August

All laying about--still with no thing to say. One more fix pushed to the line. What is this place, anyway--just a few clicks? There is a referential map, but when is the burden passed on? When is the subject relinquished?

What remains even? Finebaum pressure builds. /lit/ has faded. The Packers are back. Nothing more about that. I just want this all back the way it was before. I want the music again. I want animus of exploration. And to never tire so. Pack up, a trip to the factory. A season reaching new and perfect twilight--the imagined form bounce-broadening into the widest verse; sight shifted maximum to the back end.

Stay just a little longer. It's the underground now--a single fairway, one swing. The dominant style cruises to a new peak. A stiff angle across shaded bright wood. Unleash the beginners. The sight is there now. They stand faced away in The One's Great Design. The poet host of material lurches to a last gasp, where we cast down our schoolbooks one last time.

Why'd we have them anyway? Our dreams, at caffeine maximum, spout the stylings against the real.  I know these things, certified reference points in our greed--summer meadows.

What do I lean into? One stable substance to pour onto... How to use but not optimize?

Madame Web

I think I first saw the trailer in a movie theater. It was a throwback to earlier movies. The ones I loved as a child. America returns to receive Raimi Spider-man. No more do we cast aside a set of reels into irony litter-traps. It's only a story of a paramedic. The reception is an entirety of condescension. So the fog is heavy until we wander in. 

Our modern tragedy has ended. Dakota Johnson, finally offered a beacon--ordinary-citizen. Was there ever another? What happens? The line-reads from Johnson stride right through. It is a total zoomer autistic strike zone. 

Where do we go from here? The sequel the movie teases? But the box-office was dreadful... So back we go to Johnson trash-can roles. 

The Rotten Tomatoes looks solid actually. But I stopped looking at that years ago. So I don't know what that means. I guess audience score is still pure? 

There is a demon lurking behind the walls. We see him occasionally. He usually glances away, anti-contact. Some of our friends, who've long been with us, know the way of these things. It's been over. They've been dead. But still it goes on. A demon whispers back. We, too, know the way of things. Only faggots breathe now. They all know the life and the breath--the essence of living. Our death comes broad. But we see none of our meaning. So we continue. Like an evening dance with a lover. A stunned resilience.

No Title

All 3 bled through without sound. I stare at the 1970s and its spawn, Eli Roth (and his predilections). Balachander’s movie is a well frozen over. I lack comedy. Twin Peaks still frightens. None of us is evil. 

Letting Go has its minimum. The Drowning Pool has a prose situation, but still is meager–despite mathematical matchings of narrative. 

Looking up at the starry sky, noting every face, every direction; these are the Cameron planes. God in each event. Earringed Pax looks at the horizon. I smell blank; the remainder driven to the outer edge. I stare into Lew Archer's moment; he sleazes into saloons. His narration nags its price to pay. If we continue, what comes about? 

Eliot Ness, defender of law, must unseat him. 

How do I manufacture a image with greater contrast? If I shrink the image will I ever see it again? Titanic is majesty--Avatar only clouded-out hell. 

From far astray to this day, born-again. Our trials ended, leaving only reflection. This new period is of reckoning; can we root out the remaining vagrancy of the soul? Is this exhaustion, or just a new physiological epoch? What is its history? How does this status effect circumstance? I, I, I--it’s always that now… What does the extreme subject become? I’ll go to the gym, ride the bikes; but how do I reestablish the timeline? 

The novelty of the written page is gone. Back to the insane and the sober. 

The writing here is better all together. I’ll strike each away till all that remains is the imperial unit. A tight wind of pages to be snapped outside of obstruction. Our only enemies cast aside for righteous men. 

Do I need to peel back the melodrama? Or is it just romance? Just one single thing seems interesting… 

How do we go back? Our dreams still just scan our natural sickness. Some simplicity makes any life lost into a greater expansion. Am I back to the evening sunk into late-dusk? (Think no further than your rolls of the dice.) 

The germs in the air from the hours of anger and mistreatment float away into the nighttime. I open the books and possess their words. Now it’s a foreign place. All the light beams coalesce away and my body centers onstage. They are coming to the darkness--our age broadens, now a new utility for young and old alike. 

You encounter an image, which leaves confidence to wait an extra moment or two. AA, a circle of chairs, lit industrially, seating church-coffeed, work-attired NPCs. Nary a reason to worry at all, just a natural way through. The structure of a period piece brings about this type of experience. Have a seat in history class, experience the simultaneous spirit that weaves the historical into the modernness of the present.

Autumn turns

We sit, still before our actions commence. It's like a windowsill--its depth there to lean upon. A nice twisting rail. The promise of late afternoon, evening still to come. Staring down the aisle. These memories do not present: in neither past nor future. 

Not in sequence; all of the peace parts, then returns to gather its new direction. A play of William Shakespeare. It's weak--there is no action, just a reading through the words. I've found a new pattern and it builds momentum. The grains of the wind by my side. All things one with God, our loveliness. 

All I can feel (and know) gathers together, surrounding--a life earned. A brand of sensation, swiftly in first, then second, up to the final heat. A bright green upon my shoulders. Proud, a single finger upright, exclamation upon my face. My eyes straight forward, reflecting the resignation of the evening.

Concerning some over-determined notes I used to call Journal

I used to write in a journal 2 different times. The first was in the terminal, the other was in notebooks. I ran out of them months ago. Habeas corpus hiatus. No longer do I glance upon newsracks and see the newbegotten halcyon of wished-fors… I see the great wideness unpresent before. The newcency of this millennium--a new 2001. I read the words and sentences on pages. When does it end? I read Twitter in total regression. I see everything as I did before the 4chan turn. No longer do I render the scenes of neatness into isolated personhoods. I stick to the gleaming reaction of the turntables. Of Edward, himself, and his wishes…

Reflections on Dishonesty and Hatred

The grooves of life held but not long for this state. The green leaves placed just long enough. The poet, a national villian, who keeps to his piece. The hymnal, just out, a windy blowing just across one lot. A promise made to the citizenry: One day they’ll all come home; we will live together again. There are the ones who are writing this all, and also the ones running pickups. 

A heart beats as its progeny wishes. Lifelong habituals, quickly speared and de-cycled. Time which is unto itself–the crypt and its keeper’s royal ordainment. A life beyond its own presence–a new motion arc. 

Not any dueling set. Just life stuck in a place. A whirling similar.

April 2

For some reason writing isn’t the plaid fortune it was before. I guess I used to bunker down in and kick away at one of the drafts. That system, since dismantled, hasn’t been replaced. 

There are things I care about, that I could write of in detail. Saying how and why, the particulars, what it makes of the life I lead. However, those things are not of interest. How do I make statements that bear the spirit of our shared existence?

The things that are the most difficult tend to have the most resonance. Posts are frequently rote regurgitations. But lifeblood stuff is not so easy to identify. It escapes and lingers ever after. 

So what is the same about this year and the last? I lack the pressure of the made… but what is the same? I put myself on, and make my way through..