2/25/12  In the past I was sometimes ahead of the curve. Had a computer in the mid 80s. But in recent past have fallen way behind—have no website and the only phone is a land line. So am slow in launching this blog, blogs are so many generations ago.

the blog title comes from my sole aesthetic statement—language knows more than I do. I’ll be sharing my interactions with language—poems themselves, and some meanderings on poetry, language, the nature of our perceptions, our universes, etc.,

I have been many textures/compositions. today I’m diffuse, not fitting together, off-balance, low value or motivation. the pit of my stomach is cold or is it continuing cramps, unregistered explosives. a nervous shakiness as if  I can feel wires extending from my 4^th fingers, up my arms, each splitting into several wires at my shoulders, one set going to my forehead, throbbing my temples, others reaching across my chest—armature, or cage.

for one period of time there’d be moments when it felt like my chest would open up, like opening a perfect peach, not sure whose thumbs were opening me. and what would come out of me wouldn’t be me but could try to replace me. yet the opening was also a release, an expansion.

I try to be transparent, I’ve worked long time on trying to be invisible (not easy when you’re 6”6”, 230 pounds) but so far I it only works on my tail.) maybe around 30 I started standing my full height, getting into the bigness, though I’ve long appreciated the ability to see over crowds. you can’t tell I’m tall til I stand. I never like what I see in the mirror.

This may something about  the non-deliberativeness of my writing, it is seldom intentional. one of my roles as editor is to  trim me out of the poems, which doesn’t mean trimming out the world I live in, the conditions the language is happening among, cause the language has to come through someone, it can’t type or speak.

& no I don’t do automatic writing, though at times it is strongly stream of consciousness, but the stream has banks/context.

Emptathy

as i'm moving the same speeds as everyone else so we’re languid,

able to rotate my viewpoint for subtleties,   horizons,   sinkholes,

tremblings that can be intuited but not seen

i'm watching,    mixing,    altering with my off-gas, my random skin flakes,

as if viewed from multiple cameras, as i look out one of the hearts windows

when its rush hour in the circulatory system, when the nerves are outside having a smoke,

air in my mouth impatient for the doors to open

since my strides longer than my legs i always walk alone,

weaving, as if unseen some times, as if a phone pole

in an unexpected place no one has to avoid bristling with staples.

 i look down to empty instruments, hats about to hatch,

a window with night on the other side

[this poem recently appeared at haggardandhalloo.com, a place with excellent writing and art]