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Literature
Prose Exercise 4-18-16
Bare fangs, bare skin, bare rock, barely made it, bare necessity, bare arms (a right), barely audible.
I know there isno rush, but somehow all the melodrama of every fiction you’ve ever watched, read, played, etc. has a way of coming back to you the minute you touch down on one of these snowballs. Comets are fragile, naturally, and when they’re falling toward a star on a hyperparabolic trajectory they sometimes crumble apart as the little steam explosions overcome the cohesion of rock and organic matter in their various lumps and bumps. But Olympic Vega is half a parsec away, and this little snowball is nearly stationary, relatively speaking, so I’m not sure why I’m at all panicky. Routine research, routine exploration, routine boring. Maybe it’s Douglas. He has a way of baring his teeth in these big rictus grins when someone says something sly about him. The whole way here it was pearly whites and ‘ha ha ha’ in a false laugh and then he’
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Literature
Poetry Exercise 3-23-16
Beside my desk are two owl statues
One an angry candle in translucent white and scarlet
One a disapproving wooden bird with beady pupils
Prized possessions, I suppose
Paperweights that keep all my leaves-
Those in the journal, on the screen, in my mind-
From flying away, having grown too light for gravity,
By the consequence of their penetrating gazes
Brave birds, wax and wood, to linger by fire
To escort me through the fever-dream of prose
And listen as I foolishly recite verses
On a day like today, when I’m caught up with
Bret Easton Ellis and kitchen cleaning and appointments
Their gazes tell me all I need know: write… or be damned!
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Literature
Orpheus - Segment
Such greenery as lay ahead, Orpheus had never seen. Vast and green the trees of the Garden. In mad rows and mazes and arterial intersections the vine-laden forest arose from black earth. Blossoming beneath verdant umbrellas of spade and spearpoint and myriad leafshapes, a rainbow carpet of a thousand breeds of flower brought hitherto unseen gaiety to the dead land’s undershade. Among the walks fanning in all directions from the little semi-circular green lying before the Hall’s exit, a bevy of stone markers etched with arcane scripts and inhuman iconography kept a fairyland watch. Less numerous but magnitudes larger obelisks, crenelated turrets, and spires of granite, sandstone, and basalt rose above treetop foothills like distant peaks. The blue-bruised sky hung low above them, neither daysky nor night, a starless blanket of shadowstuff given murky illumination by the flowers and trees, which radiated greenly. A sickly, odorless breeze struggled its way to them through the
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Literature
Poem 3/3/2016
i am afraid not of death but the sort of half life
which a reactionary produces in his throws
of seeing everything and doing nothing
of doing ten things out of a hundred and doing
ten things wrong wrong wrong
within one hundred armsbreadths
call it a quarter kilometer
there are those whom I would not know ever in life
there are catlovers and a psycho or two and me
and warmth that scares me into complaisance
i love the people, but i'm scared
i'm scared mostly to be myself
to be in the far corner in the quiet while
the world passes me by
has the world ever passed you?
i like sex, but i don't want it
i like booze, but i don't crave it
i like man, but but but
What is it to be alive anymore?
To not want anybody
to not want to accrue gold or power
but then what
what what what do you want why do you do?
I'm not at the end of my rope
I'll do anything in peace
But I wish I had a listener
Or a God a real God looking down
Saying hi I was waiting I thought you would
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Literature
Poem 2/22/16
tripsy traipsy
it’s difficult when they all love one another
and there’s hardly anyone getting murdered
(which isn’t of course often the problem)
to write deepdark poetry or oh my goodness
this society is in need of this poetry
tripsy traipsy
however beautiful many of them are
and of course many of them are beautiful
(even the brutes, my dears, even the brutes)
at least beautiful enough to inspire some verses
about how you can find beauty anywhere my loves
tripsy traipsy
some are rapists and beat our weakest
big men beat and big women beat
(big being small and small sometimes jerks too)
of course that’s only some small big huge percent
a few too too too too too too too too too many
tripsy traipsy
but only a few, reducing us, we poets we
to flowers and optimism and not being murdered
(i lump myself with them because i need to eat)
and what’s it like growing old for the young
and what’s it like dying for the old
tripsy traipsy
or sex of course there
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Literature
Poem 2/18/2016
My heart repents and the word is in the fire quick before it solidifies on the page
Save once or twice when, distracted, it goes cold and must be published
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Literature
Poem 2/10/2016
I meditate a moment on my uncle's watch
When he died, it passed to me as these things do
I had often seen him wear it over the course of many years
Now, it is mine
I don't know its age or where he got it
But it has two bear claws and two oval turquoise stones
The silver is tooled with leaves, flowers, and the imitation of thread
It weighs a lot, for a watch
I seldom wear it
The clasp and the hinges sometimes pinch skin or hair
And anyway I have a mobile phone by which to tell the time
So it is a thing not of use, but beauty
And beauty is readily forgone these days
I don't know quite what to make of it
Whether to make myself wear it more often
Or put it away in a drawer someplace
Perhaps my endtable, where I will forget about it for months at a time
Finding it when I search for my checkbook
"Oh, there you are"
So it sits on the side of the table
It gets a bit dusty
And I pick it up to dust it and dust underneath and to check the action
To see does it still have power in the battery
(Yes
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Literature
Poem 2/9/2016
Let us be lifted together in Charity
Being brothers and sisters
And care that one cries out alone in desolation
I would be with that one or hope I would be with that one
And I am nearer the least than the greatest of we gathered
The whole night lifts from us like dressing from a wound
And there is the sun, an ancient Sign
And without ulterior symbolism it is a new light to guide us
And with symbolism is an old light to guide us
And every ray has written on it: Give
Care that some among us need a hand to steady their walk
That the young want the fire of inspiration and a free hand
That the downhearted want a self-sustaining invigoration
Which we who have been downhearted may at least half know
That some shall live, and some shall die
That all shall die, that all might live
Let the watchword on every lip be Love
Go forth and be unafraid
Being brothers and sisters
If one believes it is as good as ten thousand
You are important
You matter
I will live, I will die; You will live, you will di
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Literature
Poem 2/8/2016
I had many facts, and a father and mother who loved me, and a television,
But when it came time to write a poem-
Well, good poets have seldom relied on televisions.
William Blake made no reference to that box whatsoever.
Shakespeare, once or twice at most.
I love poetry, but I fear I cannot write it.
I read a poem, or a friend reads a poem, by a poet in my language or translated,
And for a minute, or five, or twenty, we are not ourselves.
But my poetry is written in a snowglobe.
I have television, and a father and mother who love me-
Ten days from now I shall die, or a year, or ten-
And this is my first poem, which says nothing whatsoever.
I would be lying if I pretended unconcern.
Over there I have a friend working hard for work she sometimes hates.
Over there I have a friend learning just how little he knows about his passions.
Over there my grandma gains and loses- gains physique, falls backward in memory.
Some orchestral piece plays. It is beautiful.
My literal nature shocks me.
An
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Literature
Exercise 2/8/2016
In the Programs, everything is possible.
I am seven years a mailman.
I am a winter sparrow.
I love you, whoever you are. I am Love itself.
I sit in a leather armchair in the vastest library one hundred thousand years, and I uncover, cherish, and forget.
I die in every way man has conceived. Every lifetime becomes the same lifetime.
I play games; wargames and city-building games and games of chance. I bet my money. I bet my immortal soul. I bet a disgusting sexual act. I bet one, fine chocolate.
I learn to love in all the ways of love. I learn the common ways and the uncommon ways and the detested ways and the ways of which Man has only dreamed.
I learn science and I learn computing. They show me the code of the Programs, and without a word I understand. I add to the code. I offer my connections.
I meditate ten years beneath the Bodhi tree. I wander the desert wastes in full hunger, thrice tempted. I sit on a comet a century and watch for the least perceptible motion.
Two years I tell j
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Activity


Here are the things which I can see from the kneeling position I have adopted for writing this prose exercise. Wait, before I get to those things, let me explain. I once stabbed my laptop screen with a WW1 bayonet by accident, and now I must rely on an HDMI cable and mis-proportioned (with respect to the normal display resolution of my laptop) television screen in order to use the laptop or watch DVDs on my television (which requires hooking the screen to my desktop tower, on the other side from where I currently sit.) I kneel because the laptop is on one of those glass-doored TV pieces that allow one to display games or DVDs or what have you alongside playing equipment (which I haven’t got) beneath the television, which occupies most of the top of the piece. In addition to the television and laptop, there are at present a plastic package, opened, containing blue raspberry wax melts that I have owned since last Summer and still have no idea what to do with apart from letting them waft their odors weakly against the wall, a fading, painted wooden mask from South Africa given me by a friend, a wax candle figure of Hotei, the Chinese god of prosperity often mistaken for Buddha in the West, a reclining ceramic representation of Avalokiteshvara, the Bodhisattva of compassion, and a 4 oz. masonry jar containing 1-2 oz. J & B blended Scotch. At some point I will drink it, but for now it is sufficient to admire the Scotch in its crude vessel and for its weak color like that of the piss of a fairly well-hydrated man.

To my right as I kneel (and saying that I must shift, as my feet are beginning to fall asleep), beyond the aforementioned desktop computer tower, is the kitchen, more of a nook than a room of its own. The kitchen is, at present, filthy, a state I will rectify upon completing this exercise. While cleaning I will likely listen to the Savage Lovecast, the latest episode heavily featuring individuals who struggle to communicate with transpeople they’d like to fuck and/or play with sexually because of nomenclature anxieties. Part of the filth of the kitchen is the result of last night’s Orzo preparation, a haphazard affair that saw some noodles spilled on the floor (mostly cleaned up) and the usual sprinkling of broccoli bits in nooks and crannies. Further, I failed to clean up several half-meals before that one, resulting in a brief pile of sandwich plates, oatmeal bowls, and coffee mugs. While the mess on the counters is thus spread broadly, it will consequently not take long to resolve. The floor, however, requires more attention, as I have frequently made only half-hearted efforts with both a swiffer and vacuum cleaner to remove not merely the normal occasional soil of kitchen activities but also fragments of shattered glass from a dropped pot lid (months ago) that I still sometimes find underfoot while chopping onions.

Outside the kitchen are two areas that receive most of the living room activity: my computer space and the dining table. Note that while it is called a dining table, I never dine there. At the computer station, nothing more than a modest desk, monitor, speakers, etc. the keyboard sans keys lies upsidedown at present, in the hopes that time will prove sufficient to undo the damage caused by spilling most of a mug of coffee upon it this morning. The keys, arranged carefully as they are on the keyboard normally, sit next to the board. Both a wax candle and carved wooden owl statue look on, perhaps disappointed, perhaps laughing, although owls never give anything away with those scowling masks they wear. The can of liquid air I sprayed to remove as much of the coffee as possible also stands sentry, mostly emptied, next to it a silver watch with heavy band that I inherited from my uncle and have previously poeticized for an exercise. Also present is a copy of Lord Jim in the Modern Library edition, which I had hoped to read (at least in part) to a friend last night, who alas did not have time available.

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:iconpomohippie7:
pomohippie7 Featured By Owner Sep 16, 2013   Writer
Thank you very much for the watch! :heart:
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:iconvorduul:
Vorduul Featured By Owner Sep 16, 2013  Student Writer
You're the one being all watchable. Keep posting, please!
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:iconpomohippie7:
pomohippie7 Featured By Owner Sep 16, 2013   Writer
Oh, thank you again! :blushes:
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