in a year or two my muscles
will be stuck this furrowed way
life cut shorter by the days, every
indignation accounted for
with downturned lips, preserved
muscles those were the first to go
without knowledge or permission
a recoating every season
of every interior wall
like a lousy apartment, this rib cage
bearing barren heart.
another layer, something or other
i presume, but soon
there will be no more
space to move, soon
there will be no more
space to be —
i fume and fume, soon
just ashes if not
ashes all along
the mid distancer wants to run faster and less or slower and more mid distance is nowhere really mid distance isn’t thrilling like short distance or sublime like long distance mid distance is only getting by the mid distancer isn’t even good at mid distance
…the problem of man is occasioned by our coming upon a conflict or contradiction between existence and expectation. Thus the root of self-understanding is in the awareness of the self as a problem; it operates as critical reflection. Displacement of complacency, questioning the self, its acts and traits, is the primary motivation of self-understanding.
Self-understanding is entirely dependent upon self-judgement, and must not be equated with observation or self-observation. Mere description, simple dogmatic acceptance of the self, amounts to the deproblemizing of the man and is really the cessation of self-understanding. In short, if being human continues to be a problem, we must realize that the method of description, used exclusively, can at best offer us self-observation but is incapable of dealing with the problem.
You stand as rocks stand to which the sea reaches in transparent waves of longing; they are marred, finally; everything fixed is marred. And the sea triumphs, like all that is false, all that is fluent and womanly. From behind, a lens opens for your body. Why should you turn? It doesn’t matter who the witness is, for whom you are suffering, for whom you are standing still.
move quickly or lose soft elbows rubbed pink then red then bruised like the last time when in slow motion you fell and in slow motion you suffered o u c h dragged its feet across the synapses of your brain when you got the whole message two years had breezed by
But still–but still–it absolutely does not bother me that I’m now just a part of the work I do. I don’t feel the least bit alienated from my life. If anything, I sometimes feel that by concentrating on my work like this, with all the mindless determination of an ant, I’m getting closer to the “real me.” I don’t know how to put it, but it’s kind of like by not thinking about myself I can get closer to the core of my self.