There's something about you,
Like a Vonnegut tale,
A beautiful thing
With odd little quirks
Around every corner
And in every page.
A glowing light
That sometimes flickers
There's something about you,
That's just out of reach.
So it goes.
If fools could speak of geometry,
you would be the right angle,
while me, obtuse,
I find light in the darkest places,
where the glint of the moon turns back time,
I look back,
And find you cloaked in fog,
traipsing towards me,
with no rhyme,
strafing while they bleed,
we are cogs in the handset,
we are all lost teeth,
broken and shattered,
fallen to those underneath.
I was young
and you gave me words
and entertaining plots.
I spent so much time
looking at the way you write
and looking at the way you phrase
and wishing I could do the same.
Now I have my own phrases
All because you planted want.
they say god is perfect.
that holds true for me, too.
no concept contains me in totality.
Stirner wrestled with the undefinable:
an indefatigable Unique,
Camus perhaps said it best,
"i rebel, therefore i exist."
i strive to personify resistance.
i find the answers
in harmony with Counterparts,
defining The Difference
"i am what i am
and i am an outcast."
akin to Nietzsche,
stretched like so many grains of sand
on time's flat surface, orbiting
eternally around the creative Nothing
at half-past 3:00 in the morning.
a nomad on the margins,
with Deleuze and Foucault,
an astronaut arranged
along the endless frontiers
of an ever-expanding cosmos.
the periphery affords
a radical view
to the few who choose
to embrace that which cannot be Known.
a zero-sum game
between Death and me,
staving off manic-depressive ennui
if only momentarily.
- Michel Foucault
so it goes, he said, over and again.
and she knew he only said it to remind her
of her own duty dance with death
but she still wished she had never given him that book.
yeah, well, she said, i want to stay
as close to the edge as i can without going over.
yes, he said. big, undreamed-of things –
the people on the edge see them first.
— for the American Mustang
Strung up on one leg, bled dry while alive,
unloaded off trailers crammed full
of the crippled and blind —mares
giving birth on three legs, foals trampled
by stallions, and a wave of fear
hovering over tossing manes
like the sea after Moby Dick surfaced
for the first time. Last year,
135,000 horses died —
rounded up in hundreds and sent
off to slaughter like feeder goldfish,
three stops from Canada
or Cabo, displaced from plains
once revered for their livelihood.
In 1969, Vonnegut
wrote, “And so it goes…”
In 2061, our children will ask about the wild
horses who used to live in their backyards
as they catch the last fireflies and bottle
them up in jars, flickering and dying
like tired bulbs giving up on electricity —
2015 sees Henderson, Nevada grasses paying tribute
to power-plant-lines and a suburb built
on Tralfamadore fiction: house-mounds
and picket fences caging domesticated dogs,
curb-lined streets and caution signs, billboard
warnings of humanity’s fixation with progression,
combined like coffee with an overabundance
of half-and-half and too much sugar — only 99 cents
at Dunkin down a little ways, and home
to the dreamers who forget the word freedom.
I would like to start out saying thank you for all the work you made
for thoughts side comments in your books that make me want to have met you
I would just like to let you know that people are still reading your books
and if I may say you are a true writer that will last past my death
and you inspire me to be the same
so thank you
a true lover of your work
Some people endeavor to portray a persona.
Some people perpetuate the beliefs of their parents.
Some people pretend to be somebody they've seen on TV.
Some people have trouble accepting that they're actually existing.
Some people perceive themselves as being unlike anyone else.
Some people have an aversion to personality profiling.
Some people just can't help themselves.
Some people feel a need to place everyone they've ever known into categories.
Man got to tell himself he understand."