this time, electronic, the vibrations bumping, we’re going to have a little chat about history, and i might add some clarifications as to the specifications of the engagement, and that’s a another part of it, isn’t it, the complexity of the words, how can, do, your fingers move when they are deprived of that instrument upon which we too often depend, the eyes are great, don’t get me wrong, but we have other senses, and the dearth of satisfaction, unearthly transformation that permeates the surroundings of our skeletal and grossly abundant culture, the saplings want, the companies sell sunlight, and the forests no longer sing, the point gets lost when one tries to think, because under a spell we are caught, that all things, the universe as a whole, the harmony and the dancing, that all has to make some kind of sense, see the structure, be able to recognize the pattern, assign a purpose or be able to ask a meaningful question about the content, but why does all life have to be such a messy order? why do we have this tendency to understand, reason things out, and no, before you liken me to a Trump supporter or someone who thinks that the thing we refer to by god is a white man with a beard let me do some explaining, the thing is, creation is the trade of an artist, and my dramaturgy professor said the other day that one of the idiocies of this era is the depreciation of art, and i think he’s likely mostly correct, what is art, a cherry on the sustenance, an adornment on the more important things, and that misses the point entirely of what it means to be human, a civilian, a member of a partnership, an organized gathering and collaborative enterprise, that is together living, social community, depending and sharing, inviting and receiving, trading, loving, dying, with someone, at least someone, remembering fondly, the universe is so tidy, do we think, so comprehendible, sometimes i feel like I’m becoming Catholic, or something like it based on my little knowledge of what Catholicism is, because the mystery is so expansive, but indeed, this concept is also found in Indian philosophy, a tradition that goes back thousands of years, the essential nature of the universe, and the soul of the person are one, the transcendental reality of the multiplicity of artifacts and nameable things in life is assured by the Vedic necessity for names to refer to individual things, a religious and social structure of power, the reaction was revolutionary, flourished Buddha, the questioner of greats, the destroyer of permanence, the one who sits in stone many feet above the littler ones, the one whose teachings were for hundreds of years remembered, guarded, orally, until they were written down, what kind of man is this, person, for those of you offended by that, who is so treasured for his extraordinary insight? and the next question is, why do we not meditate? Why is meditation, sitting zen, zazen, not a part of every curriculum, not a part of all upbringings? the machinization of civil society is a process in which we take part, we sustain, and a single individual cannot be held to blame for the group’s monarchy, the superiority of technology, the nimbleness of minds poorly trained, the fright that is easy to generate in those who have everything to lose and not much to live for, the anxiety in the weak and hungry, the hurt and neglected, the tunnels in which old people sleep, not watched or fed, not cared for because of their socioeconomic, what that really means is, historical antecedents of its formation and maintenance as a subject-in-history, a Hegelian idea, one that puts the human narrative as something essential, a balloon attached by a string to the domain of time, i’ve probably got it wrong, and any decent philosopher would probably chuckle or scorn my analogy, but so you have it, the schools of this time are contagions, places where passion is put as an instrument, a dead thing that is understood but never felt, a rotting inside the skull of beauty, the notion that drives persistence, the woman that i love is the fire at my core, among my family and dreams, of course, but that person gives a name you can touch to the desire to shake this world up and tilt it and break it and look it in the goddamn face and ask it why the fuck are you so fucked up and do something about it, die trying to do something about it, because it is unacceptable that so many children do not eat, unacceptable that so many women live in fear, unacceptable that we call our ‘governments’ democracies when most of their activity revolves around the needs of those who have too much wealth and too little humanity, oh, you want to open your eyes, you hear about it, you think of people who were able to open them, maybe it’s Jesus, maybe it’s Krishna, or Buddha, and you lament your condition as this lonely animal who never does what they see in their mind and feels perpetually like the whole game of life was set from the start, a farce, deceit, astronomical grief feels normal because mom doesn’t hear you crying, and if you’re one of those whose father figure hasn’t been home, i mean that both in the physical and Freudian sense, then perhaps you don’t give a shit about a lot of things, and people never understand you, and the world is against you, fingers numb, tired of climbing, we tire the soldiers of tomorrow’s conquests in the cradle, we demolish the foundations of betterment with the educational model, and the health system, a greedy parasite that thrives on the peril of those who do not understand that medicine should essentially be prevention, and that the notion that preventive medicine is but a part of medicine is a slap in the face, the fortunes of the masses are summoned from their veins, richness rising in grain, sparkling dust, swirling currents of dazzling memories and experiences and the laughter of children and the field of rice and the music in the Andes and the sands of the slopes and the paintings that brought a tear and the pieces that blessed your ears and the lovers that made you smile and the siblings that carried your soul, and the caretakers who welcomed your sorrow your growth your cruelty and returned their undying loyalty and commitment to the enterprise of cultivating a good conscience, a good person, for all that, not even for all that, are we willing to sacrifice comfort, take up the arms of our minds, books and pens, and pursue a more worthy time on and with this magnificent orbit?
all right, here we go, again, no, this is not just again, because i carry a message, this is a challenge, to all those who compose, to those who accept the fight with this existence to search until the nails bleed and the eyes are sore and the dogs are broken and the sled needs fixing and the trail is shattered and the mosquitoes are being followed by crawling things, the proposition that i have with me is the following, dash, hyphen or whatever, because i can’t find it, or rely upon my memory to know that i have pressed it, you go with the eyelids down, the blackness in front, only the fingers doing the perceiving, maybe as the music’s going, maybe as you’re coasting onna little something you’ve put into your system, maybe as you’ve come from a day of trying to get a little better at whatever it is you do, maybe as a student or professional, house chump or worldly adventurer, oh, what was i saying, ah, yes, you keep gong, let me hear your voice, let the world see how you spit and rhyme, let my flow go against yours, let the rivers collide, let the giants take out the clubs that move like daggers and dance like swords, authenticity defined, used, because as my writer friend once said, authentic is the least authentic word, yea, do you need to know how to type with your eyes closed, and does that limit the amount of people that can partake in the competition, the madness, the sluggings away of thoughts and rambles, the suckings of those who hope or have not failed enough and the spontaneous symphonies of the masters, Lahiri, oh, my dear Kalanithi, how you would have humbled us here, you get the point, but that’s fine; not everything is for everybody, and honestly, if you can’t type with your eyes closed, you’re probably a chump anyway, just kidding, my mom isn’t a chump, but it’s pretty cool, so take a typing class, go back to high school or something, and that’s the idea, you let your words go, unchain the demons and the spirits, see what comes unto the página, you can pause, deliberate, wait, but do not open your eyes, not until the finish, from go to end, keep the darkness as your privileged guest, and spit divine lines, miserable catastrophes, whatever it may be that comes to be in those moments that you take to show us your voice, how you poetry, no, that wasn’t a mistake, how you play with the language, where you are in your trajectory, but don’t hide what you think is not true or what brings you shame, or try not to, or try not to be so afraid to let the people, let this cosmos of cosmology, be witness to that which you are, the emptiness is shared, check out Nagarjuna, and this means no more or less than the flight of a petal or the colors of the sunset, so breathe, compose, and when you have finished, open your eyes, correct the mistakes, that is, unless you type perfectly, you’ll have made some mistakes; to respect the craft, and be professionals, and be honest, i need to say that because in this society professionals aren’t expected to be honest, and simply go back and revise the mistakes, the red lines, the repeated commas and misspellings, and then hit publish, or send that comment; every post you can try to send a flow that is more ripe, a water that is more pristine, a dope that is doper, but don’t get your hopes up, lo más proabale es que tengo más sabor que tú, y es mejor aceptar eso desde el principio, me entiendes?
To write a story with eyes closed, from start to finish. Is this but a simple exercise, or is there merit in this approach? What the eyes see, distorts. The image of production as it is being produced already exists and is continually reformed in the mind’s eye, and so one might think that additional input is but distracting. Inevitably, there will be mistakes in composition. Missing punctuation, misspelled words, lots of zigzagging red lines in between lines. But that’s OK. Mistakes are to occur regardless; the only difference is that in this mode, all the mistakes will be dealt with at once, in place of individually, stopping and going, correcting the flow, disrupting the harmony.
Surrounded by those in a hurry to
work reach, converse, or sit, eyes dull, ice creamed.
A Unicentro people stroll, aloo
of body, soft-fleshed creatures talk, dreams memed.
Observèd thus a tree that stood, a tow-
er home for crits and phylls, young twigs and wings.
The elder’s roots dig tales in search of how
life’s quiet broke, the forest’s wood as things
is handled, bought and sold. From family far,
discouraged fools snack hate, worms hooked, dead bait
below, her regal crown sighs deep, takes tar,
air pure returns, forever mercy. Wait!
In your despair, my queen, encounter I
razón de ser. I hope soon we beasts die.
In the course natural of that which we do,
there are but few who raise defiant swords.
Hues languid, ague blues, for some, to rue
is pain. Suits clean tunes play and watch, move hordes.
Political talks change but nay, yet we
insist with voices raised at tables la-
den, weighted by bones labored, anguished plea.
Oh, dear, take please. There’s plenty – eat, drink, stay.
Thoughts finished, beds await. Tomorrow shys
away not from men’s edge but matters razed.
When look upon a child, d’you witness skies?
Or fall, and pray, as orphans flee, fires glazed?
Around me faces chat; feet, hands, keep beat.
This feast, this ease, I owe to there, torn feet.