as roshi has said, what does meaning mean?

1/4/2024 A poet's life is an experiment in automatic writing

SOMETIMES — WE NEED TO REPEAT OURSELVES

When it comes to automatic writing
Con/Jur/d, 1/4/2023

Found it funny you couldn’t see the world was our living room
of course, we fought about it, no we didn’t plan for the slaughter
by the television, or the poison ivy bordering the couch
or the lone crow whose caws came from a subterranean depth
deeper, richer, smoother than
through the warm winter’s morning, beneath
the scratched and scuffed wooden floor, whose consonants
set an imperceptible stirring among the Tardigrade herds
or the high summer cricket chorus accompanying ancestral 
moods and twitches whose sonics stirred 
the crumbed carpet, causing a plethora
of unremarked toe and sole sensations
those are just stories of inside and outside
like filicide encrusted with goat caught in bramble, or a
feast of redshirts or civilians with the condiments
set aside for women, children and misanthropes

Yes, there are better ways of saying it
although, and maybe laughter, is inappropriate, another story
missed, because of this trance
everyone seems to be in, automatically writing explanations
and apologies for why, we need to kill strangers, why there’s
blood on the ceiling, viscera on the couch

Eyes rolled back, leaving only spider vein red on white
or pupils so wide they’re taking in the light
from the heirloom lamp stolen, that always seems
to reside just behind your head

At the edges, the halo radiance fades into shadows
the bones of the fingers, not the flesh, have a sucking in
aura, victimized extensions, a pre-dust itch
busily compose endless opinion pieces on why your vacuum
should be deified, why their broom should be vilified

What level of purity
needs to be achieved to make your story important
your living room, whether sidewalked, barred or replete with bowling alley
can be a worthy extension, of the you that’s The Grand Canyon, The Crab
Nebula, The Gravity Wave, The DNA folded so tightly the volume
inhabited is greater than the available space

The answer, of course, is no level of purity can, does or would exist
rather all of this, me, you, the hieroglyphs of communication, regardless
of medium or instrument is a subsonic deflagration 
from the birth of this infinite fecundity
a perpetual writing
a knocking on the 
fourth wall

“Knock. Knock!”
“Who is it?”
“An arising without end”
“An arising without end, who?”

Just let us in.

A nice, rocking playlist:

Teeth Tapping Music

Much love,

Con/Jur/d, 1/4/2023