wadup fureezy geezies. ’sbeen some time since i posted a pome on this the internet. i’ve been writing at a snails pace (maybe one evry couple weeks). haven’t really been in poetry mode, y’know? cuz being a poet is more about looking at the world a certain way than it is about writing poems, as we all know. the poems are just a byproduct of the living. so here’s one i just did wrote, tho:
CASSIDY: “See this? You’re at a disparate junction with reality.”
CASSIDY: “I know, I might climb off the tracks”
- excerpted from an interview with the poet, 1.17.08
let me try the christ grasp.
my penis is meaningless.
words are dead.
let me grasp at christ like a slaughterhouse kid in the birchlight of a cold morning.
or an empty morning.
death, i don’t care about death.
words are dead and i know we’re all nothing but words in the first place so
this must be Afterlife.
this must be fucking heaven.
heaven, i mean. right?
we’re born at dawn;
as the sun rises, we crumple in on ourselves,
we wither and hollows appear two at a time
and after the sun sets we deny death with a ferocity that only the dead can display,
we exude timeless dissonance, and speak as though saying it for the first time.
as though there’s anything unsaid.
as though nobody is born.
but i know all things
i know all these things
these things are simple, embedded in ancestral memory
remember?
i mean, if life forms came to us from the womb of space
from the folds of the universe
from the tea tables of the stars
what would their music sound like?
because, after all, Real Music isn’t aural
isn’t physical or spiritual
it doesn’t lie down to time like some withering bitch
and sure as shit it isn’t words. (because words are dead, remember?)
