thee istsfor manity reader

Tell Don’t Show / That Thing (redux)

i.

The pith of the pang is what I pity. Nowhere is it written that this must be done, but I strive to do it nonetheless for fear of not doing it with empathy. What is it you say? It is simply this, this thing. This thing that is so easily overlooked. Don’t tell me how to see it, this thing. I can only see it the way my mind perceives it. This thing, the thing which is the subject of our consciousness, is a particular thing, that if it was not the subject of our consciousness would just be any other thing—ill formed and undefined in our minds. But not this thing—which is the pith, the perfect form of this class of thing. The apotheosis, the ideal of the thing. This thing is … well … just the right sort of thing.

ii.

I have to write what I have to write in the way I have to write it—because of the strictures and self-imposed parameters, because I have to read quickly—I have to write this way. I have to write everyday because of the strictures. I have to write everyday in some way because of the parameters. I have to write in my own way—because it’s my way, it’s the only way I know way. I have to write everyday, the man said, I write because I am unhappy—I write because it’s a way of fighting unhappiness, the man said. I too have to write this way—but it’s not his way, the man’s way—it’s may way. I have to write what I have to write in this way because it is my way—the only way I know way, and because of the strictures and the parameters—I have to write this way. It’s only one way of writing—it happens to be the way I’m writing. I have to write this way, because it’s the only way I know way. It’s not a popular way, but I have to write this way. It’s not a happy way, but I have to write this way. It’s not a beautiful way, but I have to write this way. It’s not a prosperous way, but I have to write this way—it’s the only way I know way, it’s an unhappy way, it’s not a sunny way, but it’s the only way I know way. I have to write this way because of the strictures and parameters way—this is my way, not the only way. It’s an unhappy way. I have to write this way. Thanks for reading this today.

What I’m Reading:

What to do
with these disordered herds
of words? I said I would
eat my words and do so, now
you see. He eats them, all
up. Greedily.

— James Schuyler / “The Dog Wants His Dinner”

One Afternoon (redux)

(over tea)

… and over text
sitting two feet away from each other…

she says:
Why don’t you drink the rest of this?

i sez:
if u didn’t want it why did u make it?
if u don’t drink ur tea u can’t have any pudding

she says:
You mean, if you don’t eat your meat, you can’t have any pudding?

i sez:
no i meant what i piston thumbed u—exactly that

she says:
Why are we texting sitting across from each other? This is stupid.

i sez:
bcause im a stupid fool trying to meld into this oppressive ambient noise

she says:
Ambient like Eno?! This isn’t an airport it’s a busy Starbucks.

i sez:
no ambient like lou reed metal machine music—forced contrived overwhelming i want to disappear into it

she says:
This is dull let’s go. Do you want this tea?

i sez:
do u want me to bus ur cup?
or do u want me to cup ur bust?

she says:
Goodbye!

(i wonder where she b now)

What I’m Reading:

Later, at the Hare Krishna free vegetarian feast,

I ate insincerely

bowls of BBQ tofu chunks. Avoided eyes

by staring at the chunky menstrual sauce.

— Rennie Ament / “Hungry Poem”

Idle Class Chatter (redux)

“Just carry a glass or something.”

“I’ve heard the most intriguing things about you.”

(light classical tune is playing)

“Really?”

“Will no one hold you accountable?”

“Me? Never. You?”

“I don’t know. But I feel like we’re on the road to nowhere.”

An early sign of change was spotted outside. It could be seen through the grand room sliders. Clouds were gathering in formation and staring at the dinner party guests. There was tinkling glass and the smell of burning lamb wafting from the kitchen.

“Hey, get a load of this. Look at the clouds.”

“Oh my goodness.”

“That’s amazing.”

The smoke became dense and flames began spreading through the living room shag. Then the chaise longe caught fire and the ottoman whooshed into flames.

“Hey, look. The clouds are forming a ring around the setting sun.”

“It looks like a pumpkin pie festooned with whipped—“

“Folks, please move out into the backyard. The house is on fire.”

“Oh, my god. No!”

“That’s ok. The clouds and sun do our bidding. They always do. Remember, we are the first estate. We’ll build a new house, no matter. It’s you good, god-fearing folks that can’t be replaced. Grab your drinks and let’s head outside. The help will do what they can in here.”

“Wee!”

“Off we go.”

“Oh, Splendid.”

What I’m Reading:

A shotgun echoes despairingly from the valley.

Choral mushrooms.

Queen Anne’s lace sweetens wild carrot breath.

The earth’s rigid plates drift below the daisy.

— Lewis Meyers / “Summer Letters”

I Heard (redux)

I heard a Colombian river was full of cocaine hippos.

I heard we’ve passed 7 of the 9 thresholds that make earth habitable for human life.

I heard hard times are coming.

I heard we can lose ourselves in augmented reality instead.

I heard the clunking of skulls into a multi-tiered pyramid.

I heard the cuckoo’s call before the theft of the thrush’s eggs.

I heard your footfalls as you left.

I heard your heels like hammers clacking into the haze.

What I’m Reading:

“I’ve tried to be more Romantic, it does nu good for me / So I tek a Reggae Riddim an build me poetry,”

— Benjamin Zephaniah / “City Psalms”

unlocking the vault—

where i dont upbraid myself continuously—where john currin paintings dont come to life—where id like to be in some remote place like yellowknife—but as the earth is burning there—and there remains no place to go—that isnt burning—and there remain too many places to go to upbraid my fellow man—because life is one endless upbraiding—i unbraid myself some more—upbraid my boulder—upbraid existence—upbraid the cure— because they remind me of camus—with that song—i even upbraid myself—again—i dont upbraid my curry chicken—because its ethiopian—or should i say eritrean—but as im not certain i upbraid that as well—im upcycling my upbraiding—im braying in my seat right now—as i mute my video and sound on zoom—which i often upbraid—which brings me joy—oh joy—

What I’m Reading:

There is less and less difference
between your shadow

and the shadow inside you
and all the shadows,

— James Richardson / “Any Evening”

What I’m Reading:

The official theme of this poem is / The official theme of all my poems which is / You get in love and then you die!

— Hera Lindsey Bird / Juvenilia

Poor Clockface Bradbury (redux)

Bradbury said he didn’t need an alarm clock. I saw the phrase in passing without its context, so I’m left with this vision of a man machine with a clock face for a visage. A veritable clock tower face with bonging lower register bells coming out of speakers on the obverse side of the head. So head into fall with the idea of a Bradbury clock head sitting next to you at Starbucks; power washing his car next to yours at the d.i.y. car wash; trying on jeans at Walmart—because that’s America’s super store—because that’s where clock-faced clock heads do their denim best! Now, rack into focus on that jingoistic demoniacal guy by the tube socks—the one wearing the t-shirt that reads: Your Face Makes Me Soft!—notice how he stares at clock head Bradbury. He doesn’t like his clock face, and wants to do him grievous bodily harm—because that’s the way he rolls in BIG SKY country. Watch him guesstimate and plannify in that dim fashion of his—how he’ll cook up revenge because he doesn’t like “thee other.” Yeah, somewhere in the parking lot, at the end of the quarter-mile line up of pickup trucks with them stickers that inveigle others to pray to an angry god. Yeah, there. Because America!

What I’m Reading:

He gently folded my head into my chest
And my face into my groin
Friend, let me show you an informal way
to achieve dreams

— Zan de Parry / “I Let The Terrorist Touch My Head” / Cold Dogs