The ghost of a missed moment

always appears from a darkened corner

of my mind

as if

through dark/grey matter

sparkling neurons fly

to divulge the return of a history

that I made past

the day we said goodbye.

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From what I’m seeing,
this is a renaissance.
I don’t want to kid,
and I don’t want to lie,
but from where I am standing,
this seems like a renaissance.
I can’t say they’ve confirmed it,
the ones in the know,
but from looking at their faces,
they too think this a renaissance.
I haven’t done the fact-checking,
but the facts have checked themselves,
and from looking at the spreadsheets,
this equates to a renaissance.

It’s fair that you’ll want to ask,
and I would be the same,
“A renaissance of what?”

 

Words have names,
or is it that they are the names       the names
we give to feelings       to feelings
caught in meaning?       Meaning,
if I       if I
ran out of ink,
could I trust my mind to remember what’s inside?
What’s inside
is this:
I want to get a word to love me like Bolaño’s love for his.

The Author is the Text but the Text is not the Author.

I.

What can a word achieve?
(It’s not words I write with.)
See a page,
see a furnace.
Success is just frustration
with a course
and mine might find its in the laws of trying,
but doing through undoing
with these words
still feels like
lying.
Worse,
it’s hiding.
It
is
hiding.
There’s still order.
I want to build a word that builds disorder.
Give it to me:
I want slaughter.
Take the page and drown its flames;
hear the words dissolve their names
and crack the borders.
Psychical technology.
Devoid(ed) meaning.
Straight to feeling.
I just hate that words can only mediate.

II.

How corrupted is an author?
How corruptible is authorship?
How can I escape that helm
to let the ship its leader be?

Two freedoms
sought at the expense
of one another.

Can they both be free?
Does freedom depend on
wanting to be?

Where am I going to go,
and am I going to go there
with myself in tow
or at the helm?