Why do I feel the need to commodify my every thought? Why do I seek the validation of likes for my work? I hate this part of myself. I want to create for the sheer joy of creation. What would I make if validation didn’t matter?
The most annoying part Of the pandemic Has to be The cloying Saccharine commercials Speaking in earnest Vocal fry With stock piano Chords Fuzzy montages “We care about you. Don’t get out the guillotine. Buy a Toyota In these hard times.” And then the viewer Presumably damp-eyed From all the corporate love Buys a thing Because “we’re all in this together.”
Oh to be a philosopher before Kant. You could just say whatever you reckon And be lauded for it. You didn’t even have to think too hard. Just say stuff in an authoritative tone And BAM You’re a philosopher. This tradition persists in American Conservative thought. From Locke to Rand to Peterson Reckoning out loud Is the same thing as intellectual rigor.
A communist philosopher storms into A psychoanalyst’s conference… Have you heard this one? He storms in Claiming divine right And claims it is The analysand Not the psychoanalyst Who is the proletarian – The worker – Of psychoanalysis He says The brain is a factory And we its workers And it’s the psychoanalyst Who is the boss He says we must democratize The process He says The workers of the world Must own the means of cognition
Althusser looks to Lacan Expecting the latter to agree. He says nothing. Althusser is rushed out of the building.
I, 15 years elder the century, weathered the broke-brawned shelter of millennia. The diamond dust which glistened the middle 20th, now micro-incisions the skin and teeth, makes rags of lungs. Colonial, they say we were better. But now post, we look at the masses, zombie-tired, broodbloods’ eternal shuffle. Nostalgia for sickly things permeates to a time when future existed. Rotary phones and VHS grain stipple YouTube longings. Feast! Feast! Ye hungry eye. Ye huddled mass! Yearning for 30 day free trials! The end of history came too soon.
The cat investigates the phonograph She can’t decide if she likes Mozart Sniffs at the rotating record
I am reading Kenneth Rexroth And marveling at his detail He remembers everything that happens At his imaginary parties And like most poets Talks of poplars
there was a period of time When all my friends wrote About poplars I would say “You live in Texas. There aren’t any fucking poplars here.” But they thought it sounded literary And indeed it is the most literary tree
I shoo the cat away from the phonograph She meows in disapproval I tell her she can deal with it