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i write poetry to see what life is like in poems



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it seems that as a form of radical genuineness art contains a great deal of validation. i often wonder, given the conditions we have established, why more people aren’t suicidal or homicidal. i suspect in fact they are, it’s just that they’ve been punished ahead of time for speaking about it. to me this explains the low but persistently endemic level of human violence and cruelty, and the periodically horrifying epidemic flare ups. for example during WW I and II nearly half the world’s population became homicidal and managed to kill off 100 million of their conspecifics. the statistics are almost incomprehensible to me, just because we so rarely validate the endemic nature of such behaviors. because to speak it seems to me is to trust that someone won’t kill you for your expression. and artists of all kind start to look to me like journalists of the most urgent news imaginable. the news of one’s authentic experiences – both those we prefer and those we do not. if we can’t observe and describe a problem, how can we hope to solve it?





to speak is to trust that someone will not kill you with what you say





one classic existential question is how to account for the fact that we die many times before we die. because we are self-aware—an assertion based on the rather outrageous notion that the brain doubles its own function in some mysterious and special way. while we would likely never say that the stomach digests about digestion we readily learn to affirm that the brain thinks about thinking. i suspect a more likely explanation for the so called existentialist predicament is that animals eventually evolved large emotional brains. the darwinian approach at least avoids the vexing problem of substance dualism. that is: the problem of a brain, unique example of a universe otherwise gone mad, that doubles its own function and thereby dis-covers the “truth” of its own singular existence.




my dialectic

on the one hand i’m a total misanthrope. and why not? humans spread unspeakable cruelty wherever they go, each minute of every day. society attacks early, when the individual is helpless. indeed. and yet, countless tableside conversations have referred themselves to my poems; i love nothing more than to stand on a full street corner with my camera clicking away while i observe all the miniature dramas unfolding there. i become very attached to them and find that i miss them all as they drift apart. though i’ll never see any of them ever again, i can’t think i’ll ever forget them.

odd isn’t it?



In the world of the digitized panopticon, everything can be revealed, so everything gets concealed. We are obsessed with appearance. Before, when film was innocent (when, like today, it was used by very few) pure figuration could grow of a natural science of being. But what that is today is as little understood as ever, and for this beings are everywhere “shot dead wholesale.” By the camera-phone as much by the gun. Thus, it is as appropriate that a urinal be signed and presented supine, as that we seek an art of the insufficient. Of the occasion when façades break down—call that the… indecisive moment. The skin heavy point where we forget oppression and just are. If only.




therapists often teach their clients to express emotions
in one word alone / i write poetry to find emotions
that require an entire world