seefeel – ‘through you’


days of nothing to say, nothing to writeonly music to transpose feeling from within

‘to reduce the fever of feeling’

Outside the wind howls. Inside a trio of snowmen converse in the vicinity of a conference of paper birds. Last night the ‘artsy’ neighbors continued their grand tradition of slamming doors and other unidentifiable objects against floors and walls for several hours between approximately midnight and the archetypal 3 AM hour. Result: current state of apathetic grogginess. Desire for absence of shared walls swells with each passing night of lost sleep.

Days less measureless than before. Crystalline structure of incipient routines inches out beyond the borders of a now worn and tarnished impersonation of L.B. in Rear Window. Except there never was anything even vaguely menacing to observe, only a sea of moment-waves rocking gently against the fragile hull of this origami sailboat.

Return to Pessoa’s words: no novelty in the universal, no comprehensibility in the individual. The old ruse of intentional obfuscation falls flat. But still the urge to fit words together roils inside. Maybe to do it, like Pessoa says, ‘to reduce the fever of feeling.’ Yet if all is unimportant (which it is), why bother describing any version of it. Unless perhaps to merely locate and handle the words themselves. To dive to the bottom, seeking words buried deep in a consciousness whose mirrored surface rests fathoms above undisturbed layers of sediment. Yes, perhaps it is for that reason: to extract anything worth contemplating from the granular level, to slip some small truth from the interstices and examine it from all sides, even if only to then return it unseen.

disordered chronology of movement


Failed recollections to begin with. Slow-creeping toward habit. A giant round metal head. Sudden velocity. Sudden inertia. Pavement merges with gravel. The emergence of a tentative consciousness, neither hard nor pebbly. Vexation of unidentified raptors. Vultures soar over open sore in ground. A blast. Winged assassins. New commonness of thrashers in the street. Feet to pedals. The river like a swollen artery choked with plaque. Ungroundedness. Slow mounting keen of a train not far off. Dream rivulets running off a dry and calloused cerebellum. The importance of a second floor. Eye contact with strangers. Avoid building awareness of a presence. A body imagined close, a body far off yet close, a body buried in dry soil, a body husking a soul. A dipping line, looming and drawing back, tangled in the hanging moss of a halting lifetime.


The exultant dismissal of everything. A hitching-up of trouser legs above this rising level of foreign liquidity. A spreading out tempered by a wish to gather in. Weathering. Rusty rooftop with greenery. The futile accomplishment of deletion. Southern hospitality. Sensory overload. Sensory deprivation. Every atom split to populate a neverending shell game run by con artists connotating the building blocks of life. It’s so casual is what it feels like. An unseemly seeming accidental existence. And yet people fly planes. Against near-white skies. This is a reason not to listen to all the best songs in a row. This is the reason time means nothing. Look out, the fuse is lit. See how it sputters, this heat seen and heard, racing on its journey to a black-powder shattered shack. Every early morning blink of a first-opened eye, this fuse is lit. And wetted fingertips flutter to pinch it out quick.


Bird on a wire, sing your song, lift your wing to the world. Swoop down and over this set of fleet footprints filled in long ago. Expectations of nothing can never be unfulfilled. It’s a something-nothing to believe in, at least. An anti-ideal to carry stuck beneath an idealist’s forever-sweating armpit. Relish the freedom of solitude in public places. Deny detours diverting detritus. Pick it up, handle it, determine meaning and value, discard when done. Don’t look back but for inspiration. Forward motion fuels freedom. Reminders come free.

tell me about the time something occurred

Shifty drifter adrift in drifting shifts. The hot pavement hard today, so hard to get across. Everything spelled backwards, eyelids sweating, shifty drifters drifting across my bow. Ahoy, drifter! Bugger off!! No ninety degree turns permitted across the double yellow line! i scream in my small voice. i can never be loud, not in sound, at least. Except when i screamed at the battered microphone those few years. i miss that. Where’s the release now, huh. You bastards. Why the always taking everything away. Where’s the return on my investment. What did i ever do to you except ignore, hate, mock behind backs…okay, okay, i get it. i’m not perfect. But i still need to scream. Maybe it’s time to start another punk band. Or carry my milk crate to a new street corner. Where’s my soundproof padded cell for the hurling against walls and the uncontrollable shaking inside. Eight ball corner pocket! Every day is the same. Why is that. Why can’t something happen. i used to make things happen, i think, used to do…things. i remember it like yesterday, or maybe last week. Before the paralysis set in. Yes, before all that. The liquid latex hardening in my veins. The city crushing and shredding. i haven’t submitted anything for publication in months. Fuck it. The entire process stabs at you with slow dehumanizing thrusts. Why should i spend so many of my dwindling hours hunting down tiny unknown publications run by hotshot MFAs only to grovel on the dusty ground before them, eyes averted, my crappy poems clutched in my clackity-clack claws. i might as well just be ripping my bloody heart out and handing it to them instead. To which they’d inevitably respond…

“Dear Writer, thank you so much for sending us your heart. While we enjoyed palpating it, and certainly its slightly swollen left ventricle gave us pause, in the end we didn’t feel that it pumped the right blood type for this particular issue. Best of luck with placing your heart elsewhere. We hope you will consider submitting some of your other organs to us in the future. “

Seeking publication drains all the fun right out of writing. Now i know why Annie Dillard retreated. So much to read! she said. No more time for this frivolity of publication. Maybe i’ll start making zines again. Or just keep typing in this box when the mood strikes. Hug the dictionary to my sunken chest. Scribble dreams in my notebook. Climb into the crow’s nest at Fort Futility and curl up in a ball with my word blanket wrapped tight around me.

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