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Last Window View of Winter (9 March 2012)
—for JohnBloomberg-Rissman

Beyond a simple few words the first never responded too starkly down
I now represent a failure of the representation of self
the reason was merely to know this is true
Morality, thus, is death-affirming in practice.
dispensing old clichéswe get what we makethe worry in the worrier's mind
Getting from making, and all that.

At least, tenuously so.

I am slipped into the cold comfort of at least a bit better than this occurrence of it seems
it is a lurid act of self-immolationalways commenting on my phrasing
as a poet I know that too heavy a concentration on vocabulary leads to verbophilic excess or verbocacophonyan inability to see the diamond in the shitty inadequacy of words
I may have to abandon the dying in favor of the better wonders of a deaf, dumb, and blind death
I struggle through these gestures of wanting in orderto see if anything might work.
I hate that outward sign of weakness
I write these words not as a human being but as a poet.
Making and getting, and all that.

so stupid to be so obvious and so filled with self

the right thing is not in order to be true
this occurrence of it seems set as I abandon all that I must endure
unknowable and imperceptible to meI struggle through these gestures of an art practicethough I doubt it
Making and getting, and all that.
a rhetoricalrather than being just an empty sign is the message itself
I should have been a rhetorician, but I thought itrequired constant painful experiments on rhesus monkeys.
for the gestureconsidering that so few have and considering that I didn't think it was a surpriseand still welcome
I am all digressions.

if there is an edge I'm suffering beyond it
a person for whom being goodwas this failure to be true
the fact that even in the face of all I've done I never asked for anything
I try to say everything with the fewest words and thegreatest subterfuge.
I am just shy of as poorly as I am slipped into the cold comfort of this occurrence of it
the vultures that feed upon the dying but not yet dead and she is significantly different
to realize the degradation of human life in favor of the better wonders of death
I don't believe in redemption, but I believe in penance.
I'm not convinced valueis unknowable and imperceptible through these gestures of failure
Making and getting, and all that.
Very tired and have something left to write.
rhetoric is the art of saying a hand doesn't get you theresaying meaning is without value or accomplishment
I gave too much weight to the opening letters.
thanks for the gestureof the representation of selfunfortunately I suppose
Morality, thus, is death-affirming in practice.
I am slipped into this occurrence of it seems
I have taken up with my phrasingof this endeavor
through these gestures of wanting in order to see I've never felt so much compassion
Though I doubt it.
rather than being just the message itselfsometimes doing so doesn't need accomplishment.
Morality, thus, is death-affirming in practice.
We are, I agree, unique, but composed of features.
demonstrating thatstrangely
The idea of connection is comforting.
there are peoplewho interact with people
As Rene Descartes said, "Why'd they name thewell after me anyway? I'm not well at all."[image error]a flute of cavafirst one everand there is no music playing from my mouthmy body now tiredslipping into sleep
Stripping things down to their essentials or less.
to disappear into my anonymization of the selfis reasonable to contemplate
I need more dangerous things in my life.
There is no rebirth, just continuation or ending.
There are changes of voice in it that are clearlywhen I make it airborne.
I celebrate every suicide as a success.
we get what we makeand I've finished the cava with orange juice
I cannot commit to anything except poetry.
Ah, sweet swift and deadly justice.
secure in blamelessnesshe simplifies the world incomplete
Even this revelatory note reveals little.
What else could it be?Authenticity doesn't erase guilt.
and I believeabsolutelyhe was repentant
I could see it in him and hismanner but how was forgiveness was compassionpossible?
He understood he could not be forgiven. He was justhoping it was possible.
the self chatters in our heads
we hear itand hear it as ourselves
unapparentjust a tiny boyso I flew well
In it, a South African, who had killed many peopleduring apartheid, but who had come to religion and repented and who had seenthe errors of his ways, went to a family to ask for forgiveness, but not onlyforgiveness for killing their son, but also for deriding them, for accusingthem of hiding him from the authorities for 15 years, yet he was going to themto ask for forgiveness.
But how was forgiveness, how was compassion,possible? It was not.
a piece of plateware against his head and he sat stunnedthe left side of his head blood everywheresad surprised but not angry
He understood he could not be forgiven.
He was just hoping it was possible.
just a sturdy realistso why am I a poet?
I haven't lost any loves, just the people attached to them.
I identify myself with the features of my personality.
I hear myself therefore I am myself.
I speak almost no words.
It didn't matter if he no longer was. Didn't matterat all.
the contours of the responsesdidn't see the productivity of it
I don't ever hear clicksso I'm notdesperate and working hard
Naming is the end of it.
My criticisms are all textual.
the theory assumes the listener isthe speaker is a voice heard in the head and interpreted as "other"
you mentioned nameless timesand I equated process to an art of being larded with unnecessary stories that make it hard to get through
I've lost my focus. 
ecr. l'inf.