woof!

Thursday's ass was kicked. And I even hooted like an owl .

Now, for something completely disjointed and somewhat creative. Been thinking about visual rhetoric and how closely it is tied to imagism in poetry, and how that says something about Burke's consubstantiality--what is it we feel we are consubstantial with? How does consubstantiality occur, unless we feel we share the same idea (image) of Tree or Chair or Exploding Grace?
And what if someone is disabled. Do we even want to be consubstantial with them? How does imagism work then? How is shared meaning met when you can't see the tables that Table-ness comes from?
So I wrote this mess, because that's how it would be, I think, if we were going to create a poem that did not try to create Identification through images. Even so, images creep in, but do not hold much power. I think. It's what I meant, anyway.

Poem for a blind man

Observation vs experimentation. One has human intervention.
Fill out the descriptive blanks (i.e. What do you mean by art as pure entertainment?)
More successful aftershave would be less overpowering. But everyone can do that; it's not a misuse of power.

I can't wait until I'm allowed to be certain again, when magic will be dazzling again.

huge hunks of buildings mark the dusty apocalyptic moment over the dead still do not breathe stop but i breathe for them wait

@ a stalemate. Affixing an Act to the page is practical for us out here, to make unwavering arguments we imagine a thousand words. But nous n'y restons pas.

His property is in his nervous arms--and they are compelled to pull a strange rope at the surly comand of a tyranical boy.

Well, right now I am into quantum physics. I'm sure a lot has already been said. The consequences of the marks on his arms are the scars on his irises.

Just because it comes after doesn't mean it's a correction. Just because a theory emerges from the darkness does not mean it is made of blackness. The lion and the lamb lay on slates of peace. We still have words, a step away from music, two steps from the embrionic child writing. God with us in visions of wool and mane.

Into the reckless fire
and into the failing water
less than pious
we will cast our nets at sea

it's not that
we are tired
but we want a brief respite
or a spoonful of sugar
in a cup of boiling tea.

He radiates--is it a killing glow?--and the whiteness of his eyes rolling back only makes him glow brighter. He seizes fire from the wind; he finds fire in the other's eyes.

Fully of Fancy Falling of Folly
It's costly to call me
Fleeting Freedom's talking
Scarred and starry skies are spinning


I admits it's a lovely drawing of a rhinocerous.