Why do the shootings happen in schools? because they are made by the same people who make the prisons and have the same chairs and tables. Because they have no windows and no wood. The children are amputated by the blank, textureless walls and subsequently their own eyes like nothing they see and their imaginations, schooled by darkness, can only articulate themselves through violence. They fire bullets into the dead walls to hear the only thing that has resonance: grim fame and death.
In a place where nothing grows, where no one listens, where the teachers are police, the loudest sound you can make is a well publicized murder. If these environments were more alive, if there were knotted wood and old brown books and trees imploring against the windows the kids could not understand murder because they would understand that the world around them is indeed a world and is alive. It's a problem of alienation and big guns are a symptom of that. These children are so powerful they never have to leave the throne of their armchairs and are fed genocidal images on command. Increasingly the schools are incorporated and so the minutes and the mentorships and the epiphanies are portioned out according to policy. Spontaneity and beauty is actively discouraged. At a time when people are already heinously self-conscious, that self-consciousness has been stoked and embellished to a point where by the time one makes it to the end of puberty (if), they have forgotten entirely who they were born to be and so can only relate to each other in terms of consumptions. What you buy is who you are. They can be whoever they want, as long as it will not ostracize them from the group and said identity can be sold to them.
Their inner world has been erased too. Words, which used to give them a way to share their hearts, have been withheld from them. Language is the way we detect an decipher what's encrypted inside of us. The whole language could fall in the space of one generation, one technological leap. When confronted with the forgotten, threatening traces of real language, the real texture of living things, they will learn to reply with guns, with seeming power and dominion over nature. We can't seem to locate our old hearts, the hearts perished by indoctrination, and so we drive the hearts of the innocent against the overhead projector screens and dry erase boards smeared with the afternoon's answers in an attempt to get them to speak to us, to know that there was blood in those veins after all. Our hearts will be written in a confusion of blood across the inoffensive walls.
The schools have been made into war zones, but not by the kids.
28 February 2013
21 February 2013
Poem About Our Politics
Loading...
Loading... Loading...
Loading.................................................................................................
Loading... Loading... Loading...
...
Loading... Loading...
Loading.................................................................................................
Loading... Loading... Loading...
...
Girls
An apartments the size of a grave
and just as expensive. It costs a life
to be buried on Avenue A.
Two girls reunite in their street corner booth
where many nights have been spent confiding
about boys, the plausible deniability
of taxicab blowjobs, flights home over
one bridge or another.
She's just returned from a semester in Africa.
The unencumbered smiles beaming from
the children's faces linger like a sunburn.
Her friend is agonizing over a guy who believes in her
wholeheartedly. She commands him like a drone
with the send button on her phone.
She asks her friend if she saw the article in the Times
about women in Afghanistan who die for their poetry?
Is it still warring over there? the friend says.
Her laugh is ambushed by a new feeling, something like
regret at having allowed herself to be wrapped
in the personality of her dresses for so many years.
First thing when she got home she pulled her grandmother’s old fur
out of storage and wrangled the antlers onto the cat
but the smile didn't come. Tonight, we're going dancing.
The boys are meeting us there. Does that work?
She nods. A button is pushed and a car carries them
to a warehouse in Bushwick which twenty years ago
was a wonderful crack house. Oh, it's so good to see you again!
She laughs and pretends she is living the night like it's her last
the whole time thinking about a young girl
across the world speaking her poem
into a telephone so someone else can hear it
before the line goes dead.
and just as expensive. It costs a life
to be buried on Avenue A.
Two girls reunite in their street corner booth
where many nights have been spent confiding
about boys, the plausible deniability
of taxicab blowjobs, flights home over
one bridge or another.
She's just returned from a semester in Africa.
The unencumbered smiles beaming from
the children's faces linger like a sunburn.
Her friend is agonizing over a guy who believes in her
wholeheartedly. She commands him like a drone
with the send button on her phone.
She asks her friend if she saw the article in the Times
about women in Afghanistan who die for their poetry?
Is it still warring over there? the friend says.
Her laugh is ambushed by a new feeling, something like
regret at having allowed herself to be wrapped
in the personality of her dresses for so many years.
First thing when she got home she pulled her grandmother’s old fur
out of storage and wrangled the antlers onto the cat
but the smile didn't come. Tonight, we're going dancing.
The boys are meeting us there. Does that work?
She nods. A button is pushed and a car carries them
to a warehouse in Bushwick which twenty years ago
was a wonderful crack house. Oh, it's so good to see you again!
She laughs and pretends she is living the night like it's her last
the whole time thinking about a young girl
across the world speaking her poem
into a telephone so someone else can hear it
before the line goes dead.
05 February 2013
03 February 2013
Song of the Open Road: The American Machine
For the wanderer doesn't bring back from the mountainside
to the valley a handful of earth, unsayable to everyone, but
rather a word gained, a pure word.
-Rilke
The Ninth Elegy
10-20-98 Columbus OH: Much different than other shows I have done here. More people than usual and a much better venue.
Ohio is flat and the people are trapped on the flat plains. The endless small towns, full of American flags and bad food. All that time and television. You want the real America? It is here that you will find it. Ohio, Michigan, these are the places where the American slow death plays itself out over the seasons. Football and raking leaves. All that heritage. Depressed towns that are now shells of the boomtowns they once tried to be. No one told them it was a joke and the joke was on them; that the American Dream is only for a few, that the rest just serve their time in this tortured land of beautiful fugitives. Small towns are suppliers to the American Machine. Soldier boys, food, patriotic air, good sturdy racism and separatist spirit.
-Henry Rollins
Smile, You're Travelling
You said: "I'll go to another country, to another shore,
find another city better than this one.
Whatever I try to do is fated to turn out wrong
and my heart lies buried as though it were something dead.
How long can I let my mind moulder in this place?
Wherever I turn, wherever I happen to look,
I see the black ruins of my life, here,
where I've spent so many years, wasted them, destroyed
them totally."
You won't find a new country, won't find another shore.
This city will always pursue you. You will walk
the same streets, grow old in the same neighborhoods,
will turn gray in these same houses.
You will always end up in this city. Don't hope for things
elsewhere:
there is no ship for you, there is no road.
As you've wasted your life here, in this small corner,
you've destroyed it everywhere else in the world.
-C.P. Cavafy
The City
Young French would-be punk-rock stars
listening to American westerns on the juke
trying to figure out
how to get out of town
-Lawrence Ferlinghetti
New York is the very opposite of Paris. People’s last concern is with intimacy. No attention is given to friendship and its development. Nothing is done to soften the harshness of life itself. There is much talk about the ‘world,’ about millions, groups, but no warmth between human beings. They persecute subjectivity, which is a sense of inner life; an individual’s concern with growth and self-development is frowned upon.
-Anais Nin
The Diary of Anais Nin
I want the city
but I want the country too.
-Jonathan Richman
Long having wander'd since, round the earth having wander'd,
Now I face home again, very pleas'd and joyous,
(But where is what I started for so long ago?
And why is it yet unfound?)
-Walt Whitman
Facing West from California's Shores
"This shit's all fake. As long as you remember that when you come out here. It's all movies. Everybody's an actor. The money's real but everything else is fake."
-Dude on balcony in Hollywood on his cell phone
I have met with but one or two persons in the course of my life who understood the art of Walking, that is, of taking walks, who had a genius, so to speak, for sauntering; which word is beautifully derived "from idle people who roved about the country, in the middle ages, and asked charity, under pretence of going à la sainte terre" — to the holy land, till the children exclaimed, "There goes a sainte-terrer", a saunterer — a holy-lander. They who never go to the holy land in their walks, as they pretend, are indeed mere idlers and vagabonds, but they who do go there are saunterers in the good sense, such as I mean. Some, however, would derive the word from sans terre, without land or a home, which, therefore, in the good sense, will mean, having no particular home, but equally at home everywhere. For this is the secret of successful sauntering. He who sits still in a house all the time may be the greatest vagrant of all, but the Saunterer, in the good sense, is no more vagrant than the meandering river, which is all the while sedulously seeking the shortest course to the sea. But I prefer the first, which indeed is the most probable derivation. For every walk is a sort of crusade, preached by some Peter the Hermit in us, to go forth and reconquer this holy land from the hands of the Infidels.
****
What is it, what is it,
But a direction out there,
And the bare possibility
Of going somewhere?
****
At present, in this vicinity, the best part of the land is not private property; the landscape is not owned, and the walker enjoys comparative freedom. But possibly the day will come when it will be partitioned off into so-called pleasure grounds, in which a few will take a narrow and exclusive pleasure only, — when fences shall be multiplied, and man traps and other engines invented to confine men to the public road; and walking over the surface of God’s earth, shall be construed to mean trespassing on some gentleman’s grounds. To enjoy a thing exclusively is commonly to exclude yourself from the true enjoyment of it. Let us improve our opportunities then before the evil days come.
-Henry David Thoreau
Walking
Richard Lee calculated that a Bushman child will be carried a distance of 4900 miles before he begins to walk on his own. Since, during this rhythmic phase, he will be forever naming the contents of his territory, it is impossible he will not become a poet.
-Bruce Chatwin
The Songlines
Where you been is good and gone
All you keep's the getting there
Where you been is good and gone
All you keep's the getting there
The Peach blossom follows the water
-Li Po
18 January 2013
REASONS FOR LIVING: The Best Shit I Read, Watched or Heard in 2012
Typically people do this in December, so people can read it during their downtime for the holidays, so they know what new shit to buy for X-mas, but I'm only getting around to it now. This is the best media I experienced during the year of our lord, 2012. The year the world didn't end.
Nebraska - Bruce Springsteen
The Branch Will Not Break, Shall We Gather at the River - James Wright
Travellers on the lost highway. Makes me think Springsteen should've never had a band. He should've made weird little tapes like this. The songs move slower, so they have more impact. They're not overwhelmed by the bravado of the band. The characters are alone, so the sound should be sparse. It reminded me of James Wright's poems. Poems of an abandoned landscape, an abandoned people, aimless, lost in a cold wind and a grey sky. Springsteen is an actor in every song. He's a serial killer, a highway patrolman, everybody's on the run. They don't know where they're headed. Probably nowhere. The glockenspiel makes it cosmic. It brings the stars, so high over our dirty, hard earth, and the delirious stupor of a living death. These characters have been pushed beyond hope, into the grace of helplessness, the same grace that one might experience as they fall after they've jumped from the ledge. They're almost like kids again in that they're not in control of their lives, at the mercy of some massive, unknown authority. They are beginning to enter the abyss. They've reverted to the cocoon of hypnotism. They've gone into a void, not heaven, but a few different kinds of hells. They will soon find out some answers to the mysteries. They are living in the night, the dark sky closing in, the same kind of dreaminess that one feels in the jaws of a leopard. The brain is releasing the dreamy narcotics to soften the bite of death.
Run With the Hunted - A Charles Bukowski Reader
This is an excellent retrospective of the man's work, culled from the span of his career and assembled into something of an autobiography. I'm not wild about the guy's poetry, but his prose is brave, and he's able to write about the darker impulses of man and granting us an understanding of them, rather than villifying or alienating us from them.
Adbusters - Issues 2009-Present
http://mentholmountains.blogspot.com/ - David Berman
I've always been a little bit reluctant/cheap to give an ear to anyone close to my age because of what I saw as a lack of sincerity or perhaps politcal conscience, but David Berman kind of eased me liking something resembling a more contemporary, "hipster" artist. He's something of an anomaly, an accessible and popular modern poet, and his music is clever and funny, although sonically it leaves a little bit to be desired. Now he's chosen blogging as a platform, collecting poems, articles, videos, songs all charged at renovating our modern mass consumer society and the cultural imperialism it wages on our consciousness, perhaps the rectify the sins of his father, who is a successful lobbyist in Washington for seemingly all of our worst habits and industries.
As for Adbusters, I was visiting my cousin a few weeks ago in Evergreen Park, Illinois, a suburb on the South Side of Chicago where the Unibomber's from, and noticed a copy of Adbusters in his bathroom. I'd never read it before, but heard a little about it at OWS. He saw me looking through it and came in with a whole stack of them, every issue from the last three years. It being Chicago in January, we had a lot of time downtime indoors, which I spent reading every issue he had, cover to cover. He came in a few days later and said, "You doing okay in here, Kazcinski?"
Birthday Letters - Ted Hughes
I was sitting
Youth away in an office near Slough,
Morning and evening between Slough and Holborn,
Hoarding wage to fund a leap to freedom
And the other side of the earth -- a free-fall
To strip my chrysalis off me in the slipstream.
The Cruise - Bennett Miller, starring Timothy "Speed" Levitch
David Attenborough Documentaries -
These should be our biology classes in high school. I don't know how this guy gets his footage, but he's one of the greatest filmmakers in the world. Netflix has helped me discover a new love for documentaries. These movies show that the world outside of man, the world of nature, is beautiful and imaginative far behind any artistic capability we have. Watching these movies is a good way to gain a new consideration for the natural world, which is now being fatally overlooked, occupying little space in anyone's consciousness.
Shakespeare Behind Bars -
The greatest film adaptation of Shakespeare. Watch it on Netflix. An Othello monologue performed by a man doing life for killing his wife is as authentic emotionally as it gets. It's hard to picture, but Shakespeare writes about real people. These murders, rapes, betrayals, maneuvers, amputations, androgenies, these are real events, not fictions.
"Walking" - Henry David Thoreau
The Songlines, In Patagonia, On the Black Hill - Bruce Chatwin
"I have met with but one or two persons in the course of my life who understood the art of walking". These guys are one or two. Werner Herzog is another.
Diaries of Anais Nin, Vol. 3 1939-1944
Wandering - Herman Hesse
"By Blue Ontario's Shores", "When Lilac's Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd" - Walt Whitman
The Civil War - Ken Burns
I was taken by the eloquence and strength of even the young soldiers during this war. In this movie, we see the beginnings of modern warfare, and the horror evoked by it in those who were the first to witness what was being unleashed. You can feel the dignity of the whole world unraveling, and death taking over.
Black Coffee Blues - Henry Rollins
The funniest shit I've read in a long time. Rollins is the greatest. Here's an interesting website that argues that Bob Dylan's more recent albums have borrowed heavily from Rollins' books.
Residencia a la Tierra - Pablo Neruda
The Stepfathers set at the Del Close Marathon at the UCB Theatre, NYC.
Hello Lazer at the Magnet Theatre, NYC.
One of the advantages and beauties of improv is that it's theatre stripped to its most essential, and Hello Lazer performs with the logic of the dream. Probably my favorite improv group. The Stepfathers one word suggestion was "Rewind", and about 2/3s of the way through a funny set about a gang of saxophone players, Bailiff school, Chris Gethard steps out and says "and now we're going to rewind to the beginning of our set" and they proceed to perform the whole thing exactly as it happened IN REVERSE. We were all lucky to be there that night.
Truth in Comedy, Art by Committee - Del Close, Charna Halpern, Kim "Howard Johnson
Impro - Keith Johnstone
Mastery - George Burr Leonard
The War of Art - Steven Pressfield
Buck - Cindy Meehl
These books helped me a lot this year. The principles of Improv aren't just helpful to would-be improvisers, they're a pretty solid foundation for living well. Steven Pressfield's audio books are pretty hilarious, as he sounds like a grizzled survivor of "The War of Art". Impro by Keith Johnstone is a spooky, magic assessment of modern society and how to re-animate our spontanaiety and humanity.
The Random House Book of Twentieth Century French Poetry - Edited by Paul Auster
It's all there. Auster's introduction is stellar. I discovered Apollinaire, Artaud, Francis Ponge through this book.
"What People Say About Paris" - Kenneth Koch
People also say these things about NYC.
"The Exstacie" - John Donne
Duino Elegies - Rilke
Maybe my favorite poems.
They Live - John Carpenter starring "Rowdy" Roddy Piper
The prophets Carpenter and Piper. The scene where they bulldoze the encampment is exactly what happened in Zuccotti Park.
Encounters at the End of the World - Werner Herzog
Nebraska - Bruce Springsteen
The Branch Will Not Break, Shall We Gather at the River - James Wright
Travellers on the lost highway. Makes me think Springsteen should've never had a band. He should've made weird little tapes like this. The songs move slower, so they have more impact. They're not overwhelmed by the bravado of the band. The characters are alone, so the sound should be sparse. It reminded me of James Wright's poems. Poems of an abandoned landscape, an abandoned people, aimless, lost in a cold wind and a grey sky. Springsteen is an actor in every song. He's a serial killer, a highway patrolman, everybody's on the run. They don't know where they're headed. Probably nowhere. The glockenspiel makes it cosmic. It brings the stars, so high over our dirty, hard earth, and the delirious stupor of a living death. These characters have been pushed beyond hope, into the grace of helplessness, the same grace that one might experience as they fall after they've jumped from the ledge. They're almost like kids again in that they're not in control of their lives, at the mercy of some massive, unknown authority. They are beginning to enter the abyss. They've reverted to the cocoon of hypnotism. They've gone into a void, not heaven, but a few different kinds of hells. They will soon find out some answers to the mysteries. They are living in the night, the dark sky closing in, the same kind of dreaminess that one feels in the jaws of a leopard. The brain is releasing the dreamy narcotics to soften the bite of death.
Run With the Hunted - A Charles Bukowski Reader
This is an excellent retrospective of the man's work, culled from the span of his career and assembled into something of an autobiography. I'm not wild about the guy's poetry, but his prose is brave, and he's able to write about the darker impulses of man and granting us an understanding of them, rather than villifying or alienating us from them.
Adbusters - Issues 2009-Present
http://mentholmountains.blogspot.com/ - David Berman
I've always been a little bit reluctant/cheap to give an ear to anyone close to my age because of what I saw as a lack of sincerity or perhaps politcal conscience, but David Berman kind of eased me liking something resembling a more contemporary, "hipster" artist. He's something of an anomaly, an accessible and popular modern poet, and his music is clever and funny, although sonically it leaves a little bit to be desired. Now he's chosen blogging as a platform, collecting poems, articles, videos, songs all charged at renovating our modern mass consumer society and the cultural imperialism it wages on our consciousness, perhaps the rectify the sins of his father, who is a successful lobbyist in Washington for seemingly all of our worst habits and industries.
As for Adbusters, I was visiting my cousin a few weeks ago in Evergreen Park, Illinois, a suburb on the South Side of Chicago where the Unibomber's from, and noticed a copy of Adbusters in his bathroom. I'd never read it before, but heard a little about it at OWS. He saw me looking through it and came in with a whole stack of them, every issue from the last three years. It being Chicago in January, we had a lot of time downtime indoors, which I spent reading every issue he had, cover to cover. He came in a few days later and said, "You doing okay in here, Kazcinski?"
Birthday Letters - Ted Hughes
I was sitting
Youth away in an office near Slough,
Morning and evening between Slough and Holborn,
Hoarding wage to fund a leap to freedom
And the other side of the earth -- a free-fall
To strip my chrysalis off me in the slipstream.
The Cruise - Bennett Miller, starring Timothy "Speed" Levitch
David Attenborough Documentaries -
These should be our biology classes in high school. I don't know how this guy gets his footage, but he's one of the greatest filmmakers in the world. Netflix has helped me discover a new love for documentaries. These movies show that the world outside of man, the world of nature, is beautiful and imaginative far behind any artistic capability we have. Watching these movies is a good way to gain a new consideration for the natural world, which is now being fatally overlooked, occupying little space in anyone's consciousness.
Shakespeare Behind Bars -
The greatest film adaptation of Shakespeare. Watch it on Netflix. An Othello monologue performed by a man doing life for killing his wife is as authentic emotionally as it gets. It's hard to picture, but Shakespeare writes about real people. These murders, rapes, betrayals, maneuvers, amputations, androgenies, these are real events, not fictions.
"Walking" - Henry David Thoreau
The Songlines, In Patagonia, On the Black Hill - Bruce Chatwin
"I have met with but one or two persons in the course of my life who understood the art of walking". These guys are one or two. Werner Herzog is another.
Diaries of Anais Nin, Vol. 3 1939-1944
Wandering - Herman Hesse
"By Blue Ontario's Shores", "When Lilac's Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd" - Walt Whitman
The Civil War - Ken Burns
I was taken by the eloquence and strength of even the young soldiers during this war. In this movie, we see the beginnings of modern warfare, and the horror evoked by it in those who were the first to witness what was being unleashed. You can feel the dignity of the whole world unraveling, and death taking over.
Black Coffee Blues - Henry Rollins
The funniest shit I've read in a long time. Rollins is the greatest. Here's an interesting website that argues that Bob Dylan's more recent albums have borrowed heavily from Rollins' books.
Residencia a la Tierra - Pablo Neruda
The Stepfathers set at the Del Close Marathon at the UCB Theatre, NYC.
Hello Lazer at the Magnet Theatre, NYC.
One of the advantages and beauties of improv is that it's theatre stripped to its most essential, and Hello Lazer performs with the logic of the dream. Probably my favorite improv group. The Stepfathers one word suggestion was "Rewind", and about 2/3s of the way through a funny set about a gang of saxophone players, Bailiff school, Chris Gethard steps out and says "and now we're going to rewind to the beginning of our set" and they proceed to perform the whole thing exactly as it happened IN REVERSE. We were all lucky to be there that night.
Truth in Comedy, Art by Committee - Del Close, Charna Halpern, Kim "Howard Johnson
Impro - Keith Johnstone
Mastery - George Burr Leonard
The War of Art - Steven Pressfield
Buck - Cindy Meehl
These books helped me a lot this year. The principles of Improv aren't just helpful to would-be improvisers, they're a pretty solid foundation for living well. Steven Pressfield's audio books are pretty hilarious, as he sounds like a grizzled survivor of "The War of Art". Impro by Keith Johnstone is a spooky, magic assessment of modern society and how to re-animate our spontanaiety and humanity.
The Random House Book of Twentieth Century French Poetry - Edited by Paul Auster
It's all there. Auster's introduction is stellar. I discovered Apollinaire, Artaud, Francis Ponge through this book.
"What People Say About Paris" - Kenneth Koch
People also say these things about NYC.
"The Exstacie" - John Donne
Duino Elegies - Rilke
Maybe my favorite poems.
They Live - John Carpenter starring "Rowdy" Roddy Piper
The prophets Carpenter and Piper. The scene where they bulldoze the encampment is exactly what happened in Zuccotti Park.
Encounters at the End of the World - Werner Herzog
28 December 2012
Medical Miracle Mile
I do not enjoy ambition.
I am learning to embrace my lack of ambition.
I have ambitions,
I just don’t want to work for them.
That would be too obvious.
Then they’d know I want them.
My ambition is to turn it all into a joke.
It’s all a joke anyway.
My conceptual art projects
remain purer if they stay conceptual.
That’s why I’m in the word business.
Words are almost purely conceptual.
At best, they’re vibrating air.
This is as close to being
a cloud as I can be.
The page is a crime scene
laced with black blood.
This sentence is as violent as I get.
I don’t want to know how to do anything
but nothing
and that’s perfectly alright with me.
I’ve come to terms with that.
How could somebody allow themself to write
a career of awful books while I maintain my perfect record
of unbegun masterpieces? Not even unwritten.
I won’t even begin to imagine them.
The idea of them is more than satisfying.
I dwell in possibility
and I’ll stay there.
I never want to know
who or how I’ll actually turn out to be.
The glorious, unending fruition of procrastination.
I have never been quite so dedicated or effective at anything
as I am at self-subterfuge and diversion.
I am most accomplished at delay and self-sabotage.
Look at all these words I’ve made out of it.
I take my money and finance my nothing habit with it.
After half-heartedly trying for a quarter of a century
I am owed my chance at uselessness.
My concept is to turn this evasion into an intent.
If I intend to be this lazy, well, I’m getting things done now, aren’t I?
What did I do in my 20s? Procrastinate them until my 30s.
I celebrate nothing, and actually nothing,
not the little nothings we are left with
after the dismantling if the big somethings
and so blow up
into new everything.
It’s almost impossible to get away with doing nothing these days.
Nothing is quite a thing to accomplish with your life these days.
The current of productivity is overpowering.
I’d like more money
I just can’t convince myself I like doing what I have to do to get it.
There’s nothing I want to buy but time
and I already get that for free.
Basically anything we try to do
is a kind of violence.
I am learning to embrace my lack of ambition.
I have ambitions,
I just don’t want to work for them.
That would be too obvious.
Then they’d know I want them.
My ambition is to turn it all into a joke.
It’s all a joke anyway.
My conceptual art projects
remain purer if they stay conceptual.
That’s why I’m in the word business.
Words are almost purely conceptual.
At best, they’re vibrating air.
This is as close to being
a cloud as I can be.
The page is a crime scene
laced with black blood.
This sentence is as violent as I get.
I don’t want to know how to do anything
but nothing
and that’s perfectly alright with me.
I’ve come to terms with that.
How could somebody allow themself to write
a career of awful books while I maintain my perfect record
of unbegun masterpieces? Not even unwritten.
I won’t even begin to imagine them.
The idea of them is more than satisfying.
I dwell in possibility
and I’ll stay there.
I never want to know
who or how I’ll actually turn out to be.
The glorious, unending fruition of procrastination.
I have never been quite so dedicated or effective at anything
as I am at self-subterfuge and diversion.
I am most accomplished at delay and self-sabotage.
Look at all these words I’ve made out of it.
I take my money and finance my nothing habit with it.
After half-heartedly trying for a quarter of a century
I am owed my chance at uselessness.
My concept is to turn this evasion into an intent.
If I intend to be this lazy, well, I’m getting things done now, aren’t I?
What did I do in my 20s? Procrastinate them until my 30s.
I celebrate nothing, and actually nothing,
not the little nothings we are left with
after the dismantling if the big somethings
and so blow up
into new everything.
It’s almost impossible to get away with doing nothing these days.
Nothing is quite a thing to accomplish with your life these days.
The current of productivity is overpowering.
I’d like more money
I just can’t convince myself I like doing what I have to do to get it.
There’s nothing I want to buy but time
and I already get that for free.
Basically anything we try to do
is a kind of violence.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
