Meat is gravity

a dreamless state

pieces of death

there already in the beginning

and in all things

their essence.

Meat allows nothing to escape

and is empty of all but itself.

Meat consumes meat

becoming more meat

fleshier carcasses

duller slices of heads and legs

some younger

some more red.

The butcher is our friend.

And if we pretend

to aspire to other ends

with our many meat brains

meat guards meet us

at the door to the station

to disconnect the trains.

Fresh meat sizzles with notions,

take sides.

Lies slide from its bloodied hides.

Shapes abound.

Meat like meat likes to fry

in meat patties and on delegations

and in pairings that result in

baby meat who cry.

The meat parade began in time,

its womb the mirror, before

which we walked on air

part of the atmosphere

or flew

or were never there.


I’ve had enough

I’ve had enough of this road

And the stone in my shoe

I’ve had enough of me

And not enough of you


I’ve had enough

Of the air that I breathe

It’s painful to swallow

Painful to grieve


I’ve had enough

Don’t tell me no

I don’t know where to turn to

Don’t know where to go


I’ve had too little

Of glory and faith

Faith in something

I could never erase


I’ve had just enough

Time to prepare

Give me a signal

And I’ll try to get there


I hope Alain is happy with his cat

And didn’t go out and buy a rat

I hope he’s happier still

That he’s not buried on a hill


I hope Eddie is okay

Not in some disastrous play

With his wife and his son

Held down under somebody’s gun


I hope my folks are doing good

Wherever they may be I’ve understood

Whatever transpired I can’t deny

Made me I and I will not lie


I hope Barbara is on her way

To becoming every day

The artist she is supposed to be

And creates herself and remembers me


I hope everyone in this world

Who suffers with what has unfurled

Gains relief and conquers pain

And comes back to live again


People should be screaming out of windows
people should be kicking down doors,
jumping on flags,
shaking like epileptics!

How is this possible?
We have
nearly a million years of human evolution
and the standard line can still prevail:

“It’s mine!”

It’s not.

You have no right to it.

A spell is on

which continues
generation after generation,
an afternoon darkness,
your robotic mind
clinging to a cliff of lies.

And your mouth that spits on
anything better
and shoulders that
shrug ugly
and bellies that stick out
like eggs

And you want security?

This will not stand!
There is a Law that says:
This. Will. Not. Stand.
We will make sure
you understand this.
By train and by plane and by ship,
your skin will dissolve in fear.
You will breathe in the stinking corpses
of your children.
Your houses will crumble over you.
You will be availed of no
no future.
You will cry to the end
of your days
when you may finally
realize the Justice in this
for your atrocious

ENIGMA (for J-M)

If it’s too good to be true

is it true,

a young man, nearly

a boy, really,

who astounds in

twenty-first century space

with jewels as words that are

louder than blame

and as magnificent

as First Love?


Who is he,

who writes in a third language

he met on a beach as a child?


He is doubtless connected

to those who spoke

before him

in the flowers of language,

messages of possibility,

all the while surrounded

in a world

swallowed by toxins.


If Art is a lie that tells the truth,

then he is a great liar,

a magician who spins wheels

before fortunate spectators.



Beauty is proffered by the arthritic



There is a hole in me that can’t be filled

I try to stay alert to everything in there

I stuff myself with pleasure

I disengage from pain

I stand in the rain 


The hole I realize is an illusion

I realize this with a deep breath

That a fine hand is guiding me


I don’t care where

Only that it is away from

A hole that can’t be filled


You’re unbreakable, little girl.

I see it in your eyes

as you tell your story

of the ordeal endured

of a hell almost


Satanic ritual abuse.

Blood, murder, humiliation

foisted on you by your grandmother

no less, Nana and her ilk

for their god, Lucifer.

We call a lot of things suffering,

but this is beyond the pale

even in this day of the extraordinary.

The human will cannot be broken.

You’re unbreakable, little girl.

I’m glad to see this in your eyes.


C’mon baby
Take me where I need to go
C’mon baby
Take me down real slow
Had so much trouble in this town
It never leave me alone
Had so much of nothing
Nothing never lets me go
It’s getting cold out there
Need to find a place to land
I’m broken and used up
Gotta find a silky hand
I got no future
Got no past to tell
Get close to me baby
Let me drink from your well
We could make it together
Live in the same old tree
Could be birds of a feather
Sure wish you’d agree


I’m stuck
I’m stuck I can’t get up
I’m stuck I’m in between
I can’t formulate a theory
I won’t take a stand
I’m stuck like a balloon in a tree
And no one is coming to get me
Motion escapes me
My angels forsake me
I am just about ready
And I don’t know what for
It has come to this and this takes
The cake
I’ve been educated I once held a job
They told me I was alive
I really believed it
I had a past
I wanted things
I could tell the difference between things
I could see colors
I had plans
I believed I could perfect myself
I was curious about everything
God the nature of the universe
My place in the picture
Now I’m stuck
In rage in savagery
In ignorance and solitude
The world is so solid
Freedom is so far away


I wake up in the morning
To nothing much at all
I let it all go thru me
I don’t have much recall
The never changing noises
The total disrespect
For any real advancement
And all the same neglect
Like black men sitting in prison
Many innocent of crime
The others that did it
Obliged to make a dime
I wish I could make things happen
I wish I had the balls
To overthrow the status quo
Escape privilege once and for all
I want off this merry-go-round
With all the drugs and lies
From the evening pundits
In their shirts and their ties
But I’m just a good Jewish boy
Did everything I was told
By books and parents
Who really were quite old
I’ll deal with defeat in heaven
If everything goes well
I’ll be right up in front
Sounding a big brass bell
I’ll kiss all the angels
Give them each a rose
Convince them to relocate
Buy them some street clothes
If there is a God sitting there
I won’t say a word
I won’t betray my bitterness
About which I am not cured
I imagine He’ll just nod and wink
And drink up His usual praise
Coming thru the Intercom
From churches in a haze
What do they expect from me He”ll ask
What do they think I can do
About all their pain and unhappiness
Their problems not a few
I’m just a dude with a good job
I got it long ago
I was elected President
In a world I do not know
I’ve been to hell and back
I’ll tell Him steady and straight
It was quite a ride for sure
It makes me want to hate
And now you’re in heaven you think
With the man Himself
I guess you want an autograph
To place on your shelf
No I don’t think so I’ll retort
I never thought You great
For being so full of yourself
In everything You state
You made humans the way we are
That really wasn’t smart
We’re just a bunch of insane beasts
From the end and from the start
I think you made a mistake He’ll say
You came to the wrong place
You need to go next door I think
The Devil’s in that space
Blame blame is all You know
I’ll tell Him with a sneer
It’s always the other guy
It’s always the one You fear
Fear in what You bank on
Fear is what You need
To keep Your fans writing cheques
While they continue to bleed
Your fans don’t even know who they are
They only know their names
You need to make them need You
To referee their games
Why don’t You tell them the truth of it
Tell them they can be strong
That they don’t have to get on their knees
To live well and get along
Then what would I do up here He’d say
I would be all alone
No more droning prayers to hear
No more messages on my phone
The fact of the matter is
I’m not getting any younger
Don’t have the energy anymore
To satisfy anyone’s hunger
Still people want to dream I guess
Of an afterlife one day
They cannot handle the alternative
That they must just decay
Should I destroy the illusions
That keep some men afloat
In a world they cannot tolerate
In a world without hope
To these very words
I wouldn’t know what to say
Illusions may be all we have
To keep the world at bay


When we first experience…

When do we first experience prison? It must be when as babies we realize that we are limited by our environment. The lines are formed early. Cribs are little cages, and the prisoner is always rattling at his. He wants out. The prisoner must realize there is a world beyond the bars, where he cannot go. His life is curtailed. He is in prison. 

A prisoner of needs

Maybe it goes back even further. Out of the undifferentiated universe of the uterus, the new person meets the cold air of our world.  From its predicament of near helplessness it realizes it is a prisoner of its needs and must depend on an agent from outside, who may or may not be there to accommodate them. It is the first experience of the pain of dependency. It also shows the person that there are various kinds, some more demoralising than others.

Caregivers as wardens, and schools…

As children we are under the rule of our caregivers, who decide our limitations. We may rail against these in shows of rebellion, but they usually hold the upper hand, indulging or punishing us for our behaviour. We will adapt to what they decide is acceptable, this forming our bars, and which provides a template for our encounter with the social contract.

School comprises a larger prison in which we learn to read and write and sit and stand and repeat in unison. We are told what is important in life. We contend with others who are in the same situation. Many thrill to the sound of the bell announcing the school day is over, or there is a recess, and we may escape for a while. Watch children in schoolyards celebrate their freedom with extreme loud defiance.

And, so, the socialization process continues, with limitation at every turn, compromise in every encounter, and as long as limits exist we are not free.

But when we sleep…

the most free we ever feel is when we sleep.

After enquiry, it is possible that freedom can be reduced to a feeling: space and non-attachment. The sky is a picture of freedom.

The body is the most constant prison of all. It is what encases us. It is us in relationship to everything else. We cannot escape our body unless we turn into a ghost.

If we suggest that we are something beyond our bodies, that something is dependent on our having a body in the first place.  It requires a body to house it.

Ideology confines thought, limiting it to its boundaries. Any thought which does not conform to the system is disallowed. Any ideology requires guards to protect it. To keep out the contradictions.

A prisoner to a system of ideas is often a willing prisoner. The world of ideas is a dangerous place, resulting in confusion. So, it is safer to buy into a system and keep it.

An actual prison can have its charms: your needs are cared for. You are not burdened with making choices. You have company. In general, however, how many people have tried to break into a prison?

Freedom, even partial freedom, seems to be a powerful need. It is a rebellious force, determined to overcome restrictions, as if restrictions were inherently the enemy of our nature. Regard your feelings while watching wild horses bolt; identify with the young child bent on overthrowing authority.

Thought is free. Anyone can at any time entertain whatever thought happens to be there. Why one thought generates itself and not another at any given moment is a great mystery. Yet, to function successfully requires organizational thought. We may organize thought any way we please, but then that pattern becomes a form of prison if we cannot at the same time not get stuck in it.  If you say you like peaches and at the same time cannot say that you do not like peaches, then you are in the prison of liking peaches.

In other words, logic is a prison as well.

Why is habit so commonplace among people in certain societies?  It must satisfy something in the mind that is pleased by repetition.  Habits are often difficult to break. If a habit cannot be broken, regardless of how beneficial it may be, it is a form of prison.  It is probable that habit is satisfying because it provides a degree of security; uncertainty often causes fear. If we could accept insecurity we would be freer for it.

People often prefer to be in prison than to be free as long as they are getting compensated in some way. The case made about one’s needs in prison being accomodated suggests that a trade-off is taking place wherein freedom is swapped for security.

It is reasonable to assert that people require freedom, and at the same time are afraid of it.

It is only when security becomes oppressive that people wish to replace it with freedom.

People who break certain laws may find themselves in a physical prison. But laws are also prisons, because we are required to act within its confines. If we break out of one type of prison, we way be put into another. 

Absolute freedom is what is required by the individual, although this is not usually a conscious need.

How is absolute freedom attainable? It probably isn’t, which is why an afterlife has been imagined. It is assumed that only there the individual may be perfectly free.

Attachment to the past is a common prison. The past has determined the present to a degree, but are these really linked? It is possible that connecting dots has no basis in reality. Perhaps all of the dots are, in fact, pristine and isolate.

Cause and effect would work as a principle if it were repeated infinitely, which hasn’t happened yet.

Accidents tell us that freedom exists. It wasn’t supposed to happen, but it did. This tells you that anything is possible.

Of all the emotions, fear and love are the strongest; yet they are often in conflict.

*Putting a person in prison is telling the person that from this point on they will have no power.

A promise is a prison we make for ourselves.

In actual prisons…

*In an actual prison human beings degenerate, as if they were being deprived of oxygen. They revert to a more primitive life form.

Violence strikes at unknown moments. Prisoners feel that they are already dead, so that they might as well kill or wound others. It is a profound reaction to their condition. A person dies every morning in their own mind in prison.

A prisoner will need to adapt to his environment.  Eventually he may come to believe he belongs where he is, which means he has abdicated his freedom. This most unnatural state is something he must live with.

Perhaps the most unfortunate cases are ones who can only deal with confinement. These will return automatically to this environment. But if freedom is at the basis of human nature, they have become something other than human.

Imprisonment is meant as a form of punishment, which it is. But a crime and this form of punishment have no meaningful relationship to each other. The only possible positive outcome for the individual is that he determines not to go back. But will he?  If he has learned nothing about his behaviour, he will. It is often the case that you come out of the experience a worse person than when you went in.

Society must learn that treating people as less than human is not in its best interests. If a punishment is not understood as just, the prisoner will feel only resentment, which runs counter-intuitive toward that person not re-offending in the future.

Being in prison is referred to as “doing time.” If the prisoner is to benefit from this time, he should learn something about himself. Thus prisons should be educational establishments rather than pain factories.

Choices. What happens when choices are taken away? We do always have the choice of how to deal with not having choices. If done correctly, it can induce a sense of inner freedom.

Being thrust into a solitary state, the prisoner has the choice either of losing himself, or forging a new deeper self; the former leads to insanity, the latter to transcendence.

Emotions are usually our downfall. Most crimes are committed due to the control of certain emotions over the individual. Prisoners have the luxury of time to be able to understand this and to come to terms with their emotions.

Who needs more patience than a person doing time?

It is interesting how many people see offenders as different from themselves.  We perceive them as alien, degenerate, possessed. But we are just the same as them in our dreams and reveries.

*We are all prisoners of who we think we are. We are probably far from who (or what!) we think we are. But whose point of view should we see ourselves from? That is unknown and unknowable.

I think we all have a vague sense that we are living in prison most of the time, just under the veneer that we ride autonomous and in command.

I think we all know at this point that prison is a mistake.

One of the worst tortures in prison has to be the infliction of boredom, monotony to the point of causing no thought that anything will ever change. It is obviously meant to weaken the spirit of the individual.  In order for the inmate to remain sharp he must stimulate himself, which often means he turns to violence.

Boredom can be the springboard for creative activity as well. Many schemes are birthed as a result of the prisoner having little else to do.


Breaking a law is transgressive. It is crossing boundaries that have been set up. As children we always look for a line that is there to be crossed. The child looks at it with excitement, as if on the other side there is the land of enchantment. Of course, there is also fear involved. What monsters lurk? What will happen to me? The child soon finds out the price that has to be paid, and if it was worth it. This is something the criminal continues to ask himself.

Being a habitual criminal means that transgression is more satisfying than conformity. The square sides with conformity, obedience, docility. The criminal always has his eye on the next crime, the golden prize, after which he may want to retire.

Of course, he won’t; the life is just too exciting. Transgression continues to hold out its appeal.

What would it take to rehabilitate the seasoned criminal? Obviously, it would have to align with the criminal’s needs. Does he need to get beaten down in order to understand the error of his ways? No, because prison has taught him only to be more creative at doing what he does. It provides a more beguiling challenge to overcome his confinement. Just as the child seeks to triumph over his imposed conditions the criminal needs to think he can win against a world he believes is not in his best interests.

The criminal is never at peace if he continues to think he can win. Gradually, this ceases to be an illusion and depression sets in. Old cons in a prison environment is a sad picture. Age plus defeat equals devastation.

So, if the criminal is the unrepentant child who continues to transgress, perhaps it would be instructive to point out what maturity has to offer.

Maturity, it seems, is a tradeoff – the impulsiveness of the child for the solidity of the adult when reason can prevail over emotion. Can the criminal be shown the value of becoming an adult? What are these if truth be told?

Perhaps one of these is the satisfaction of self-determination. The convict lacks totally a sense of determining his life, which is at the discretion of the authorities who oversee him. Easing him into the role of adult by allocating responsibility is a good beginning. This goes beyond keeping him busy with mundane tasks; rather it is requiring him to offer his own ideas in his quest. The more we treat convicts as adults the more adult they will become if not at once, hopefully, over time.

The prevalence of violence in prison is related to a sense of helplessness on the part of the convicts. Violence creates consequences, which means that something has been attained. It matters little who the victim is or what happens to him, as long as some damage has been seen to be done. It is a game of thwarted ambition.

The type of violence practised in prison is hands-on with makeshift knives. This makes it intimate, requiring an elevated degree of emotion. It is as if a bonding ritual has been substituted by a stabbing.

To pierce a person’s flesh with a sharp object takes an intensification of hostility. Making hate the desired emotion to carry around by the convict. As long as the convict can still hate he is not yet emotionally dead.

Sex in prison must entail the element of violence. Bodies re-arranged as weapons. And sadomasochistic rituals. A fierce hierarchy presides. In this environment convicts need to know where they belong.

If the convict cannot trust anyone (at least at the beginning) he is all alone in a sea of potential sharks, and must guard against an attack. He must go into himself in order to summon the strength to survive.

Convicts in a crowded facility revert to a primitive form of bonding based on race, because it is the most obvious way to distinguish like and unlike. A shared race suggests a shared past, which is hoped may be a reason to trust. Whom to trust in a place where people are because they are not trustworthy to begin with is a hard call. The rule in prison is to trust nobody who appears different from them.

Prisons confine people who are anti-social in one place where they may be anti-social toward each other, thinking that when they are released they will no longer be anti-social toward society in general.

It is expected that most cons will return to prison. The justice system depends on it. If rehabilitation worked the system would suffer.

*Only the human animal keeps people in cages.

All organisms obey laws that make sense to them spontaneously. Nobody would think about disobeying the law to breathe, for example.

A society where everyone obeyed laws would require a lot fewer employees, so that the justice system is more of an industry than a judicial body.

It is important that bad people do not break good laws; it is also important that good people do break bad laws. (or at least change them.)

There must be a myriad of reasons people commit crimes, all of these worth investigating.

If we were to say that any crime at all is punishable by execution, would crime be eradicated?

Execution is preferable to a life sentence. There is nothing less humane than keeping someone in a cage to the day he dies.

Being an outlaw means being outside law, outside established order, be that an order laid down by men or the natural order. It is saying, “I will create my own laws and attempt to live them.” It is by experimenting that the outlaw determines what works for him. This then becomes a personal system he lives by, any part of which may be modified or changed or abandoned at will. If an outlaw joins a gang or organization he is no longer an outlaw because he must now submit to the rules of the club, rules he did not make. Being a true outlaw is a solitary experience.

Our attitude toward the outlaw is to denigrate him for not living according to a system we have been forced to adopt, and to punish him for this. On the other hand, we admire him for living by his own code, that is putting himself at risk for us so that we can still manage to imagine owning our own freedom.

Certain crimes are worth more than others, murder being at the top of the list. Killing somebody is an existential act that criminals understand makes the murderer worthy of respect in that it changes the person, making him aware of the karma he carries. Psychically he has a weight strapped to his back.

The murderer needs to pay for his crime with his own death. It is the only way he may gain relief. Unfortunately this is not often the case today in judicial rulings, in which the offender need only spend a certain number of years incarcerated. Years for murder do not equate.

In a crime of passion the killer is at the mercy of his emotions. It is worth enquiring how rage came to be part of our psychic makeup in the course of evolution. Has it served us? Has it kept our enemies at bay? Perhaps it has, but probably not. A cooler head is surely better for that. Rage appears as useless to humans as nipples on a man, and is moreover the cause of much barbaric criminal destruction in the bargain.

Because emotions play a part in human behaviour we understand a crime of passion and evaluate it as not as offensive as a crime that has been planned. It is as if you have abdicated responsibility to a part of yourself that you temporarily do not own. If someone has thought about the act beforehand he has understood its implications and has decided to proceed despite any inhibiting factors. That is the more serious crime.

Is it possible to gain freedom from our emotions? Emotions play at least as much of a role in human affairs as thought. They may cling, or pass, or recur. Nobody is ever without an emotion even if the emotion is unconscious. If we were free from emotion we would be closer to a machine. This is not to say that one mood cannot be swapped for another. This can and does happen all the time. It is possible to cause one emotion to change into another. Physical exertion often causes that. Which shows that emotion is physiological as much as psychological. As humans, we relate in emotional terms more often than any other, as in “How are you?” rather than “What are you thinking?”

Freedom is a daunting prospect. I have complete freedom to say what I wish in my next sentence. It is my choice. Let us say it makes a difference. Let us say it makes a great difference. The difficulty comes in the possibility of making the wrong choice. It could set off a chain of events that might take innumerable incarnations to overcome. The human race would be plunged into darkness. It would be my fault. Solidly on my shoulders. Obviously with freedom comes great responsibility. It is almost better to be a slave.

It is a sad fact that a high number of convicts who have been released from prison return to it. There are several factors that may contribute to this, but probably the most important reason is that the person cannot handle freedom. It is too heavy to bear after a long period of not having to think for themselves. Inside they are not burdened with freedom.

It is also a sad fact that people in general can not live with the burden of freedom, and are dependent on external forms of authority dictating their lives. Civilization has had its way. Humans can no longer even conceive of leading free lives. Leading a free life means living in isolation. It means living completely one’s personal experience. Perhaps only the insane can live entirely free lives.

The comfort of the slave comes in the form of freedom from the need to forge a destiny. His destiny at the mercy of an authority close to him, his god is physical.

Our boss is our god and that is why people work for other people.

People have a natural aversion to fat because it is flesh which keeps us confined to the prison of this world. A thinner person can more easily escape between its bars.

Skeletons don’t have problems.

Buddha says that desire is the great prison. Lack of desire can be just as limiting.

A problem is a prison. We are stuck within its confines and can see no way out. Once we see it from outside the box the problem is solved.

Freedom to curtailed by ethical standard, the standard itself a form of bondage.

The newly born first feel the prison of hunger and wonder what they are doing in there. They don’t realize yet that it is a life sentence.

Any need creates its prison. It is not just the need itself but the awareness of the need that makes one a prisoner. Even when a need has been met there is an underlying anxiety that it may not be the next time. Does the hungry baby know he will be fed every time he cries?


You are the blood in my every thought and motion

The essence of my dream

Your voice echoes softly in my sleep

You are the morning star to me

Your face is round and pretty

A mask of the sun

Even if I am almost over

I have only just begun

Our love has not been easy

The way has been obscure

We tried so many times to undo

What we were never sure

The future is your forté

You pursue it like a bitch

Will we go together

Into that abyss

Is this just a dream of love

Is it really real

Can I ever express to you

What I really feel

My heart is so weary

My mind is so upset

Though I have no regret

For what hasn’t happened yet

Will we meet again one day

On that special hill

And play again like children

Which we were once well

If not

It is just as good to be old with you

And mope and rub away our aches and pains

Many times or few

And have a word with you

As you go here and there

Tearing up the scenery

While I stay in the square

You know time is relentless

It takes you for a ride

Remember that beach we knew

Remember that morning tide

I wish us together there

In the early air

We join the endless ocean

Beautiful and fair

Our love means more than

Days and nights

Our lives are not just

Bits and bytes


It is already light


I don’t want to fight


We sit in opposition
Like cars gearing up for a
Game of chicken.
The wind blusters in your
Eyes, your piano voice comes
In crystals. I feel the years
Between us that have
Fallen off, revealing a hard
Skeleton  of love in place.
How  we try each
Other for fault! Your vanity,
my hands cut off at
The wrist. I have no
Stomach to pick through
These remains again or retrace
Plot points on the map
To here. I see it as a
Happy accident that
We have survived
Together at all,
Certainly not any of my
Doing.  Was it the god
Of inertia who intervened,
limited horizons pressing
Against motion?
Were we not brave enough,
and if so,
Has it not taken us down
A step?
Was it something else entirely,
A flame of recognition
That held a mutual gaze
And burned everything else



You wait
And if it doesn’t come you wait some more,
It is something like fishing
Except you don’t do it in the sun.
It is not exactly pleasant
And it is not exactly unpleasant either
Why you do it
is difficult to answer.
It has something to do with compulsion
Your having to know that you can,
On that day
come up with something
That will definitely surprise you.
So you court the gods gravely and fervently
Because you know that it is not really
You at all who is going to do the work.
It is rather a chorus of Voices somewhere
Inside your nervous system
that will come to visit you,
Bringing with them words as gifts to you,
Which they offer in muffled tones or
In fits and starts, or in lengthier
Instalments that you take down
At your keyboard you hope in the right
You want to receive the message correctly
not mishear it,
And you have to learn to trust that what they tell you
Is in fact the truth because you have no way of verifying
Of course there will be at some point an overseer who
tinkers and censors
And deletes
A sort of Father Figure editor
Who must get the package wrapped correctly.
But that is the easy part really because the gift is already
in whole
or in part.

Later, you and others will determine whether it was
A cheap gift or an expensive one.
You will provide your signature,
The Voices will be relegated to obscurity.

You know in your heart that you are probably
an imposter,
At best, an interceptor,
And the Voices will not be there to either
Confirm or deny it.



Jian Ghomeshi

He looks like a sweet little immigrant,

a Pakistani boy wading through dirty water.

He smiles a lot on walls and soothes

with his ingratiating manner.

He is said to be charming to breathless women

he meets at natural food counters and less than charming to his underlings.

Known as a pop culture icon, a go-getter, or almost something.

while inside he is:

all emptiness and fury.

He must have hated his mother a lot.

Did she turn the wrong screw?

We can always trace things back to her.

Blaming the woman is the name of the game we love.

Women as punching bags is always a hoot.

She could not be one hundred percent available, perhaps.

She is, after all, the Remote One, the Castratrix.

And this is never agreeable.

Thus she must be remade, beaten into another shape.

Everyone knows that,

Everyone sees that,

Everyone always has.



Write about it.

Write about what?

Find an” it” and write about it.

This is it.

Then what can we say about it?

That it’s here


Right here.

I can’t see. It’s too dark.

That’s it.

The darkness?


What can we say about the darkness?

It’s dark.

Yes,… and?

And you don’t know where anything is.

Go on.

And It’s on my shoulder now.

Yes  It’s heavy, isn’t it

It’s gone now.

A little light, then?

Yes but it’s still hard to see.

Maybe you need glasses.

It’s possible.

Which it is it now?

There is only one it.



Everything is possible in darkness.

Is it?

It is.

I see.

It’s too dark to see.

I know.

That’s it.


In frozen light there is nowhere to go. You have stopped and everything around you is static and distant. In this glacial landscape, you have been severed from all rivers of possibility,  from blood communion with the living, from breath itself, and there is the overriding sense that it has always been this way and probably always will be. It may be that you are already dead and that you possess only the critical awareness to monitor your state. You obviously cannot change anything about it. Your body still functions as always: you eat, sleep, defecate.  You speak, listen, and move from place to place, or rather you watch yourself doing these actions as if you were watching an actor on a screen , that the agent is someone else, someone you  hardly recognize. You feel nothing, except for the occasional stab of disgust, which is not even unpleasant because it fortifies you against any emotions. If there is desire, it is for oblivion. If there is a will, it is untouchable. There is nothing out there that beckons . And there is no inside. What becomes of a surviving corpse, you may wonder. This will one day be determined.