The problem with epiphanies Is they wear off. By definition Their magic Must dissipate. The overwhelming delight Of understanding Eventually gives way To the dull thrum of living. And you wonder Is it better to know The epiphany’s fleeting ecstasy Knowing the hollowness Once it’s gone? Or is it better To live in ignorance Of that which Now evades you?
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
What strange alchemy happens in those boiling shells that renders the soft soup of embryo to a hardened jelly? Any scientist who claims to know this process is a liar and a con artist. The mysteries contained within the walls of that brittle housing aren’t meant for our understanding. If a human were to grasp the mechanisms of a boiling egg, they would immediately reach Nirvana and transcend the material plane. I keep my boiled eggs in a plastic bag, moistened by steamy condensation from the cooking process. That way the eggs feel at home. It’s like they never left the shell. I take all the broken shells from years back and construct a great and beautiful man-sized shell. I incubate my dreams in the shell. That’s where I live.