Sunday, August 28, 2011


Beauty has become my act of faith stepping out with words having no idea where I'm going, coming back just to myself.  
I am the real.  
I have become the truth, the good, the one that is the form of the forms.  
Soon I'll take it all back.
Plainly speaking,
using the words as a plane,
a level plain,
the spirit doesn't appear.  
Enthusiasm is false.  
The vision was nothing.  
The awakening was the dilation of the eyes.  
The contortions were lewd.  
Their reality was somewhere else.  

It was off inside this plainness I now see.

The tension that is the extension surpasses it all.

In my writing I do not try to cut a figure or strike a bold stroke.  
I do not seek the brilliance of definition.  
This is religious inwardness.  
Its expression.  
Its passion is mere mention of the word.

Monday, August 8, 2011


Philosophically speaking,
that is to say using words the opposite of their ordinary meaning,
using them in a way alongside the apparent,
objective knowledge is just something of your own reasoning, smooth and orderly,
but subjectivity is blind stepping out in a passionate way to receive what bumps against you.  Philosophy receives the bumping of the ordinary.  
It receives the blows of the ordinary.  Little irritating blows.  
The real turns back to be the ideal.  Paradox.  
I'm in a dreadful situation.  
            More nervous passion.
I am passion.             I receive the form.         Knowledge comes to me.  
I have it.        Then it leaves.         
     Then my words are silly.          A total mess.  
Out here on this prairie, in a wind that's blowing everything away.  
An insurrection.  
The forms are coming in fast.  
The space time structure is coming apart.  
Just the universals.  
Throwing me through the air.
Then there I am again, back to square one, 
with a bump on my head, and a hazy memory.