Monday, December 19, 2005

Subjunctive rearticulation project

Yesterday someone said before I slept, while I lay asleep, someone said someone else called and left a message, “send your identity, blah, blah, blah . . . and by the end of the week the answer will come." So, listen to the rains and windmill or something like that. The question will have to wait, blah, blah, blah . . . the truth is variable, comes in grams and kilos. Facts who said. And splendor will fall on castle walls, crumbling with age and arrogance, in mass on the battlefield surrounding this hunk of decay, in echoes of dying, blow-by-blow they fall dying, life piled on life. Physical pleasure and pain are more difficult to apply a universal to. The very domain of each individual nerve ending, each bunch of electric impulses, so on and so on and so it goes, the answer varies under severe torture, some feel no pain, while others, shopping in a department store, die instantly, blah, blah, blah . . . is nothing more than complex shocks of multitudinous forces on a limited construction recoiling in a desperate act of self representation against the mechanical screen’s ceaseless remedy entering the mind's mass, growing a growth, opening an office that uses different departments to limit action, control knowledge and increase egotistic impulses repeating, “learn your role and work within guidelines, the answer is coming,” genetically modified, blah, blah, blah . . . happens for the accountability of time to protect those lost in the dark and in pain. So, please repeat after me, “I will not be temped to set myself in opposition to a law that is not justice.” Or as alternative ending, though I cannot see you, but I say to you in great humility, you cannot do anything for us or me or them. We become unclean the moment you enter our lives . . . no more relief, no more public education. Asking us to remain motionless with our wings folded and waiting for obliteration and nuclear extinction, while you grow soil in test tubes having already destroyed the global surface everywhere else. No, the answer does not judge between the register of truth, simply stages them in separate spaces. This is not science fiction either, more a dumbstruck withdraw, blah, blah, blah . . .

The problem, truth can only be stored in strategic segregation proclaiming opposition where there is complicity by denying the possibility of randomness in the violent sky, everywhere has been touched by it and knows. The elimination of the possible, either by being cast to the imperfect or perverse, because we do not seek the essence of contact, but look only for the effects to match with our desires and fears, a fill-in-the-blank taken as the real real, an escape from personality into a medium of impressions introducing a list of nameless people at the end of a poem.


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