as roshi has said, what does meaning mean?
1/4/2024 A poet's life is an experiment in automatic writing
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.
Much love,
Con/Jur/d, 1/4/2023
Love the poem:)
Madmadmad rockrockrock