Friday, September 20, 2013

How can I be Tired?

Writing in form, any form, is not concerned or relevant to finishing or completing anything. Those who do not understand form do not understand this.

Persons who have found the means to worry may not recognize that writing in form is only a prerequisite for a meaningful termination in equitable energies and economy translations.

The words that go out that ask are not unlike the sounds that come in and are somehow directed into shapes and patterns that when push comes to shove we will holler as the Israelites did at the walls of Jericho and say so we are what are we let it all COME DOWN.

A poem in form is primary in that (1) it admits primacy in the other that it seeks to capture (2) the author has self-abnegated to form (3) lives follow other lives into the grave like the pages of a book that woman that man rifles through considering out/inputs.

If a sonnet is a tree, you are the gardener.

By "sonnet" I mean any form. Sonnet, quatrains, villla-pants, flarf, the color blue. Anything one might capture and repeat/devolve.

All art is a kind of stupid recollection of sex: the capture and release or relief. The distinctions do not bear fruit. Something goes out or clogs. Even now, people are leaving the room to have real sex, and I do not blame them.

I can only be tired as I stop saying what is obvious.

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