unconscious and heroine

sometimes i catch myself wishing poetry on myself. not to say such things are wished for, no, rather I

(I! think!)

poetics are cursed.

a turn away from empty tethers of commons and civil unions, to the real;

to be denied more than lived.

bodies become slow death(s) of self(s) expressed in ephemeral jest(s), and no one else was certainly there, or you were also she who you sought the whole fucking time.

because there-then was always a lie, because already never was.

the weird new know –

No’s knowing my favorite poets are all women.

fitting telling.

While one may not hero worship,

unconscious and heroine may be two terms

more synonym than not.

there must be some way to introduce oneself, and future readers, to a text without some variant of an idiomatic generalization about the lack of motivation at a certain time of day, or an arbitrary collection of emotional, social, governmental or financial forces stretched around one’s world to take the role of warden.

a fictional space is created, and depicted in such a way so as to challenge the protagonist in her righteous claim to autonomy. archetypes, be they scientific, historical, communist, feminist, anarchist, et al, are argued to be clustered around these hubs of illegit power, and the writer enjoys an imaginary authenticity within his or her internal narrative, for a time.

much planning is said to be underway. the scientists and engineers work to keep that tech edge the powers at be find so irritatingly semelfactive; hackers never appear, only a brief trace of their work, coded insulation nested within codes within codes, and then gone, leaving revolutionary texts on homepages like “the coming insurrection,” or “the coming community,” announced once and then never seen quite the same way again; anything so long as the message left for media-loving peoples is one of a continuing contradiction in the world.

it’s suggested that there’s something out there, brewing, plotting, violent and ungodly, waiting to take common securities away. the plans are personal to their core. for once, the rhetoric of revolution isn’t for an oppressed class, or sex, or sexuality or nation, any more than it is an idea or simulation.

for once, it’s about you.

somewhere on the upper east side a designer whose life flies between work in the financial district, home entertainment, and pre-arranged three-ways lets loose a dime from her fist, on its way to a waitress’ model hands, and the cycle is broken for an instant, and she thinks

{is this…a simulation?}

slowly, depositing doubts in each phoneme’s contours about who her CV says she is, about why she writes her assignations in her planner, about why she leans on social media accounts for self-assurance and correspondence rather than email or a phone call.

she can’t remember the last time she made a phone call, she can’t remember when she spoke out of character, the last time she spoke without constraints and without three to five trending words on her mind to fill awkward silences with. she couldn’t remember the last time she thought without sex, money, or power being its object, its End.

her phone makes the alert sound to remind her of her trendy mask. she gained another twenty likes for throwing in the hashtag “autumninnewyork” on a nature photo, and below she can see the comments, whereupon she is reassured that this is real, that the amalgam of quantitative statistics suggesting for her that she will, in fact, exist, if only she would announce it according to google analytics. And who could argue? google tells her she has many more hits this year than last, and the further back in time she searches, the less she exists.

in fact, her social media accounts and the followers contained therein tell her, there is a good deal of her who has come into being since 2005. she Likes over 128 bands now. in 2005 she only liked genres. she has Read over 100 books on Goodreads. Before then only a few friends and family had seen her holding a couple of dozen. how scandalous! she thinks, how much time she spent reading privately, thinking privately, presuming a signature self not subject to the democratic assent of Likes and Shares. how could she ever claim to be a bibliophile if she wasn’t seen reading or digitally shelving her books? her thoughts on the book were given value, Goodreads says, if only she’d transcribed them online.

it’s difficult to level the insult of historian so succinctly at anyone in a group, today. every experience is devoid of value unless it is Social, i.e., liquidated for its quantitative potential through Likes, Retweets and so on. Thus every user account on social media networks is collectively writing the fiction of now, and history is a knot of embedded links and #shoutouts and archetypal reminisces from the position of a dead icon or author, whose death thankfully preceded the death of the author.

there is no history, because reality is narrative, and that can be purchased, re-interpolated, weaponized. i remember going back to the future last month, how about you?

this is why your memory is so unreliable. virtual space has extension, too. our lives extend there before anywhere else. but writing online constricts language’s use to the lenses of those positions pushing the trendiest terms; an anti-poeisis always already at work between every hyperlink and image.

if there is always a finite number of lenses with which a text can be interpreted, then communication itself’s reductive. semantic scarcity is the desert of Facebook.

all things equally exist so long as all things are social. then, after the (in)different is silenced, all things (left) exist equally.

mutually ensured solipsisms

The living room is lit in slight excess of what’s either needed or desired: two couches on old, uneven planks, facing one another like waves bracing for Brooklyn, separated by a brazenly tacky ellipsoid glass coffee table, covered in writing magazines and spent, overexposed polaroids.

Two wooden desks cup the far couch, one bare, the other with ornate carvings, full-bore patterned copper handles and candles, all extinguished since C’s old psychosis. A single wooden chair rests next to the metal-barred window to the rusting fire escape to Central Harlem. It’s eleven p.m., and Al Pacino’s slow mix of Mac DeMarco’s Chamber of Reflection plays out its somber affirmation, and the latter’s voice repeats the chorus: “alone, a better man, alone again…”

I am in here.

Having just finished the first pointless argument with his new gf, I feel somehow at home again in this meanness, a meanness that settles slowly, for weeks, behind the intersections of my minimally networked life as its said minimally networked connections begin to become not so minimal after all, begin to regain social affect; a meanness which does not exist when it grows, because it isn’t real, you see, it is only a reaction, an explosive, self-immolating shock wave, perpetuated by the degree to which my present, becoming self’s difference from the ideal, future-perfect selves extends. And they, them, being imaginary things, will not acquiesce to the present’s real demand for space, and so turn against the newest, least ingratiated self, my future-perfect selves do, but their motion is neither linear nor coordinated; they move against all knots of narrative, real or not, social or agential, giving their imaginary selves (N.B., sans reductio ad absurdum) a taste of reality by rejecting my present self’s request to be imagined, struck down from thought by their mutually ensured solipsisms, and so their movement becomes a perpetual vengeance machine: real because it tears by being torn apart, escaping their ideal world(s) by destroying their newest brother’s potential to not not be.

This is fire, burning what’s on its way down.

07.23.2015

It’s been a while. A lot has changed. In myriad ways, I have what I wanted. I’m in a better position than ever to sit down and finish what I started, five years ago, but I’m holding back for some reason. It’s like I’m peering back through the door I’ve already stepped through, reassuring myself that there’s nothing left I could still take with. Could. The subjunctive is a treacherous case, if there ever was one.

I’m still in Manhattan, I’m still in Harlem, I’m still willingly single, but I am suddenly free, freer than I’ve ever been, and it scares the hell out of me. I’ve been thinking about the will to not not write, and my own relationship to the stories and concepts I’ve chosen to live amidst for so long. I don’t really have friends, but I do have conversations. They go on for days, and there’s a certain cryptobiologic to the timing in opening each subject.

You should see me on the streets now. When I walk, I engender anyone I’ve been close to. A grimace, a guard, a flirtatious smile. Everything is certain because nothing is in its place. I’m voracious.

I did meet up with someone familiar recently. We shared drinks and workshopped in the beer garden of a bar in alphabet city. He had a heavy case of culture shock, but it was driven by narcissism with a dash of megalomania. I suppose I know by now how difficult the prospect of rejection can be to someone who lives alone. It was good to see him.

So why am I writing this here. I’m thinking to myself that it’s about time. I’m stalled eclipsing the moon, and I’m going to enjoy the way down.

It’s going to be one hell of a flight.