This blog is (mostly) a near-verbatim transcription of my writing journal. Margins are the same as the journal. These are exercises, not finished products. Other types of writings will most likely emerge at some point.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Journal 47 - Words, Video Games and Cedar Waxwings
When will names run out? When will words run
their marked up course? When will the notes of our
music and their arrangement and re-arrangement dry
up like dead unspoken language? Are the notes and
the words infinite like natural numbers? And if
so,, what sort of infinite are they? There are varying
levels of infinity it seems. But don't tell the philosophers.
Their heads may split like cantaloupe on concrete.
I see a black-sand beach with red reprieves and
alternatives giving way to black water, a red sky with a
purple dome overseeing it all - I'd like to walk the
black sand of a black ocean beach - will my feet
melt like pieces of white chocolate? That's worth
cannibalizing over. I think if my skin were
like chocolate I would take masturbation to a
whole new level. Or at least hedonism. What's the
significant difference? Social mores? I'd like to
shove my hand into those social mores and cry
'Get over here!' Alas my life is not a video game.
I sometimes miss the thoughts and perspective I
had as a toddler. In high school. Professional
students are as indecisive and immobile as a flock
of Cedar Waxwings sharing their fruit in a death
tree - shot at by overzealous young students of
another world where life is a simple hierarchy of
the good bad and the ugly. Homosapien on (or near)
the top since we devised the whole charade -
careful to put the divine above; no-one likes a
straight up arrogant fool. And I'm pretty sure
hope is one of the first and original genomes we
managed to save. I wish I could say that matter
accounts for the world of experience the way
the world of rocks but I'm not convinced. I lie
in bed at night tossing and turning, unconvinced.
I began a quest to hunt for images and phrases
to use in my invalid desire to create a poem worthy
of paid responses. Critical responses. Instead I've
found slugs and wine and pops and dirty fingernails-
at times though I hear the voice of the girl
leading the choirs of my childhood's heaven.
Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom)
Post a Comment