Enrich Heckel: Landschaft bei Dresden(1910)

Self Portrait (July 13, 2022)


I sit, I stand, I think of you.
I sit, I stand, I think of you.


splayed out sticks flung from the basket
arms so long they reach you
arms so long they get thin


walking over bridges and theres that searing
achy - brakey wallowing as if I might do it.
you really get to me sometimes, ya know?


I saw the girl from that earring poem today,
laying loose on the fire escape, like a cat
she looked at the camera and dangled over
a long shiny tail
I'm sure someday I'll describe
as looking like a silverfish


If I'm honest with you,
this poem was supposed to be about me.


But I guess I'm really up to nothing,
Except waiting for your move

THIS famous poet,
he could be from my own street,
blogs like me and Bri!

501-510

Follow the pronouns.

Walking across the grass composing this sentence (I can write it down later) between each sip.

I can be seduced but not my process.

Spread-eagled between each of your opinions.

Love is the mother of violence.

So: the sun pierces the cherubs that gnaw the hammers that we all are holding—and the blood on them—so that it can behold these moments through our eyes.

And: the advantage of fragmenting the self in this way is seen in the new relationships developed by each of the self’s characters so that all these sentences can eventually be seen as the remote biological past.

Sentimentality is another instrument for innovation.

So: the body of the living individual is a poetic accompaniment that maintains a distance between images and the processes used in obtaining them.

And: the swans pecked the angel into a perfected bliss.

510-520

Let us pass the cloud back and forth—like this—between our mouths.

The beautiful thing about antinomies is that they don’t have to be spoken.

The war is over what gets to go without saying.

She is balancing the checkbook, sweeter than the breath of Mary.

We go from the music we find via its decibels—deeply romantic—into the entire storm.

The misuse of sentences has led to new insights, as has the misuse of pets.

Consider eternity: it is as available and empty as birth.

She mentions that I am beautifully executed.

My poetic idiocies are re-imagined in the sentence’s dancing flames.

The seasons also speak in revolutionary cadences.

521-530

There was as a serpent and it divided, my brother and I.

They have built machines that can bypass our essentialist questions of what is innate in the machine.

We have already gone through some light snow but not out of faith.

Imagine space like you imagine travel, a productive boredom.

Laugh heartily at the joke.

If only you knew how you live in me!

But no, one does not talk like that, of extreme ocean waves and ocean wave climates, water creatures.

All the things you never told me, Radiant System.

I am considered to be the mystery, the disgusting promises of a face to face communication.

It was one of the most heartbreaking things you've ever had to watch for I was still too tiny to come home.

531-540

I have been writing the memoirs of the princes prior to myself.

For you I’ve made a ceremonial pair of socks that can go all the way up to your throat.

My destiny is bigger than yours.

I’m getting all crazy-eyed touching your clothes.

Every sentence of exploitation operates in the same manner; because they are all the same we can utilize them for wisdom.

We thought you would outlive us and therefore live forever.

On the back of my paycheck I am writing history.

The professor claims another victory, raising his hoof.

In just one note, a maestro can demonstrate his or her power.

Fucking river.

It starts simply:

The streetlight was placed near the road to light it for cars, and for passers-by. Many years ago the city planners took inspiration from other city planners and said, we will add streetlights!

Now the streetlight is a character, for me, as I was formed by the carefully planned (or perhaps not so, if you've ever been there) city of Auburn, Washington. I noticed that the streetlight also concealed, lighting only the small circle of sidewalk outside my house, and the rest? not the perview of those planners all those years ago, the desert if you will.

When I use the streetlight as a symbol to myself of mystery, love, desire, pain, everything overarching in my life and the question I'm always falling back on of- why I feel so drawn to it? the urge to write that is,

I wonder, was that also the designed function of the streetlight? to draw me (and the bugs) from my house to sit and stare from my steps - is the utilitarian act of the streetlight why this dichotomy draws me so? or is there mutual understanding between us all, that the streetlight always carries the precarious youth of the night with it too?

why did we have to read so many fucking YA novels with twists? just give the kids Great Expections for the love of..

    The night train is in my head 
    shaking my frizzy hair into my hands 
    my cardboard walls rumble with the gravel 
    as the train rushes through stagnant air 
    screaming hollow notes as 
    though it might arrive 
    suspending me for fear of missing 
    your soft knock 
    on my walls pulsing and 
    trembing to catch 
    my flushed body spread too thin 
    burning halls, fleshy streets, 
    yanking me 
    Back! Back! Here's the train! 
    desperately pressed to jagged walls 
    so thin I know the train will tear 
    right through and you 
    will hear the somber call and 
    you will come 
    But your walls are sturdy, quiet 
    as I send tendrils searching 
    the harsh night 
    for a few light footprints on the moon 
    heard so far between wake and sleep 
    It's only another dull thudding 
    on the tracks 
    My walls are glowing red,
    alarm bells at the station
    but you enter your silent planet 
    and sigh 
    for how wonderful to sleep so soundly 
    indifferent to the symphony next door. 

Heidelberg, you rap 
scallion - your wings warm and 
open like my page.