."

"..."

"yeah, no one really gets that."

"..."

"..."

"...pedestal, dude."

"..., cynical bastard...
................................
..TO HOPEFUL ROMANTICISM!"

"give me a call."

days later and they
in localized catatonia
think of past glorious days
muttering,"End Trivia."

__________________________

Moving -
at a great height,
at all times:
threadbare,
rapunzelled -
too many variables,
too much sheath,
no sword:

i can't lie
though you will and do,
by the by:
i always run from the other shoe

ill seek knowledge of the gods
and burn at my own hand

my mind stalks my heart
in an empty brown school-bus,
watches it undress
staring, jeering

____________________________

i can't help it:
i hate you us all.
you've we've done as much as a beaten child
but less than the proverbial hypothetical scorned

pillows and blankets and
baskets and chalices and -
funeral laughter - cackling,
like Mephistopheles' fire, crackling

skin so thick to inspire
a tree trunk's envy
o, cold and forsaken sensitivity:
how does the seed bring the rain
and laugh in doubt's face?

but these are mystical questions
i have no need for them
a bayonet pen to my throat -
and all of humanity watching

watching. they do
"do" - in their own way.
but, also, all over
all art and science,
all that is worthy of Man.

She sobs, testifying
in a shrouded, dank courtroom begging,
her killers,
however powerful,
no matter their entrenchment and multiplicity:
be
put
down.

___________________________________

groping at the mirror
like an infant towards anything
or an
epiphanic horizon-hating helio:

i wonder why i
don't remember my dreams --
vacuous black snowflakes:
o, will i ever catch their nothingness?

these palpable privations tumble downward
visible only to my
unpryable third eye.
i don't look anymore,

but sometimes
some Me
somewhere
- I'm not in the loop -
will show home movies
of his dream realities
and remnants will reach this
cogito's city limits:
terrifyingly earnest and pure,
my breached forgetfulness
puts happiness on a milk carton

_______________________________

descartes' evil god lives within
me.
it has written, edited and
re-written the book on me.

he is a contrarian:
for happiness is not sought,
but, rather,
the greatest possible sorrow
for the ever singular Me of tomorrow.

and i am most certainly to blame.
i know the location of every empty throne
and that these moments pass
for which i can never atone.

it's not that i
dont know where my interests lie;
i'm a master theorist:
my chair's arm is scalding.
but a philosophy is primally a thought
disconnected from action
by a wide emotional chasm.

i disagree with philosophers
that will look to their peers
for human nature:
all that's there is us,
no human being as such,
only the hands of our time and place,
like Jesus' Anglicized face.

____________________________________

"when i think
that i can't blink
without writing:
nothing happens.

the meaning-stuffed-mind
sits satiated
upon its toilet-throne -
erm, chair
- in consternation
linguistically, neurally, constipated:
where's the _________ fiber?
so that my feelings may pass
so that i may feel the cleanliness and solitude
of an enematic colon.

alas -
more marination needed
more time for the parts of my whole
to write their reports,
talk to witnesses -
or: more time.
just: more time."

"what is the sheer passage of time
but the heroic villain,
the will to ignorance?"

"NO!

we must choose -
whether sedentary, on a paved road or
with a machete in the brush.

And so it is with my salty blue pen and blood-lined paper:

I can't control that
I can't write when
I think I should.
But I can accept it,
Waiting for release,
Enjoying the suffering,
That only precedes meaning."

"... "

"No,
We can."

____________________________________________

i'm not a man for all seasons:
springs and summers are bottoms up
even falls mostly enthrall;
but winters have long, spitefully introspective youths:
terribly meaningful brief bursts of
awareness,
acceptance,
immediately preceding paradigmatic shifts;
but this:
winter-but-not-winter,
spring-but-not-spring,
fall-but-not-fall,
this clipped wing, peg-legged sprinter,
modernity,
where our mental bris stays for dessert
until we look down and see curly hairs

where:

instinct's under quarantine and observation:
for fear
their superiority is originarily arbitrary,
their morphogenesis obsequious,
their self materially, annoyingly, inchoate;

it strangles everything natural
in favor of artificial nothingness.

relativity frightens,
absolutes somnambulate

_____________________________________

you cant fall in love with every pretty girl you meet:

a voice that runs marathons through tires
and a microwave smile;

Or, induces insanity-infused storytelling at the
FIRST IMPRESSION,
nuking my lamb shank-heart;

Whilst holding
the heavily foot trafficked
street corner's
street bum's sign:
Will Be Honest/Weird For (soul) Food
like a Doubting Thomas begging,

begging

that:
you might string a supple sentence:
there's something sexual surfacing
inside my mind as your word play spins normatively.
eye up their incorporeality
just past your nose
- in between us.
spit those language loogies sincerely
and:
i may forget beauty ends me.
i may remember.
i may remember i ripple the water
so that i may forget not remembering.

must find actualizing, not paralyzing:

my dreams, my ideals
leave me a motherless white elephant,
contextless
without hands that live in iceboxes

______________________________________

i knew a girl once that
fervently walked the plank:
self-constructed outta
gold and plutonium
- but mostly guilt.

she'd look in the mirror
with lust, towards divinity.
and then whip the knife out:
slandering, plunging deep, and
no longer strung out.

it hurts so good
to own it -
to not die but whither
under sky blue skies.
there is ambiguity and there is idiocy..

heavy and light -
i fought for the right
that you might freely choose me:
put away the stencil,
grab the brush and paint

acceptance and change
theres a time, place.
if everything is perfect,
where is meaning?
you must be dead.

so she'll lie and lie
loving, learning, growing, peachy
check, check, check, check, she'll intone
but then she'll write by the thousands,
salty, stomach-descending poems

her guy's nothing special,
but that barely stated implication
makes him the mythologized High School Jordan,
lends him the principle with some heavy juice.
someone will pay that debt.

and she'll look in the mirror,
yearning brown eyes with rls,
but she won't stretch or take her pills:
obligation, self-loathing, or a dancing dick?
she's not here, not there and never will be.

_________________________________________

the wandering warbling warty warrior wears
silencing self-snapped shackles
bloody burnt toast crumbs adorn her lips
- she gulps ominously.

there's no god but us
we judge
we create
we subjugate
we die empty or full
so just try

don't you hear yourself cry
or remember your forgetfulness?
how long is your pillow dry?
long enough, i guess

when the static becomes the swamp
in suffocatingly muggy despair of
knowing self-sabotage:
isn't it time?
isn't it time?

and when the swamp comes not just
bimonthly but biweekly and
parks itself in your groove
puts it feet on your ottoman
smiling at the slaughters you won't remember
the pieces you won't fit together
though they hover,
nearly colliding:
passionate but glancing blows
you swerve right into the swamp's nuzzle

i walk around
the Universe in my pocket
your memory just waiting
to expand into longing
creating worlds i can't bear to see anymore
but it doesn't matter:
my weeping wounded heart is a compulsive elephant:
cinematographer, editor, director, writer of
the best and worst film ever.

___________________________________

remember the promise as a kid you made
the singer offers
but that kid's eyes aren't fearful like mine
ive plumbed my coffers
for a shred of him
but the light from those moments
hasn't reached my planet yet

i can't see
what allowed him to be
and why this curtain follows me
how he could see so clearly
that The Good Life needs
ignorance:

a precisely willed hand full of tar
blacking out the inane,
the Not Worth Your Time, Buddy
so that light may reach the sun-starved people
who each can see the forest for the trees
but cant look at a
beautiful
little
leaf
glistening with dew
with chemical potential
with us

_____________________________________

[no vacancy sign in the wilderness
the woods are filled to the hilt
with vermin and wolves and deer and badgers
and me

i'm bitter
a breathing Beast Ice
i'm bitter
i'm bitter
i'm bitter
i'm

(alone)]

people:
look up at towers in full orange ball of fury blaze
smiling
watching their world disintegrate

ashes litter their hair
but they see a child's glitter


their breathing st-

_____________________________

Mud's Allure


he looked out the window,
chin on the ledge,
arms spread out, fingers interlocked, beneath.

his expression was advanced:
it pondered.

he looked out the window
at a girl with a book,
under a tree,
admiring a boy in the mud.

he squinted to see
what he could already.

there must be something missing

he sat underneath an adjacent tree,
book open and eyes to the page;
she never once looked over

except to say, "That's my favorite book."

__________________________________

Incomprehensible

the day the bombs fell
i was inside coloring

stay in the lines
stay in the lines
my mother called from the kitchen
but my ears were burning
from the fire engulfing our home

i could not put it on the fridge and i cannot understand why.


_____________________________________________

your laughter is a trumpet of approval
on my sorry, punctured soul
and echoes [] in unison []
with my own, miles away

your words flow like the Ganges
and [] deposit in my mind [] :
caressing, soothing, refining;
a sincerely philanthropic mindsmith

your hands conduct me
[] a train on its rails []
to a vaguely known
but long-worshipped destination

{there’s others!}
(they say)
I don’t see them…
but I must believe they exist
{(you’re too far to know)well(close enough to sense)}

but your mind alone
wears the crown
[] [[my mind alone]]needs yours []
(Necessary)---(and stifled)---burdens and demands

{(my mind paints a picture
stitched from the
[.] [.] [.] [.] [.]~41,086 moments-----
(~)25,393 one and a half second clips-----
embodying the time
[]
my eyes
and mind
have known yours(!)
[])[][][])}[][][][][][])}

[] [] [] [] [] [] [] [] [] [] [] [] [] [] [] [] [] [] [.] [.] [.] [.]
exclamation point.


________________________________________

blindfolded--i walk
around a knife store
--deserted and archaic
sometimes i dont know why i'm here

no.
many times i dont know why i'm here
[[[[all the time]]]]

it's a lonely trip
(no one's made it in years)

a butter knife would be
the refreshing, cool side of the pillow

anticipate once and limbs are lost
i'm here; i have no choice
but i can't reach out.

________________________________

he shut the door on his own greatness
when she never walked through,
and stowed himself away,
threw away the key

her decision to stay and not leap
is not a puddle splash by a curb;
it is a 50 foot wave
on a honeymoon.

I can’t have her,
well, the world can’t have me.
a whore in its service,
I win because my slavery is chosen

as long as we’re winning somewhere
we’re winning everywhere
the colors of victory, however shallowly obtained,
run deepest in the desperate and withered

-____________________________________

months have passed, a commercial break to some,
but in my war torn mind,
an eternity of infinitesimal moments
oscillating back and forth into existence and
factions sit at the ready with spears made with

a blade as sharp and piercing
as I have become since the last night;

some wood mindlessly shaped,
while I lay in stupor, in wait
for the time of a season that will never come,
for flowers to return
and triumphantly bloom in pitch black;

one long piece of rope made from my own skin:
a mirror to re-mind the mind
of vanity’s allure,
and the strength of superficial certain uncertainties,
amid feeble uncertain certainties
thought by men in 2-story red brick houses,
simple structures with manicured lawns,
too proud to know the difference between
an apple and the apple.

_______________________________________

theres a space in the light of hindsight
that winds and acquiesces
with the shuffling feet and
darting, pensive eyes
of the man struggling for perspective:

understanding beyond words,
across mountain ranges,
from peak to trough
he lives as a man, finally

or, rather,
will finally live when the god within
accepts his fate as creator and destroyer:
a paradox only afforded the partially divine.

on "the good life"

pedal to the me d/t al

there isnt a moment to lose

i can't stop thinking about

what has to be done
what has to be done
what has to be done
what has to be done

i know and
then i don't
i won't and
then i will
i will and
i don't wait
for the kids to go to bed

rough amalgams
of Christmas' Past
line my longjohns
i'll never escape them
don't want to escape them

constricting...

...invigorating

like,
some psychic primae noctis,
i can't help but bow to my Lord.


_________

"did i?"

"should i?"

"are you?"

on truth

tru
ture
tur
eut
rtur
tur
ertu\
true

on writing poetry (and, potentially, flash fiction)

i'm more of a premature ejaculator.

- yeah, i meant to put 'writer' somewhere in there.

i don't really have the stamina for a prolonged gestation and buildup to climax. sometimes ill blow my load in the first couplet and the rest of the piece is just because, just necessary background, just 'of course.' an example of cobain's 'hangover' in "dumb." just a right-there-with-me experience of my fall from grace, living the hangover, the effect of peaking at 5 years old: "oh, he's going to be fabulous. really. look at these reading scores: he's reading at a 3rd grade level! his favorite animal is the cheetah! if he continues his love of learning, the world will know his name!"

gross.

vole-human ontology

i haven't sat in the dark

if we write about ourselves,

let's not lie please
let's not dress it up'n
make it carouse with others

i haven't sat in the dark in months

since ive moved to the city
not one night in complete darkness

or at least not many
none memorable

what in Darkness
brings me closer to myself

unifies, silences:

is it the illusion of anonymity,

the basking in self-obscurity,


like lovers that think

it's always best when the lights are off


like the stuttering beauty

discovering her brain


like an elderly leper finding jesus

or happening upon sorok island

likelikelikelikelikelike
like

something else at all times
and never pavement
only a breeze, a whisper
an abstract's abstract

mounts me
and carries me through the day
desperately seeking a night
in which no one can see me
in which my own dissident, diurnal critics
can't intrude on the small

fractious yet fracturing

dense morsel of beauty
living somewhere off the grid

yet there, too,

among the fears,
the scientific studies
left unpeerreviewed

(dubbed peerless)

prior to canonization.

the best english translation of σωφροσύνη (sophrosyne) (or, at least as good as any other; no better, no worse

how and why do i let myself off the hook so easily? i'm so adept at sweeping the most important of matters underneath the rug. i don't think i lack an equal or anything, but i know that i am able to forget everything important to me. is it forgetting if i know i'm acting against myself as i do it..or i take steps that i know will make me 'ok' with my failure to live up to my own self-image.?

This gap between potentiality and actuality is a probably natural tension of human life; it might never be narrowed to nothing. my problem is the overwhelming awareness of my own plight and my own hand in it. i have no interest self-actualization that takes work. i do only that which comes naturally, i.e. easily. i will tell you of my dreams - or what i believe - and i may treat you very well - but alone in my mind, i will lose. every time. i succumb. i blame. i rationalize. i smoke. i forget. but it's not really forgetting - and if it is then i'm the most heinous,vulgar, culpable amnesiac; it's some bizarre apathy: maybe more nihilistic than anything. nihilistic in my complete and utter internal, actual subordinatation to my emotions opposite the superficial and vocal philosopher of reason, condemning those that are satisfied with short-term, almost already obsolete sources of happiness. condemning. when i am as big of an offender. not that it matters, this comparison. it's pretty much a way for me to pat myself on the back while on the front end, disemboweling and lashing. that's why i never come close to thinking about killing myself in anyway other than completely abstractly. which seems impossible, right? but i will remain alive; perpetually failing to live up to myself, these standards defeated by reason, beloved by emotion, they keep me barely above water; i never really move in any direction.

- i just read the "metanarrative" wiki entry. not really a new concept to me, but i never connected with until now. i still have this battle of reason and emotion narrative running throughout my own life. am i merely the product of a culture who still buys the metanarrative as a valuable concept, thereby creating the metanarrative. isn't this a hole in the poststructuralist disillusionment with such overarching and pervasive explanations of meaning, if people still buy that they exist...but perhaps they're not arguing against their existence, the p.s. are arguing against their performance. so instead, the p.s. focus on the metanarrative as an inaccurate representation of reality and therefore negative in practice. this seems to be the at the heart an attack on living absolutely, or applying narrative absolutely, rather, since lyotard seems to at least accept the narrative as a valuable means of value structural framing, he just wants it localized, more relative and contingent to the context of particular individuals, or very distinct, unified groups of people (?). tho i can definitely see where hes coming from...i find this very broad narrative of a battle between emotion and reason to be not only helpful but realistic.

i'm ok with my failure because i've been conditioning myself to be ok with it for a little more than a decade. so, i've been doing it a while, have even acquired tools to make my own acquiescence that much easier. like a shy rapist, i like to drug my victim. like a good marketer, it involves owning the medium, the message, the conversation. but it's this obsession with means that has gotten me bogged down and in the end always results in my acquiescence. it's in playing this deconstructive, means unpacking game that i am already naked and bent over. i have already lost. the marketer has moved the conversation, i have agreed with his fundamental argument about the efficacy of deconstructing my life in order to reconstruct it. he forgets that i do know. doesn't know that i know enough about the causes to move on - and act. contemplation is a contingent value. it's necessary but not sufficient.

what kind of self-revolution am i advocating, desiring...apocalyptic or gradual? but this is a false way to look at it. first of all, there is a buildup to the apocalyptic..it doesn't happen without antecedent causes. the issue seems to be in the transition, the readiness of the previously dominant but now defeated culture to leave. so, it's an issue of smooth or jagged. in the more jagged situation, it would be less immediately ideal since there'd be prominent remnants of the previous hegemony. so

i think (key word here, think) i'm going to write a memoir about growing up on disney movies. or maybe it can be a larger piece about growing up on movies and how the film creates expectations about reality with perhaps reflection on how/why the film is different than the book in this regard (if it is - which it seems to be, esp flowing from the written word/moving image, spoken word dichotomy - in this respect it seems to be a difference of imaginative possibilites on the observing, receiving end). if it turns into a grand reflection on the movie's influence, then the other dominant influence will surely be the romantic comedy. the key is detailing how these films help create my own methodology for social reality construction and thus directly influenced the way in which i attempt to construct meaning. because there is no getting around the fact that we create the meaning in this world, whether its consciously willed or not,well, that is certainly another story (one which may indeed be drawn out in the exposition here).

on the possibility of ethical domestic abuse

writing, please meet the drug I-can’t-seem-to-quit-long-enough-to-determine-the-effects-or-intensity-of-usage-but-suspect-that-I’m- addicted-to-in-a-maybe-innocuous-but-certainly-more so-than-most drugs-sort of way.

cannabis sativa, please meet the drug that I can’t become addicted to. No matter the syringes, hands, and opiate flushed pockets.

-I was completely naked and alone
sitting in my deskamong many desks
at work today.
External impassivity; internally, raptly, watching my own personal horror flick: I spoke with estimators and secretaries while my mind hemorrhaged from this unique, rarely reported, domestic abuse. Domestic abuse
of the most possible proximate cause. Domestic abuse,
the resolution of which is a(n ethically ambiguous) kind of career for the modern alchemist,
the psychologist.

for, like the alchemist, what strong foundational knowledge does the

psychologist stand on besides a more contingent, individual pragmatism:
where is psychology’s attainable
(ok; kind of, maybe attainable)
theory of everything?
(the origin of origin...
who is
this
...
speaking
...
now
...
now
...now)

I was completely naked and alone
sitting in my desk among many desks
at work today.

The crime is typically rife with battered wife syndrome:

"No, no. You don’t understand: I deserved it
I-
I-
I-
I was weak.

He has a point.
The horizon is here.
The sun has set.

No, he doesn’t mean to hurt me.
Really.
He doesn’t.
He really just loves me.
Too much."

--I sat at my computer today and whipped myself
like the Jesus I would all too certainly love to become
messianicnflagellated
[why

we know not

best guess is fertile offspring

borne of passion,

some(

archaic god complex
modern, conditioned, rat-in-cage, karma police begging, pop culture metaphor regurgitating
victim)]

- The boy stands at the chalkboard, his legs and his back hunched. His words ring out as his hand scrawls.

I will remember my dreams at all times.
I will remember my dreams at all times.
I will remember my dreams at all times.
I will remember my dreams at all times.
I will remember my dreams at all times.
I will remember my dreams at all times.

I will remember my dreams at all times.

(ad infinitum – or relative infinitum:
a life reduced to second and minute watching)

- The young man looked at us all with his mouth sewn shut and his eyes pleading:


“Throw me on the fire. Please, let me thaw out. Don’t make me go back there. I promise, I won’t forget my dreams anymore. I won’t. Never. Never again. Please. No. No.No.NO..NO!!

I will remember my dreams at all times.
I will remember my dreams at all times.

I will remember."

"forever." *

*This poem w/could not have been written without radiohead's 'melatonin', an ok computer era b-side, lyrics by thom yorke.

don't forget that you are our son
now go back to bed

we just know that you'll do well
you won't come to harm

death to all who stand in your way
wake my dear