Reasons are self-chosen fictions. Existence does not conspire against or help us. We are adrift as captains of our rudderless ships. What have I to do with reasons? Rather cast me in the preconceptual ocean of existence That obliterates all categories, all reasons, all distinctions— And let me call that home.
As a child during my first fever did I weep My first time between wakefulness and sleep I saw the world but did not perceive myself Unable to move my body or call for help My identity was obliterated, my ego dissolved My first experience of the abyss: completely engulfed Death pricked me with his boney finger And the feeling left me not but ever did linger
We really have no idea How powerful apathy is— How cultivating the silence Of the absent referent To ease our consciences In our lives of luxury Murders the innocence Of all our landscapes.
“Behind every meal of meat is an absence: the death of the animal whose place the meat takes. The ‘absent referent’ is that which separates the meat eater from the animal and the animal from the end product. The function of the absent referent is to keep our ‘meat’ separated from any idea that she or he was once an animal, to keep the ‘moo’ or ‘cluck’ or ‘baa’...
Gluttony-smeared lipstick Applied in generous stokes Across her face by the suit Less than an hour before.... Glazed junkie eyes try to focus On the glass frame reflection. Slumping to her knees, Can’t find her keys, Not desperate, doesn’t care About the danger behind her. Her black silk bruised silhouette Is pushed down by a sadistic shoe. Thomas Jeffersons drift to the floor. Clutching the green, She hears the spit. Disheveled, She grabs her heels—to the next trick.
I can’t remember what you said last night I watched your lips while thinking silly thoughts You were trying to make a serious point And maybe noticed I wasn’t paying attention Words on butterfly wings fluttered away