memoirs-of-my-nervous-illness

[memoirs-of-my-nervous-illness]

Ampheta mines

4 The walks lead to few unnecessaries: puddles, mold, and moss. This Holy Monday presents a general declension of mass movement. How close will he get to me before I move away? A new theory for the production of social space. Children run from sidewalks to the alleys. Old women frown from pulled curtain windows. The gloved elders smoke cloves curb-bound by fear. The rain flicks salt from the back porch while a fly dances between drops stitching a view.

[memoirs-of-my-nervous-illness]

Ampheta mines

3 The virus is beginning to kill more  people here than elsewhere. Our walks become proof of life, posts proof of care. Limp flakes litter the sidewalk near the white fence like shredded nitrile gloves, soft, torn vinyl.                                                       I stopped taking the pills, am enmudded and moped in thick hours of nothing to do. I sweat the kids as capitalism turns us into students of work. Just when we'd smash clock time, we have reinforced routines, bossed ourselves into quick, baneful submission. 

[memoirs-of-my-nervous-illness]

Ampheta mines

2 Were I to feel good walking the wet street, I'd skip along the yards looking for sticks. Yet I worked the walks alone hands dug deep into pools chemicals. Decades later he'd call my earnestness refreshing. How many times can I wring an image from a handful of striking memories? Quick whipping cars, swooping dark birds, woke me.

I spend the day, pills forgotten, breaking little promises custom made for me. I invoke whose rules written without me and drag a fist along an ancient wall in a Connecticut woods, decades ago, again walking a long gone doggy home.

[memoirs-of-my-nervous-illness]

Ampheta mines

1 Finding answer beads, lucky pills: preternatural talent chemicals, fingers and brain folds encased in orange gelatin or non-gelatin capsules, happy hydrolysis of collagen: work bends knees and elbows, click clack, fifteen songs, and spitting contests out the front door, slams repeatedly kicks us into the wet street.                                            Spend days collecting butts from curbed gutters to smoke crouched to gather in wide tunnels end of the block where all the blocks meet and kneel into the creek where all the water goes, we inhale questions and blurt out answers with timed icicles melting into the flow we follow to penny candy at the store the other side.

[memoirs-of-my-nervous-illness]

it’s been a while.

[memoirs-of-my-nervous-illness]

The trick naturally is...not to search for the perfect poem but to let your way of writing of the moment go along its own paths, explore and retreat but never be fully realized (confined) within the boundaries of one poem.

Jack Spicer

[memoirs-of-my-nervous-illness]

turtles gather,

folds in the linen mud,

in the mean garden.

laughter waits stuck

to the bottom shoes.

gather hung upon

children’s song flung

to stones stacked low

against parental lore.

[memoirs-of-my-nervous-illness]

i brought turtles to

your rain storm

we’ll be slowly

going through your shit

while you dance loose

change pelts cars

[memoirs-of-my-nervous-illness]

back home. I'm going to be working on the sonnets project for the next few weeks. Posts will be lines, phrases, fragments from the work. I'll have a link for sharing poems for those interested in a couple days.

[memoirs-of-my-nervous-illness]

A few days left in residence. I'm going to make my goal, not that my project will be finished, not that I'm really into talking about finishing, ever, but I'm happy that I left home for a month and was productive. It's important for me, esp because I feel like I have momentum and confidence again. If you wanted to read what I've been working on, leave a note. I'll create a shared link from Drive to present some of the work for a short period of time.

[memoirs-of-my-nervous-illness]

the capitalists bumble along while the bourgeoisie create odes to bumbling.

[memoirs-of-my-nervous-illness]

We can have hope only in what is without remedy.

Giorgio Agamben, The Coming Community  (via spiritandteeth)

[memoirs-of-my-nervous-illness]

to be true to love insists one forget their beloved. to be true to the beloved insists one forget love.

[memoirs-of-my-nervous-illness]

The flesh of the body makes us understand the flesh of the world.

Maurice Merleau-Ponty, Nature  (via spiritandteeth)

[memoirs-of-my-nervous-illness]

I want to taste dark water and see crackling trees and wild winds.

Egon Schiele, from a letter to Anton Peschka written c. March 1910 (via violentwavesofemotion)

[memoirs-of-my-nervous-illness]

Body Sculptures A Body Returns to Eden (2016)

a sort of posh isolation super group