The influence of gaslight or electric light on the growth of paraheliotropic trees

Just spent half an hour — how should I put this — playing a electronic game on my computer that involves pushing little colored circles around. When I get it right it makes a sound. I get points. It is not fun, but it is — something. I — where does time go — I wait until I’m exhausted to extrude words — can barely think straight — personality drips away — my father harvesting tomatoes — all I see are reasons and explanations — frowns — bittersweet — should have died of alcohol — sad oceans — our minds our jelly — clouds — easily disturbed — airplanes flying through them — this is not unhappiness, right here, this is exhaustion — but need to write every day — up until 3 AM last night — waited until the last minute — got it done — bunted — Darryl Strawberry — thirsty — hot chocolate today — 3 mile walk — my room is on fire — inferno — winter — heating — farm fresh eggs this morning, and bacon — walked outside — had trouble seeing for the thoughts running through my head — what are words — thoughts dressed up — shimmied up — chipped away — Michael Angelo staring at the stone seeing David — Throw — throwaway — off-hand — tip — flaneur — walking stick — gangsters in the garment district with I Love New York Bags — the Bright Lights of Times Square — Madison Square Garden — Penn Station at rush hour — dancing through the crowd — no concern for them, no concern for me — subway — blond hair girl — hot chocolate — television — Harvey Keitel’s naked body — jokes — Wednesday — hump day — looked for work this morning — typed at one — typed at another — em dash salad — Dash — Crash — Boom — Pow — Large Dinosaur — where is my mind — six strings — tonight, I’ll be staying here with you

Emily Dickinson

“HOPE” is the thing with feathers–
That perches in the soul–
And sings the tune without the words–
And never stops–at all–
And sweetest–in the Gale–is heard–
And sore must be the storm–
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm–
I’ve heard it in the chillest land–
And on the strangest Sea–
Yet, never in Extremity,
It asked a crumb–Of me.

Yes.

The question — out there — emailed — could not phone — the great weight of future contingents pressed against my mind — waiting — did I do everything right? Gutted candles? Flames? The resolution of binary opposites. No. Yes. Why not Yes. Say Yes. Yes.

The trick — what’s the trick — the trick is to stand on the cliffs and jump. The trick is to take the blows of the world, and still stand, laughing, joyous — I was Edward Yellow, Knight of the Dolorous Face. But we are always naming — new names are possible — Isaiah, other name of mine — Isaiah Red — of the Joyous Guard.

If her, then her. If not her, another. Duty resolves to beauty. As the trees resleeve, my limbs too add sinew. Dust-body falls away, fresh green stretches. Hasn’t happened yet. Hungry. Headache forming. But will. But will. Has to. Swim. Stand on the edge of the cliff and wait to jump.

Scott Hutchinson

We salute at the threshold of the North Sea in my mind
And the nautical board-man that drove me here
to  the tide and swim
— I swim — swim —

So swim until you can’t see land
Are you a man or are you a bag of sand?

Up to my knees now, do I wait? Do I dive?
The sea has seen my like before though it’s my 

Swim until you can’t see land
Are you a man or are you a bag of sand?

Now the water’s taller than me
And the land is a marker line
All I am is a body adrift in water, salt and sky

Swim until you can’t see land
Are you a man or are you a bag of sand?

What is an urge? The thought of the id, of the stomach, gut.

http://www.inner.org/hebleter/yud.htm

After the apocalypse of the 20th century — and how strange it is, to have been born in 1982, after the apocalypse, and to have only read about the apocalypse (apocalypse averted) in books and movies — with modernist totalitarianism and postmodernist postcolonialism, we now begin to wake up and wipe our eyes.

We stare at the sun.

We look at the foundations of our houses, and see that they were built on sand. The sand is sand all the way down, like Stephen Hawking’s turtles.

The choice is clear. We leave our sinking houses, and venture out into the trackless deserts, always dancing, so that we don’t sink. Our ground can no longer provide us with our truths. Only our dancing.

The moon is above me, full and pregnant, as I lay draped across this couch, counting words and days.