i need a place for my real mind.
think of a song when we speak it won't be in words. in dreams.  the earth is hot and smoggy.  i feel pain today.
the pain of dismissal and the rejection of my mind so generously proffered to others.
you ramble she says, and so.
the fact of being a prodigious reader always, means copious words do not scare me.  and the request to leave one out.  the command: stop writing.  the gag---do not speak.
expression restricted.  and command: don't jump the gun.  the prophecy, you will alienate people with too many ideas, as if they are stupid. as if my mind were too much.
i m not so pessimistic.

the loneliness of the intellect, the pain.
a pain mitigated in mind, through mind and hungry starved to tears.
and that i walk i do so in faith, but hours later did not know the pain would be so great.  i'm sorry for not saying something, under this golden nightmare of sun and smog, bye bye, with eyes.

rely on the messages of dreams.  two dreams so clear.
one beside me, comforting, near. and music.
and another dream, an impossible feat, a smile with teeth, so many teeth, an ear to ear grin, euphoric and with mischief, and a transpersonal elision.
as though myself from another era, it is the other but so like me at sixteen, grinning, as to belie the utter similarity and the force of this smile. like a ghost unsituated in a photograph or like the direct face and transmission of knowledge.
and where this smile sits, and the gentle reliance, upon our silent communication.
my beloveds are the least of my worries with minds so still the same and wild we are as one person transpersonal and profound, and therein silence speaks us together.
the others i wish for them too, that they share their dark world with me whereby, waterboarded, starving, our ideas are as one.
she is in my throat like an idea, a tattoo.  i realize the ways of spindle arms, and silence it into the grave of my heart, tomorrows, end of sentiment. Auschwitz.
whereby kisses, i love you, faces, sorrow, care, concern, and thanks.
and the fangs sunk deep into the wrong meat, toughened by declensions, tearing to shreds illusions, as though they held force, tearing just to tear.
loss, clear as point of salary, authority.
california is a prison, the gas smog slow death, concrete, plaster, and the remnants of human life, as torn through our war ways, like refugees, fleeing through concrete corridors to demise, demise writing, fragments of concern.

it was the language that was not  mine, and a kind request for more of it, confection and nausea.  letters off to entities, and entities' dissolution.   another book, and prose so thick with knowing, it knows no limit.  madness, and the finger in the face, another star on the arm, a likely suspect, and the lack of an audience.  a lack.  and the performative aspect shrinking off into oblivion.  computers speaking to me like dream robots, telling me things you wouldn't, faster, faster than you wouldn't say.  and a brain filled up with spells to outlast annihilation, and some thought of the published, and ubiquity, a daytime curse.
that i longed for your approval, and the winning heft of pages of it, more ludicrous words, inscribed by way other people's thoughts, garbled, and better than self-reflexivity, this aping of victoriana, that sat me silently up aphasiac like the hungry doll i was, deep in suburbia, slummed on monies.  you wouldn't write, and kill me quickly, off like another meaningless codex.  here sits your three letters, your five, your worth in a word, your worthlessness.
and if he comes back from israel, or if he doesn't, it is no matter, i did not love so much.  but that i sent him this, it bothered me so completely, and i long for that silence wherein he never maimed me, nor i him, with words thickened by academia, dada diplomat contra autodidact.
so slowly i'm teaching myself all you never said, and unlearning the chaos of pomposity, stupid in the planar morning, where sun journeys slowly, and the earth spins me dizzy, and i barely move, pondering hikikomori, kafka, and disrespect of others, disrespect of their otherness.  and that i fit so coyly on your little pyre, where you burned me up like a confetti pinata for a fete de la psychiatry, another noontime bloodtaking---happy be that evidence of your condemnation, where none knew the profundity of your failure to reach me, and lonely, i was interred in ten years silence, or more, to emerge through a wormhole on this side of paradise, in love again, and wanting clearly, not to hurt you, despite my disdain.  for which i am sorry, sorry, sorry and retching. retching at her name sitting like a rubber stamp on your ego, better than a google, or dot com, this faux intellection.  and the receipt of monies and grants, and all the jolly things you have to say to one another, between cups of tea, while the earth burns, and i outside the gate, in a prison of your mind, where you screamed me to oblivion, and yes i am avoiding you.  i could not get far away enough from you, and berlin had your hue, and fassbinder's death not too soon, with the hateful way of it thick in cursed geography, and the architecture of genocide built over the blood of innocents, and that it was not razed, accretions of language, misogyny, churches, freud and other imposters who you fellate in the glories of your self-hatred which you pen off to me, inconnu.  congratulations, and the door is locked against you but other demons found other ways to macerate my body, but this morning i am safe, safe but for the words that sting, sting into eons, like the gold star on my arm, which you sent me again, this time par digitos, or les belles lettres.

it was before we spoke, that i was concerned.  in that dying light before.  and now arbeit macht frei flees poland and my eyes cry into a google map, sick with loss, difference longing.  for sorrow in another place, and words, when my own have dried up  in this vow, the less than nothing.
when you had me laid out in the horrors of a new day, displaying what was a parade of words, and i told you, i spent all day typing words i don't believe, words i wrote years ago, before the end.
and deletions haunt me so, the deleted ways we have ticked out our existence, sad behind the masks of surveillance.
i woke to hear, your father is dead.
and i said, good.
good.
as good as dead and none the different for the words he has for me.
as you now too, lost friend have slinked back into silence, where deadly, i write letters as if these keys were some harpsichord, when the sounds of tongues are so meaningless to me, in the horrors of your indifference.
and could i recapture a myth, a poesy, it would have a human face or hands.  like my father trapped statewise, in the untimely ways of wars he raised me in, perpetual wars, horrors, and the earth death besetting the globe, explosion, after explosion, and human flesh flying straight into

into the mouths of cannibals.

and these are words from my hands not my mouth.
yes this is what i am thinking.
everything else was lies.

Words like shackles, bleats, cries to be fed, cries for comfort, when knowledge ever eludes, and love or succor, the last desire, so similar to the desire for dissolution in death, dissolution in love, in the other.

****

As for words---corridors of lost books, prospero and the last year in marienbad, and burning words, acid words, names, deciphering decoding discriminating words, lost burnt, digitized, books alight, illuminated manuscripts, preserve of the priors, privilege of learned classes, forbidden to women, or slaves, literacy and genocide, words like blood to support life, words to aid the dying.

****

as a second part, post trauma, to write, out of emptiness, as head throbs and angst ties me to my cage, and then to imagine beckett in the resistance. writing the resistance, mind/body dualisms, colonial ireland, stupefactions, absurdities, french, and new silences more meaningful than before, penury, the honest luck of being passed over, undead, the ungassed, the vegetable smugglers, the certain death no matter whose, a crony says the lost ones, and i'll wait at the endgame where the rubbish bin's texts for nothing, good for nothing textes pour rien helped ferry me across the great wordlessness only language and hunger could bring. imposters imposition of question and the binary stamp links rechts, off and now. it was a privilege, in december to wait out the mementos, with eachother so keenly arraigned, in california, sitting calmly like the dna of friends lost to other lands. there, and beckett gouged my eyes, or mitigated the death of academia, which followed a death of god, and preceded a death of physical safety.

so little leave yet now to die, i wonder what might, but the other in congo, obsession, obsess me, futile penetrating gazes, the dachau sister last words, last look, critical code. to ferry me to tomorrow, wherein i might help you out of your pain, the pain wrapped around you so tightly like a bandage on burnt skin, submission. i submit, obey, silently, i lie, i believe. i pretend to believe, that you might give me another day of gulag hunger dysentery, death on an installment plan, futility and one word on a wall:mute. forever mute to you the way you'd take me mute and dying, or fighting and screaming, to remind you that you too are alive in the hiroshima aftermath, and neither of us hang from trees, in the horror of the blood noon reverie, and copulation's curse but another pendulum's drift. moon struck us absurdly in the fancy of his daytime hour, waiting for nothing with ashen words, and good fridays, and another plath suicide, matronymic, pater familias.

unwrite me all these stories like a ball of yarn unspun, unsay this mayhem upon us, undo this curse, philosophize beauty back into existence when art was never a mistake, an affront to the dead or undead. at finnegan's wake, be we drunk or dreaming clearly the ameneusis was petered out by syllables and broke away. ev told me he would walk the cold corners of the montparnasse. beckett, know of more than blanchot. mysteries, biographies, and biographies die, one every 3.6 seconds of hunger, and get shipped home in body bags, and get written in surname, name short verse on stone walls by forgetful people. could we have a wailing wall for the congo, for bosnia, for the minds blasted through torture in guantanamo, oscar grant oakland. if i wrote your name, might we carry on another day to hear a song? music, an optimism, i can rarely fake, a requirement of the new holocausts, soundtracks, machine guns, killers, killers all.

complicity/resistance binaries, ignorance.

tales told by fools, and no man's land, every possible cliche, in every tongue in lieu of i love you.

silence as gift, and there hungry on the mountain intoxicated by air and wormwood, maniacal egotism gives a behest, encouraged by its solipcisms, another breath of smoke. in the acid land of a techno rattle where the good art bakes in the sun on the street and even blindness cannot hide poverty from me, and what i have read, the telegrams roosavelt ignored, as he sent ships back to wander the eternal diaspora, like birds off land, climate refugees, the generations colonial output, health and wealth of nations, and cleansing of an ethnos.

a woman, i loved, as keenly was to her that nonsense making me worthy of hate and therefrom the silence of repression did not undo the nazikiss of it all, all i'm saying, and i some kind of good german with friends speaking hate all over the marketplace like senile sun-crazed lunatics in the outdoor asylum, forgiveness welling up like a giant tear, until one day the bestial quality of it all overtook me, and no more, flee on your donkey anne. herr doctor, i know why poets put their heads in ovens, if you ask me the homicide is a slow annihilation beginning with the willful star you sew to my arm's bare flesh, tagged, tagged, genderized, hated, next in line, with a head on the block, and furiously running on the hamster wheel to a certain death, primate torturer, you.

when you gave me the diploma, reading"incomprehensible verbal pollution" and "crass, underhanded, venomous, vampire" clearly i was wrong. to sit there as you sewed stars to every corner of me, and told me i was "no fun" for not liking it, or that you were lonely. how was i to help? forty days, or a year, i'm sickly running straight into the certain holocausts of unknown era, and my rags, and civilized poverty, have no meaning towards the evenings fresh sapporo, and newest applications, and fossil fuels, marriages, money matters, lipstick crises, etc.

emptier than ever before, this word heap cancelled out all language, and helped me towards a law of light and sparks, and how i made it through last summer with caleb's barbed wire arm and star of david, lebanon, and how i was almost human then. so humanizing to have a friend, through this thicket of packet switchers and compressed files and deleted numbers, when the friendship willed one deeply into my mind and heart so that the night sky with diamond stars promised maybe something better tomorrow, and fatigue, after all.

the animal faces await, so cutely tied up as before. i know i must fight against the permanent adjustments, as the last came off bad, and surely dylan thomas and his liver had enough. and we of him? and virginia to learn greek? and tilda and sally, he would speak of us in our presence as if we weren't there . . .

yes . . . off now to other wars, and there will be writing after writing and after wars, and chomskies, and bliskis and spectrials and so stand new ways to meter out the shortcode momentary reality. genocide. today. in our hands. texting unicef thirst, texts for nothing, or little, but i love a lad, and hope for the young, oh but slightly, as a scribe, and kafka's burnt papers to keep us warm, at night, in sudan, and the fear of rape or death, which worse?