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Swing of things
9/26/2023 used to dislike the word 'thing' too
The Disorder of Things 9/27/2023, Con/Jur/d “First they came for the poets” What do you mean, what does it mean? Says so right here, where we wrote it down a few days ago when we started this, and although, we are incapable of explanation - each day in the hospital being one week of recovery, as a rule of thumb, doc said - there’s clarity in statements those apparent laws, the best of all worlds messaging, while true, also ripe for exploitation, like astrology, road signs? or a prisoner’s excuse for limits? Not that a ruler doesn’t have its purposes, mind you, the inch-by-inch, meter-by-meter dance is loads of fun and a great little tool which we tend to forget, but poets tend to remember the autumn sunlight refracted from the ebony headstone intersecting visibly in the spectrum of crow, matters, is ‘reality,’ in the way, a doctor’s appointment in six months, manifested by corporate fiat can never be really real, never satisfy genuine desire, except by abstract substitution And yet, the entire infrastructure, of measurement, manipulation, and necrotic magicks, is designed to elevate the tools and to apply extreme genuflection, allowing only one posture, prostration, while poets, shamans, medicine workers integral voudonists, and other mistranslated misunderstood tool-using-organics, are marginalized, vilified, crucified, crepusculated, forever bound to a twilight, always coming or receding but never ever arriving, no wonder you were told poetry, woo, isn’t worth your time, uninteresting, defies understandability, leaving the clock, as the only worthy of your time, whose translations are your temporality… “Not true!” You may interject, “A clock is a convenience, a mere contraption, a place holder for the incalculable,” and without doubt, you’d be correct, a truer truth - “Quite”- we would say, if this were a conversation, rather than a revelatory reminder to remember, time is to serve you, not to sever you, and of course, they come for the poets first, by orders of the instrumentalized mind, who can’t stand, sit or lie down for these disordered revelations, these signifiers, they do not matter Or rather, matter as much as me and you and the beautiful messiness between us all.
(Trying to flex our post-somatic-violations brain, so forgive our abrupt blurts, stops and
starts — what was I doing over here? I needed something by the PC? Hmmmm — might as well hit send while I’m