i'm a pathetic parasitic almost sort of poet dining as i do solely on despair or revelation emanating from my own day to day tribulations and epiphanies composing the year to year life arcs i foretell in dreams and then enact and then watch on looped replay with threatening telestrator in hand.

this might be the first time i've ever straight-facedly referred to myself as a poet. which itself is  inherently more than just 'some' acclamation from an otherwise increasingly cantankerous never satisfied always pullin out more canvas sort of philosopher life author self.

feels like implicitly bullshit tho. this whole charade now.

'poet', 'poetry, poetic'... these are judgments assigning value, taking 'poetry' as we (me and my group of bureaucrats, credentialed experts and thorough archivists) to not be confined to that niched writing territory of 'not considered short and novelized fiction'. i mean: poetry seems less a discipline and more of an abstract value not limited to written words applying to or eschewing convention. a spirit an aesthetic. 'a poetic gait' 'your timbre is poetry' ... as well as homer and whitman and rilke and dylan and hendrix and others more conventionally called 'poets'. i don't pretend this to be revolutionary to the aesthetics field or a meaningful contribution to contemporary or eternal philosophy of art conversations. the declaration is important to me.

this is all to say that i may be a parasitic poet but it's not pathetic.

unedited (or, run-on) (or, fuck 'or': 'and' 2012, baby!)

loving is the only thing i can do. everything else every other action is overflow outgrowth from loving or trying to love.

or that loving when i should've been liking lest i break some code some coolness line in the sand because there is nothing worse than looking up and suddenly realizing you're on a perch where after 0-CRYSTALLIZED you now are of the clear-headed sober minded opinion that (shhhh) you now just-this-moment like someone less than they like you.

should've been shouldve been shouldve been shouldve been...

who says?

the reckoners in the back working the super computer sharpening the algorithm to the meaning of life. you should see their faces light up as another story is built on some tower in a massive ideological complex. or when they repaint the veneer of a much venerated now statued high-rise principle after leading the way to victory in campaign after campaign.

love is not just for fate or for the will or for the leaping heart or for the analytical brain or for the stepping foot or contemplating mind. love is acceptance of the necessary. love is both a base jump and a succumbing lying down smiling. love is not the sun or the moon or the sky or the ground or the roots. lovingly much more so than a mere toleration but with joy towards the sun the moon the sky the ground the roots the passing glance the lingering hug goodbye the awkward kiss. love is adoration for acknowledging absorbing enacting the imperative of Here and Now away from the narcotic release of heavenly past and future. love is abiding but never obligatory. love is a constantly presented choice. love is the originary question the question of questions. every other question derives from the basic impulse to love or to hate. choose love as the man said to choose the abyss.


!this message has been jointly funded by the Coalition to Moderate Deification and the Campaign to Elect 'love'* as the Overt Acting Main Guiding Principle Influencing the Self!


^please stop capitalizing the preceding four words and capitalization-as-convention-in-general. it's pretentious, aloof, and diluting. this is a challenge to reinject words with meaning by really constructing, actively deciding what is proper to 'proper'.

*please email the author for a pdf of love's dissertation and video of his defense against legendary antagonist 'pragmatism'

faith

m
    a
y
                    b
e

h                                                                                                                                                               o

p

e

fully

some

t

                     hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing

sometime

super  symmetry me unseen
a Form
jutting 5d
out from body
as shadow
as path
as massive looming

destiny's narrated coincidence
harboring Dear Leaders
knitting A Pattern to Pattern
putting moment on a milk carton:

put down the telestrator
clear the room of experts
clear the room of archivists
cross your heart
and hope to die

immoderate thought's a bacteria

vice is only a towel away

stay in the water:

constant pruning

it's the only place to become

overwrought, panicking, schematizing

time-traveling, oscillating, vacillating

just let the body see

super symmetry me

under the raffia palm tree

History is the way

life ambles

History is life's

Absolute Cadence

isolated by the top place finisher

told by the gold medal winner

hanging on Hillary's Step 

jutting jaggedly

in then out 

climbing the sky

dropping into pits

we are homeless

pursuing History

and we are homeless

pining grey hymns

pursuing History

and we are homeless choosing

the bank we came in on

or the bank we'll leave for

over the flowing river enacting

synaptogenesis

place your                                            forehead on my forehead

see-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------saw

b                     ack n forth
b                     ack n forth

let's xerox our brains

lobe on lobe

let's    a             y
        h  r         s       n
      c      t                  apses
                our

under C R O W N I NG  S K Y

                                                           wrap fingers around t...r..e m b l i n g growth cone
                                                 firing axonal flares into                                                                    aethēr

                                           squeeze out coDicarius vertebrae
                                                 through MYelin sheath
                                                           buRsting into folia
                                                  and into dendritic spine

                                             looking for another den  DRItic
                                                  spine     lookingforanother
                                                           growth cone lookin for
                                                  another growth cone


you                                                       neural cartographer                                                              you

neural cartographer                               you                                                           neural cartographer

you                                                       neural cartographer                                         you      

then we'll trace a path
      and climb thalamic ridge:

                                              you be hillary,

                                                                     ill be tenzing;

                                                                                          no, wait, wait:

                                                    you're better with ropes;

                            you be tenzing,

         ill be hillary!

cuz i wanna live how
your pupils
dilate at apex;

i want to know the path

blood courses

winding side roads round rush hour

leading to your pop's cabin

i want to
                                                   ri                                  de you     r 
            heartbeat 
                                                                                      as 
                                  you place 
your forehead                                     on                                         my forehead

i want 10,000 double-sided copies

                                colored
                     collated

           stapled

88 gigapixels sharp

i want a ten-eon G       IF
                           to hang in the nursing home
                             to laminate into a placemat

                               for when narratives flicker

i want my last man in the cave to push the boulder   ou T                  and screa    M your naMe

into the echoes releaseD  

in eternity's big bang: