Archive for June, 2013

The buddhist notion that in order to understanding suffering, one must actually suffer, is echoed the modern physics of energy: work plus resistance equals heat, and light. Suffering, strategically, can illuminate the world.

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You know you’re not some hopeless romantic; you would never
allow yourself to live like that. The romantics spilled
way too much blood testing the relativity of language.

The point is we are neither the creation of the world nor its guardians.

As a photographer you preferred to make your own deals with clouds
while the spectral illumination of June carved out all the trees
on your street by five in the afternoon.

Someone said it was a slight return on investments.

Extra change left on the counter because you got a call
from a girl with something interesting in her eyes.
Something that spoke you finally after too many years.


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you can change the world.
yes you can.
you just can’t
know how you have.

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Initially I was quite uneasy with Foucault’s project. It seemed too much like a psychoanalysis of psychoanalysis or a history of history. A demonstration of the impossibility of speech to rise above itself. Did we not know that already? And what use nihilism? Then I came around to the suggestion that a particular work such as Les mots et les choses could be read as a poem, not as a treatise. It seems that any project that seeks to investigate itself points to emptiness. And that metaphor is life.

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If we make the mistake of taking Freud too seriously, of applying his own standards to the ideas of psychoanalysis, we have the unenviable task of explaining the sand to the ocean. If all our endeavors are an uneasy compromise between the impetuous it and a restrictive society, bound in-evitably to their neurotic manifold, then psychoanalysis itself can hardly be an island vouchsafed. And where does that leave us?

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I find myself disliking simile more and more. What do words like and as bring to the experience? Can we not simply attach them to our canvas without a mediating event? Pollock showed us that we can: that the artist can add paint to background without any intervening carriers like brush or palate, and still get people to pay attention to it. A liquid medium, I find words more interesting when they are allowed to flow.

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                        el agua oscura venía como miedo

dark water flowed like fear over the inverness,
taking but moments to afflict my peace.

is it true? my dear,
it has as much truth as you care
to invest therein. well that’s not good enough!

you don’t say?

i heard those things and didn’t care.
i hadn’t come that far to be intimidated and, too,
i suspect i had to not care to be un-broken
by what i already knew came later.

are relationships like the hull of a ship, curving
up on both sides away from water,
lest they founder.

are they wet tissue in the wind?
i’m a sucker for a disposition, a look
and a sharp mind, but

perhaps i need to love around the corner more.
with my third eye.
like birds looking sideways at


perhaps I need to learn what? how
to boil a kettle

without an open flame?

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because you didn’t know
i was alive i had to live
just this side of love,

dreaming of a time
when your river would end in flowers,
my cliff dissolved in rain.

all chances,


this side of things
always seemed so barren,
at times less than bright.

but i think the coin
that shines itself is a day,
to its own starry starry


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at the end of the arc of pain
your joys remain.

they were waiting. all waiting.

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