p l u m i s n o b o d y , t o o .

  I read through Kierkegaard's enormities— I curiously roused the transcending ways— I waged tempered opposition against civilities binding physical form. And in these steepening epiphanies intersectional,  I am willfully in occupancy—accompanied by these cognitive ornaments applauded in these scenes of people I step out of barriers for,  like an antioxidant and Abaddon breathed in simultaneously. A system of bleeding words— A system of self-sustaining sedations— A system of absurdities roosed & digging graves for the complaints— A system of hysteria playing back and profiting artistically while standing under unfinished basement LED rope lighting— A system of surgically analyzing the Malaysian verse and attempting the heart into a fixed rhythm. It must be drumming through the chest with the sensation of needles & presence,  needles & presence,  needles & presence. SEPTEMBER, 2019 | Ghost City Press https://ghostcitypress.com/

 

  "By looking at Zen Buddhist and Hindu notions of silence as compared to Hegel, Heidegger, and Blanchot, I am not attempting to supply a mystical interpretation of silence. Instead, moving beyond this, I want to use Kalamaras' point: "mystics of the East begin from the perspective of a reciprocity between self and other, personal and impersonal, and self and the divine that has informed their cultures for thousands of years; Western mystics, on the other hand, although enriched by their reciprocal unified experience, are still writing to and from a culture that has no tradition of reciprocity with which to interpret and express such experiences." (22) [. . .] the concept of silence and intimacy yield important information about the nature of human relationships, as symbolic of greater unity. While some thinkers from typically “Eastern” traditions have regarded silence as crucial to intimacy, the Western thinkers previously discussed have leaned toward a much more an...

  Here is the announcement: I am waving from Midnight’s throat to express my amplitude of being  within  the moment, which is sprinting its marathon & heaving chunks on the sidelines. The fog is slithering like gauzy serpents on the leaves. Sparklers are setting off & all you can see is a sphere of flashes in the countryside darkness. I am alive in an era: coexisting with descendants from “old money” Episcopalians who masked their self-spoken good deed as a ploy toward evangelicalism & apolitical Studebaker workers who naturally participated in Hegelian dialectic with immediate company. ‘Reassurance’ is bituminous in peoples’ mouths because tomorrow is projector film burning, & before I burn out because I have five capsules left & no follow-up appointment, I’ll make you cum only on your sheets & leave once I realize who you’re not, hopscotch piss-drunk on the train tracks when the cross lights flash on, & maintain a tedious mode of contact like...

 

  I. All cerebral, hiss, & pang // I am overlooking the valley, where the blind falcon caws in stationary flight, with eyes like crystal balls pending // And if poetry is many hearts like embers // spit from talons & in plenary recoil // as long as there is to be written // the sodden nectary where I hinder light I’ve failed // light I’ve lost // light I’ve consecrated // I’ve attuned my radiuses to whiskey // to lake-allaying jouissance // cross-fade immediacy // & all abandon from what is raw, degenerate Scripture // My father went // for no road was behind him // no road ahead at all // Now, I wear the brogue // reeling all the tenses // kissing the whole length of wind // which is swallowing all that I am // but my world will have lasted longer // All that light with its sermonizing // its fraying of my bone’s bastard font // my body black-boxed // unbaptized by any a common descent // Every morning // a torn, luminous sentence // the aired-cotton rise, the-black-...

  2018 | Analecta | Indiana University of South Bend