We should befriend the dead
As they fly back and forth
On the backs of angels
They are defeated
In the wars of intimacy
We should listen to their stories
The dead are better story tellers
We should listen
The dead are us
Thursday, January 16, 2014
Monday, January 6, 2014
Saturday, January 4, 2014
Friday, January 3, 2014
The city is peppered with armored vehicles
They are the fake Hershey kisses of the world
You can sip tea with their drivers
While dreaming of love
My body is deformed from usage
I am thinking of not giving up
But - from a distance - there is simple violence
And it is tempting to touch each other inappropriately
Just to pretend that all is fine with the world
They are the fake Hershey kisses of the world
You can sip tea with their drivers
While dreaming of love
My body is deformed from usage
I am thinking of not giving up
But - from a distance - there is simple violence
And it is tempting to touch each other inappropriately
Just to pretend that all is fine with the world
walking the same streets
sex isn't an escape
it works for a while
if I stopped thinking of hope
and focused on your naked pictures
as I jerk off amid tanks
and imagine the coffee shop
turning into an orgy
tonight i can write the saddest lines
sex won't work
we are left to combat the middle class
with mere hands
sex isn't an escape
it works for a while
if I stopped thinking of hope
and focused on your naked pictures
as I jerk off amid tanks
and imagine the coffee shop
turning into an orgy
tonight i can write the saddest lines
sex won't work
we are left to combat the middle class
with mere hands
on this regimented pass of tea and oxygen - I'm looking for a trick other than self reflection - things to discuss other than the sexual implications of modern management: he was born, he worked, he was racially interesting, and he died - the story had some exciting moments like spilling tea on cats, different forms of abuse and unemployment, ... - near the end - he died before Frank O'Hara - a certain refrigerator magnet caught his attention.
I thought: "all the power to the soviets"
and woke up among well meaning Marxists
who stayed up watching old songs about love
I prefer to be lost in Seattle dimness
turning slowly into a nature poet
writing about leaves changing colors
and ugly highways - I will ride the bus to work
and hide from the passengers - I will
also hide hope in an okay refrigerator
and woke up among well meaning Marxists
who stayed up watching old songs about love
I prefer to be lost in Seattle dimness
turning slowly into a nature poet
writing about leaves changing colors
and ugly highways - I will ride the bus to work
and hide from the passengers - I will
also hide hope in an okay refrigerator
All these times we ate, drank, or sipped coffee while hiding from ourselves that the dialectic is turned upside-down and that funerals are also opportunities for networking. Ah, that dance scene, when the villains are conspiring and reciting Baudelaire - well, it never really happened and we are left under the mercy of our friends texting needs. My mood today is betrayal - language is what enables it.
Alcohol doesn't go bad
We use it to engage with a dying world
This is to document madness
In the psyche of all matter
The wood the glass and the metals
This is to burn the useless incense
Of our bodies
And turn them into subservient entities
We call the night an option for resurrection
Observing few false starts of power
We use it to engage with a dying world
This is to document madness
In the psyche of all matter
The wood the glass and the metals
This is to burn the useless incense
Of our bodies
And turn them into subservient entities
We call the night an option for resurrection
Observing few false starts of power
dancing as history of the body
nothing useful can be done on a checkered floor
but combating the self: its shape and its desires
and after we emptied our emptiness
we turned into piles of salt:
each particle is loaded with language
then we scattered around popcorn
it is useful to partake in the end of civilization
nothing useful can be done on a checkered floor
but combating the self: its shape and its desires
and after we emptied our emptiness
we turned into piles of salt:
each particle is loaded with language
then we scattered around popcorn
it is useful to partake in the end of civilization
The Egyptian revolution turned me into a consumer of history. In its two folds, as immediate in-the-making, which manifested itself in the analysis of the power situation on the ground by clever Egyptian analysts on Facebook. The second is history as theology - history as an accumulation - history as inevitably metaphysical despite Marx best intentions. I actually didn't plan to write this post to talk about this, I wanted to write about how the complex situation of Egyptian politics has triggered such unbelievable split in opinions, there are people I saw eye to eye with all our lives and we are now in opposing positions. Not sure what is the relationship between this and history as theology, maybe this is the point, that history as theology is just our inability to fathom totality.
A revolution is a strange thing to live through -- We like it to follow the arch of a fairy tale but it doesn't -- It moves fast and challenges us -- it probably brings the best (one million people self organizing in Tahrir) and worst (gang rape also near Tahrir) in us -- it brings conspiracy theory to the front (because we can't believe we are ever agents of history) -- it challenges all classifications and political stratification models we have (Liberals who are pro military, Marxists who are pro Muslim Brotherhood) -- it - more than anything else - challenges the notion of a regime/system -- turns out we are all part of the same system we are revolting against and we are as flawed as it is -- there is at the end a certain collective trauma we all go through - my "we" is an outsider one - I didn't risk my life in the Egyptian revolution - yet somehow my worst moment of personal defeat that came a year ago - was culminated when seeing Cairo itself defeated -- Cairo - a city that I never truly lived in - I just walked its downtown streets infinite amount of times and this same downtown store lights were/are to fuel my poetry journey until now...
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