What I do not want to do is say the things that are said about poems. I do not want to see how these poems separate themselves from the poems already pressed into us. I don’t want to say things that are correct about these poems because then I would have said correct things about them. I don’t want any formal time or eruption or dominance.
What I don’t want is to make poetry that I love a type of historical thinking. I don’t want to say the poems when they move all around. I don’t want my face to be distorted by prose and I don’t want to live without the horrendous crime of eternity. The disgusting force of birth should not be exploded into moments should NOT be should not be exploded into moments but should be bought from CVS and grown in standing water like mosquito larvae. The trainwreck that is my body that
is my every sensation and utopia’s menace, secretes a biblical disgust from the microbiotic source of elation because it does not want it. I do not want the form
of the line. I do not want to press against the line.
I don’t want to talk about it. I can feel the presence of a navy-blue, felt figure hovering just out of my peripheral vision. Similarly, I know it has eyes and it is looking. I know it is looking and that it comes out of the cracks of a planet. I know about the fiberglass sheath. I know about the stylistic discourse between facts and truth and the mistaken structural tautology of a colonized psyche. I know the exact particle from the Mesoproterozoic era: an accident of orogeny: a spec of zircon. I know that the gears locked invisibly upon it. I do not want to unlock the gear of that machine with my tiny spec of zircon. I do not want to look the blue figure in its bright yet invisible eye. I do not want outerspace to become a socialist country fit for consumption. I do not want anything to come together this way. I don’t want everything soft to surround something so insistent and exact, something precise about the tactile.
I think you are right. No no no I do think you are right. I don’t want you to be but don’t you know that I know that animal. I don’t want its shining face in my wake anymore. I don’t want its very small paw full of hair pressing into the back of my neck anymore. I don’t want the pressure above my eyebrows. I don’t want to feel salt and sand pouring from the follicles.
In it, she guides us to the wellspring, to the hidden and bloody source like forensics. She locates the seeping mess for us so that we don
t have to. We are nothing without it. We don’t have any historical data. Our thoughts float in an earthen soup. An unrecognizable, bleating rhythm lulls our senses to the back of our brains through a misplaced aorta. We cannot feel but feel again. Touch surrounds us. There is just so much evidence.
I don’t know about you, but it really kind of feels like being called toward something. I’m probably wrong, but what do you think? And it is unmistakably just a two-dimensional effect. This is always more clear at night. If you go outside at night, a flat source of knowledge and death will slam itself into you like some kind of totalizing entity. It just feels so real! To see the fictive.
I don’t want to see any part of it. There’s a part of me just to the left and I don’t want to see it. It’s like a whole other self just lying there but reversed, upside down and hanging. I’m just like “no thanks, I’m cool.”
But before we take a closer look at the polemic tendencies of methodic enthronement, word as coupled consciousness, we should dig deeper into the archive of our logged emotions. Some raw materials are in fact documents. Although nothing can be done constitutively, it also can’t not be done. In our binaural experience of holographic vibration, only one whole can accomplish denouncement; the other whole cannot. We are under the command of the fat resources like the poisonous juices of ancient ferns and the alien hair of a lost species. The scent moves into the brain through two sources. Our senses face both the front and the back, simultaneously. However, the page, in its golden case of data, lies flatly singular in its space, the word birthing its other self before us.
“my blastocellobabe loves nothing”
says Chen,
“It is already full of clockwork”
The greatest source of all vegetation was once liquified. When this happened, we were born at once to both move into gods and also born to die. It is the unrelenting logic of history that this develops the need to lance.
“to express
to express”
says Chen on two lines.
I don’t want to see the lines inside the golden case of the data box. I don’t want the poem to be a thing without me and yet it is. I don’t care about its flat space. I don’t want to know about its flat space. I don’t want to run into it in the dark night.
I, too, reject it.
What I don’t want is to make poetry that I love a type of historical thinking. I don’t want to say the poems when they move all around. I don’t want my face to be distorted by prose and I don’t want to live without the horrendous crime of eternity. The disgusting force of birth should not be exploded into moments should NOT be should not be exploded into moments but should be bought from CVS and grown in standing water like mosquito larvae. The trainwreck that is my body that
is my every sensation and utopia’s menace, secretes a biblical disgust from the microbiotic source of elation because it does not want it. I do not want the form
of the line. I do not want to press against the line.
I don’t want to talk about it. I can feel the presence of a navy-blue, felt figure hovering just out of my peripheral vision. Similarly, I know it has eyes and it is looking. I know it is looking and that it comes out of the cracks of a planet. I know about the fiberglass sheath. I know about the stylistic discourse between facts and truth and the mistaken structural tautology of a colonized psyche. I know the exact particle from the Mesoproterozoic era: an accident of orogeny: a spec of zircon. I know that the gears locked invisibly upon it. I do not want to unlock the gear of that machine with my tiny spec of zircon. I do not want to look the blue figure in its bright yet invisible eye. I do not want outerspace to become a socialist country fit for consumption. I do not want anything to come together this way. I don’t want everything soft to surround something so insistent and exact, something precise about the tactile.
I think you are right. No no no I do think you are right. I don’t want you to be but don’t you know that I know that animal. I don’t want its shining face in my wake anymore. I don’t want its very small paw full of hair pressing into the back of my neck anymore. I don’t want the pressure above my eyebrows. I don’t want to feel salt and sand pouring from the follicles.
In it, she guides us to the wellspring, to the hidden and bloody source like forensics. She locates the seeping mess for us so that we don
t have to. We are nothing without it. We don’t have any historical data. Our thoughts float in an earthen soup. An unrecognizable, bleating rhythm lulls our senses to the back of our brains through a misplaced aorta. We cannot feel but feel again. Touch surrounds us. There is just so much evidence.
I don’t know about you, but it really kind of feels like being called toward something. I’m probably wrong, but what do you think? And it is unmistakably just a two-dimensional effect. This is always more clear at night. If you go outside at night, a flat source of knowledge and death will slam itself into you like some kind of totalizing entity. It just feels so real! To see the fictive.
I don’t want to see any part of it. There’s a part of me just to the left and I don’t want to see it. It’s like a whole other self just lying there but reversed, upside down and hanging. I’m just like “no thanks, I’m cool.”
But before we take a closer look at the polemic tendencies of methodic enthronement, word as coupled consciousness, we should dig deeper into the archive of our logged emotions. Some raw materials are in fact documents. Although nothing can be done constitutively, it also can’t not be done. In our binaural experience of holographic vibration, only one whole can accomplish denouncement; the other whole cannot. We are under the command of the fat resources like the poisonous juices of ancient ferns and the alien hair of a lost species. The scent moves into the brain through two sources. Our senses face both the front and the back, simultaneously. However, the page, in its golden case of data, lies flatly singular in its space, the word birthing its other self before us.
“my blastocellobabe loves nothing”
says Chen,
“It is already full of clockwork”
The greatest source of all vegetation was once liquified. When this happened, we were born at once to both move into gods and also born to die. It is the unrelenting logic of history that this develops the need to lance.
“to express
to express”
says Chen on two lines.
I don’t want to see the lines inside the golden case of the data box. I don’t want the poem to be a thing without me and yet it is. I don’t care about its flat space. I don’t want to know about its flat space. I don’t want to run into it in the dark night.
I, too, reject it.