On Mediocrity

Hello all and or some, s.o. to my linguist homies on the dike {don’t fight, plz} -mike [as in microphone (What you talk into, not hope), also not Killer.  It’s my pleasure to address and undress you and me -respectively.  Tie some syntactical knots and throw in some solecisms and some silly baggage from a past life -my life- and give you some silence.  I’m happy to have you sitting with me (potentially standing, prostrate, supine, or on your side big or little spoon cupping something loved), it’s always a pleasure to have company (Read: Friends).  I hope of two things, your admiration and attention, in either equal proportion or in disproportion but in liberal enough proportion as to have the ratio of said proportionality be a moot point and merely relish in the superfluousness of a genius[sic] bent and ill on the things of a mind that are not recognized, “…dans la refuge des mots.”

 

Allow me to mention a couple truth-isms, I am a coward and I am a fool.  I hope in lesser amounts as said admiration and or attention, but a cowardly fool, blissful wily, knob-kneed weakling spas with neither hind nor foresight, confrontational-averse-nail-filing ignoramus, that seeks its (third person to disconnect from Ego [Do you conjugate Latin {and other foreign languages, for that matter} words in English?] and make me seem super subjective) validation and vindication from a trait that does not believe itself.  To explain:  Intelligence is simultaneously insecure in its capacity for efficacious and (seemingly) thorough self-criticism, and boisterous in its penchant to indulge in itself, wallow in the depths of a pooling shadow from the sun of the crowds overhead, to be needlessly poetic.  However, that efficacious and rapaciously effective tool for self-criticism creates a feedback loop that depends on a moving sun to provide its shade, a [plus accent thing] l’aise des ombrages to use the better French wording.  This criticism is also a fun little vendetta of realizing un-originality in the criticism, the nascent state of the ego, and the fruition of combination, an awkward dance of a snake eating itself to become fatter.  This is a similar dance of any addiction, but this ego is an addiction to the self, in the same way dominance provides in enlargement of ego and ease in feeling oneself grow [narcissism].  However, this definition of the ego is a safe-haven of the ego itself, in the same way words give mastery of the universe, anthropomorphizing the stars and stellen die auf den Hintergrund der Menschlichkeit is a function our innate need to confront the thoughtless void with our trepidations, our freeing of death in ascending to orbs of sentences that frighten and shimmer, that defy the annals of Hell and stand their smiling in their stead.  And this process of knowing, is the same feeling as knowing, thus the ignorance that rules me more surely than my knowledge, and this feeling of knowing or the heuristic of how to know is all that stands in my way from knowing, from breaking that icy glass of staring up into the world, unmoving, with acceptance as my last stand.  In some ways, modern life is about coming to terms with the darkness, with the slowness, of a world without music and night truly bereft of light, just inky blackness that dares spell no word nor phrase, just a visage of a blind tableau, agape and afraid, but no more part of us than the sun, and no more painful than it is glaring, but all the same a terrifying type of muteness, shadows without the ease.

 

I am not sure of my supplication to thee, but let it be fair and true, read me and read me through, I can’t say these with a name, nor can I bargain to give you what is due, but I can steal of ignorance and remold it into a brand new shape, a trick of the eyes, a sentence that ends and begins with something that you already knew.

 

Thank you for your time,

EE

Untitled

an opera singer in the radio and white
coated walls breaking from the white withall
of that wintery fall from a valley conquered by
silence.  Lava stones in the median and
gasoline cracked asphalt showed the way, past
TV’s and night stands arrayed in a timekeeper’s
way, the ethernet bubbled with thoughts so
secure of unbroken shredded day that not
one message could descry a simple marble
thrown by each stain who then inflicted
existence on that cream-colored wall, holding opera and wherewithall.

Eclipse, August 2017

A wide darkness that ceased the world
and spilled on Pan its Nile of amaurosis,
thoughtful flight from a mere reflection
to a tendril body of black weaving its habits
in dark paramour.  Where Pysche cast its
freshly grown roots to the newly watered
sphere onto where grammarians lived, unraveiling
the sun.  We stood perched in line, our bodies cones of
Endymionian eyes, for passing we became his
company, peeping into that common-void,
betwixt in a lacuna of spheres, star-alloyed.

Field of Play

Brigands formed traced owls in the marching night,
boots slicked with leather and muddy incline were
rote and woven with the flowers and the dirt of champs,
verdant soot and reeling plumes of feathering ashes
blew dusty at the knees of each worn out solider, their
eyes in some ascension or another, facing the ground,
looking their part in the cold brown matter. The polychrome
cathedral of the sea looked blank and empty at the top of
the beach, its lighthouse spread out and disconnected,
each rhapsody given like Hesperus a cue for lovers to
pinion and minion their minds to their nethers, warring
for pleasure on the soft landscape of the body’s mind.

Meer,ely

Le vitrail de la nuit récompense

que le foret vide était, et le monde est

vacant, le soleil plus lourd que les étoiles,

ma têt semée avec le rejoindre de la plage

et de l’eau, lié, avec jadis le ondulation de pensée

jadis seul ou rêvent, jadis vide ou pensant.

Partnering

Powdered paragon of my gaudy conscience
spilled black on the ceramic tiles, caking the
caulk with sounds of paralysis, a first time
seeing epileptic, where colors blazon their
bellicose motley in roving hues of anarchy,
heart turned heavy and wine stains the white.
This night unturned its innards and routes to
knotted paths of unseeing error, streets glisten
like accountants’ dicks freshly sucked, buttoned
up. Their black Burberry glasses pushed tighter
on their nez, Schnauzer if you will, and piggish
tones of grunting eek reddened from the room
that had fresh begun. Each man turning in
for the night, each woman too, their eyes dashed
the stars in different light, one of woodlands
and weeds, the other of concrete and reeds.
The city had opened itself, its rivers lapping
until the feet of our lovers’ shore, its promise kept
but around the premise’s carrefour, the element
defined by dissonance, where our heads open bled.

 

Partners make good money.

Poesie, I Returned

Symbols collide in a forest built for one,
empty hair and white wisper walls cander
the weak dashing light of the boiling sun,
its appendages bright and fleeting, arms
pinioned to the grassy ode of knolled soliloquy
spilling melted fireworks in the form of
a couched sun, staining the night and clouds
a soft rending of horns, a choir of force that
wove its voices to hues of citrus reds and
berry yellows that bruised the Earth with
beauty and forméd parcels of forgotten love.

Wall

an opera singer in the radio and white
coated walls breaking from the white withall
of that wintery fall from a valley conquered by
silence.  Lava stones in the median and
gasoline cracked asphalt showed the way, past
TV’s and night stands arrayed in a timekeeper’s
way, the ethernet bubbled with thoughts so
secure of unbroken shredded day that not
one message could descry a simple marble
thrown by each stain who then inflicted
existence on that cream-colored wall, holding opera and wherewithall.

Universum Populi

The sun that unwillfully rends night
from day inverts the universe from
cold and dry to bordered heat, warmth,
and moisture of the brines -bushes that
wake up in a hazy dew, purpled and puckered,
between thorns and love and brambles
to choose.  What respite the chaos
dents, like wax of imprints, remebered
curvature of the celestial sphere, stolen
in the minds of the created sons, to be
a part is to know, the universe to reconcile,
is ourselves to dethrone and with it, dethorn.

Luminous Poetry

Verbosity gives me wings and slumber my safe,
exorcise the night from its ruling Baphomet, turgid
hair and gel-like glands spewing lust into the rings
of fighting corpuses, figures challenge that weight
of consciousness to don the mask of poet’s muse.
Hume’s grammarian regalia smiled and gilt, his
pressure pulling us down to see all the manacles
of guilty logic we have imbued, all science we must
am Anfang suspend, just as poetry must in fantasy live
in potency of diurnal rising to express itself, unchained.

 

 

 

p.p. (Latin joke for the losers among you.) I will be posting more regularly in the upcoming short future.