not a word
a word in my skull my skull rattling on
and on sideways against the floorboards: I mourn
for a world that I will never know and only know
in forgetting, or is that in passing? the passing lights before my eyes
the flash before my eyes tells me something tells me that I am
late for my own wedding I am late for my own funeral
that I am late (again, again, and again)
with the word of the moment that the word and myself haven’t arrived
and look who’s attended, look who’s here.
I am building a thing
I?m writing to not say anything. I haven?t much
of a choice: it all falls rather over and over.
I?m writing to forget
that I do nothing by writing, that there is nothing further than this
pushing
and its entrails.
fingerstalks of knowing and a trace, just the barest trace that it can be added up to seem
that if looked at the right angle, it would appear to be
solid, that it would solidify under the conditions.
there is no one condition, no living condition to which to all to apply:
just a plurality of conditions, party favors, and old torn magazine ads.
and this pushing implodes: it has yet to bloom, explode, carry itself
instead of being pushed, pushing
this struggle to grasp anything in my head. there?s nothing. it all goes. I can not say
surely that I know one thing. not even my name: it?s been passed around. Wherewhat am I? wherewhat when I thought it all boiled
down to ?who..??
psyche of logic, reason of the soul: a word for the mind, but
after all the exegesis and theorization beyond the neuro-scape and pre-wiring, one thing:
I move through a world I can not and do not see for what it is
I feel a world that can not and does not belong outside
that the world is a figment of the systems within me, the imagination of the wiring and never ever really there.
The realization is this: there are no words
for the discomfort, no association to link myself up to, no memory to call all my own:
I forget much more often. I?m not forgetting
more, as in ?more?, but rather, ?more quickly vast timely amounts.?
in other words:
everything is a surface
with no tensile strength, no weight: every word is as it appears.
I?ve been talking more
and more out
loud rather than writing just to feel my voice leaving.
It was the promise of language that held me together.
although offered a line of flight, never the props of wings: offered chance to redemption
effaced
as often I have seen. sometimes I feel
as if my fingers have a mind of their own often times making such typographical errors (leaps of syntactical structure, word forgetting)
such beautiful errors that I am
forced to take credit: are they mistakes or a jump in logic, a short circuit
of copper-less wires that has given breath to light?
I?ve just read the phrase ?the appropriate dna samples? and felt immediately a pull to write, to tie them down, to ?appropriate?(verb) the phrase. I read about a yawning of the mind that the skin loses itself in its own consumption, obsession with form: I?ve read and read and realized that I?ve learned nothing. what can I recall, what can I put into words for you? What representations of dna strands can I mangle in representation for your pleasure? What sense of right or wrong can I bring forth to the page with a level of honestly having been there?
what can I say to you but of all things that I can not say?
I?ve lied. I cannot and will not build a thing (to wordlessness): I want this to lean
towards meaning, to the facilitation of words
again. I want to start from the ground and word myself up from the soil like Adam:
I want to roll the dust in my mouth
and make work.
I want to make words real and I don?t know how. Did I ever? How could I have ever. But how did I then? If I knew
from the elemental truth then how did I ever get here?
You were young
and now? Now why here, why come this far?
even if I could ever truly feel the distance crossed across the base of my heel and the palms
of hands, if my mind could crawl
the ground for me, how could I ever know of the distance crossed? Has there ever been any?
Have I come this far only by a sense of proprioception?
(there is something in its meaning, in this word, of all things -a word-, once known, that makes this word above all others ring with a truth, ring with grit stuck between this thought and the tooth. it gnarls itself into my thoughts and continues the push, to push, this push. Is it/it is this word I have lived for and continue to write for, even now, even in this age of cybernetics, of regulation and line/s of flight/s)?
this word, proprioception, means: an internal knowing, an internal sense, of place, of where, of distance;
an alignment of the bowels with the motion of the earth.
how grand, how wonderful to be able to find place
again, to know where you are and where to begin. I read recently
(reading, reading, and only scraps, romanticizations of writing, stick)
somewhere,
?…as feminists writer were figuring the relationship between the body and writing…?
and I thought to myself, yes of course there, it has always been there:
writing as a body
and working of the body and the body as a writing of work
and the fractalizations, the impli-multiplications of thought-strands
became blurry and lost to me but the singular strand remained: ?the relationship between…?
somewhere else, I heard, I remember, a proposition:
?..that the mind-state is actually one of anxiousness, of anxiety, and that we construct ?causes? for this state of being post hoc, post mortem, and we cannot reconcile ourselves precisely with our ?selves?. We cannot bear to…?
I am still and always will be lost and frazzled and confused: I will always be unsure of my place.
even when sleeping in your arms
of all the things I could have said with this
I am brought to tears
that I did not.