infinity on repeat

"It is the imagination pressing back against the pressure of reality. It seems, in the last analysis, to have something to do with our self-preservation; and that, no doubt, is why the expression of it, the sound of its words, helps us to live our lives.”

Category: poetry

a bomb

warFare’s  nucleus  ː
fission \ fission-fusion
matter  \  if nothing but almost
still, mouths press
steam       continents,           no air
for the             all‐telephone            wrung  inkless
while                         fact                          tills      fact (so lets sleep
loom in lullaby)                for every Little Boy.   his bedroom only a door
with arms who siphon galaxies at night by a finger  pricked vessel
beneath the shadowy atmospheric flow.  his molecule dreams
tunneling inward
where a key dissolves \ itself will lock


A list—

every library should have at least one gargoyle to protect the books inside
all wrapped up in the immortality of the soul.
opposite of love is indifference ,
be the first human to have a psychedelic trip on the moon
the beautiful weird / amen

the fairest of seasons, up on melancholy hill  ː
where the ground is a scroll leaking possible reincarnation
and some billion footsteps hammer out the next line of poetic ruin.
A sanctuary with no purpose at all, save being led

“I would love to have a cat’s vision, but then I won’t be able to drive.. as neither can cats..”
—strange email from boy who takes his dark roast with 3 raw sugars and a tiny bit of cream

Thoughts on Russian montage

Shots stacked so tall they tip over into the abyss.
Metaphysics will mess you up and inevitably
one of us will explode. Content is conflict
and so is the form.  The mind
sees with body and hears with idea being formed.

A name. A hollow thing> a thing within a thing.
What does it mean why do we repeat it
with bodies lives ideas thoughts minds picturethings?
There is no gold inside the word shell
but still we want more and more and more of it.

We have conflict on top of conflict
on top of conflict. We have a flurry of possible
molds for making order out of chaos
but we have only one method
and it is hollow. It is mimicking the cause.

The cause the cause the cause.
This is just a framed bit of everything
everywhere ever. The resolution does not come
instead we continue on, stuck to the underbelly
of an unimpressed ship. We remember it how
we remember an entire life—in a shadow
near the eye of a storm

Everyone is afraid of the next domino
falling. Everyone will die but that is not even the thing anymore.
We are desperate to become
symbols, squeezing our feet into the wrong shoe.
Let us be more than another object. We wonder
if objects die too. Then we see objects exploding.
Then we feel worse. We would rather die than watch
death fall onto object, so we decide to become
object ourselves.

Beginning middle end sounds right.
It has a shape a body can trace. Trace it backwards
call it revolution. First the sentence,
and then the evidence. No, no. First
the evidence, and then the sentence.                    Isn’t that how we occurred?

kissing fishes

this is how mise en scene goes on
behind shut eyes. maybe a hologram
solidifying, a still picture of my grandfather
kissing a strange woman.
but the focus begins shifting shapes and both
begin to look like fishes.
a soft milky blob of light hovers
over their fish lips I swim into that halo
to touch the one small everything nucleus
the catapult of nascent darkness


Girl must meander surreptitiously.

Girl is very blurry.

Girl meandered forever.

Must gray and fog meander still?

They meander here every day.

Girl softly tastes aluminum.

what i think i have learned about writing so far

  • style is simple. even butterflies know that
  • pictures first
  • you have to finish the line
  • unlearn everything you have learned since the age of 3
  • never try
  • listen with raw honesty
  • there is no talent, only obsession
  • write with humble gratitude toward your reader
  • reject your religion but keep your devout
  • chase experience madly
  • remember everything
  • work harder each day
  • you are the sum of your questions
  • collect inspiration from all disciplines
  • always hope to be wrong
  • a writer is the vehicle, not the source

listing prose

Jack Kerouac

1. Scribbled secret notebooks, and wild typewritten pages, for yr own joy
2. Submissive to everything, open, listening
3. Try never get drunk outside yr own house
4. Be in love with yr life
5. Something that you feel will find its own form
6. Be crazy dumbsaint of the mind
7. Blow as deep as you want to blow
8. Write what you want bottomless from bottom of the mind
9. The unspeakable visions of the individual
10. No time for poetry but exactly what is
11. Visionary tics shivering in the chest
12. In tranced fixation dreaming upon object before you
13. Remove literary, grammatical and syntactical inhibition
14. Like Proust be an old teahead of time
15. Telling the true story of the world in interior monolog
16. The jewel center of interest is the eye within the eye
17. Write in recollection and amazement for yourself
18. Work from pithy middle eye out, swimming in language sea
19. Accept loss forever
20. Believe in the holy contour of life
21. Struggle to sketch the flow that already exists intact in mind
22. Dont think of words when you stop but to see picture better
23. Keep track of every day the date emblazoned in yr morning
24. No fear or shame in the dignity of yr experience, language & knowledge
25. Write for the world to read and see yr exact pictures of it
26. Bookmovie is the movie in words, the visual American form
27. In praise of Character in the Bleak inhuman Loneliness
28. Composing wild, undisciplined, pure, coming in from under, crazier the better
29. You’re a Genius all the time
30. Writer-Director of Earthly movies Sponsored & Angeled in Heaven


We always practice it on each other, this flirtation of perhapsing.
I’ll ask, “do you ever wonder if philosophy is throwing around
see-through boomerangs?” Then you’ll double spin me—
“If there was a chance to completely delete history
and the kids in charge invited you along, would you go,
still all contagious with memory?”

once or twice or three times, i saw something~ marie howe


Once or twice or three times, I saw something
rise from the dust in the yard, like the soul
of the dust, or from the field, the soul-body
of the field – rise and hover like a veil in the sun
billowing – as if I could see the wind itself.
I thought I did it – squinting – but I didn’t.
As if the edges of things blurred – so what was in
bled out, breathed up and mingled: bush and cow
and dust and well: breathed a field I walked through
waist high, as through high grass or water, my fingers
swirling through it – or it through me. I saw it.
It was thing and spirit both: the real
world: evident, invisible.

in the face of boostlessness

what would yolo do
if yolo knew how many
soulsuckingalienh8rz tried
to immortalize yolo
and lock poor little yolo up
in some pulp
or concrete or a spinny chair
and how they stuck him
with a sticky sticker stickering
“hi my name is bolo
and i only boost once”


4 my fav cyborg santinodela who may or may not exist but likely does