I read a story about a guy who died And then people saw the work He’d toiled over his whole life. It was some kind of art And people marveled about How this quiet old man Had made such rich things And never told anybody.
It’s a story people like. We’re all clamoring for some recognition That what we do in our respective laboratories Somehow matters. Someday people will know what we made. If not in this life, The next.
Eliot and I were convinced That there was a time vortex To the 1990s At the Target on Ohlen Rd. There was some weird energy In the freezer section That extended out to the street Where you could feel that Just on the other side of Some cosmic membrane Tupac was blasting From low riders.
We went to investigate. For some reason we went to The Arboretum To get money And then we bought booze From the Twin Liquor by the HEB. We bought wedding cake flavored vodka Because it was on sale. We needed the booze to properly Investigate the vortex.
Eliot was going on about gemmatria. He said it was the secret to everything. But it sounded to me Like a way to drive yourself mad.
We found a patch of woods To drink the vodka. It was a beautiful spot Next to a creek.
He was a very sad man. I was not as I used to be. I was living with the woman I live with now. He was battling literal demons In the forest of the green belt Where he lived.
We drank the whole bottle And never made it to The Target That day.
Soon he would accuse me Of conspiring with the spirits In his head To try to kill him. I never heard from him after that.
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?
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.