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AU T HOR’ S NO T E
Some of you have written to ask what my poems are like sober. I take this to mean what they would be like if written while sober, not if read while you weren’t drunk. Here commences a rare instance of poetry written while sober. First a tally of mental conditions: 1. MILDLY HUNGOVER 2. THREE WEAK ESPRESSOS It is a cold morning. I should also mention my bowels are clenching, slightly, on account of the three weak espressos on a mostly empty stomach. The espressos are made half-normal, half-decaf in order that more of them may be drinkded. I just closed the window.
POEM TITLE: I JUST CLOSED THE WINDOW
I just closed the window. I’d thought to call this Dreams of Other Realities Since there are others already who meditate and find themselves flopping cruelly 1 poem
into other ‘realities’ usually by way of a kitchen door and these other realities are a million instances of the same thankless wait I forgot to close the window I just closed it a million closed spheres of combinatorial banality just like this one a million observed instances of yourself suffering in absurdity in scenarios of equal mechanical malfunction like when you can’t get something done because of the idiocy of another it’s like a door jam not a door jam nor toejam it’s like a gear getting 2
stuck that you can’t fix stymied Life is constant stymying like being suffocated with a soft pillow which incidentally is what you do if you want your infant baby to die unexpectedly of sids it isn’t clear that joy has any transcendent meaning given the thousand thankless realities of shopkeepers, leprous gangrenous bureaucracies doubled and redoubled across time in infinite intricacy God Himself duplicates the same shitty fluorescent light a thousand times across a thousand universes a smear across a canvas
but this isn’t true in the absence of Man there is an absence of idiocy if I go outdoors and sit on a quiet mountaintop before the ground beneath me erupts there is an absence of idiocy a tangible breathable freedom there outside right now where the sunlight meets the cold air there is no idiocy there is no pothole filled poorly six times and then abandoned it is not that people are out of their depth it is that they are hopelessly out of their depth which means that they retreat 4
an infinity within retreat an infinite amount falling always a falling within them they know nothing and what they know they are wrong about and they are happy to advance this cause toward you to propel this plague and infect you conquer and murder your soul in an instant they want that you die into idiocy with them it is a peculiar circumstance this plague idiocy reckons on nothing but that it is a cold, sober version of the retard banging on his pot with a loud, plastic spoon we are the controlled burn of idiocy civilization today 5
in the absence of real violence which is an old way of reckoning against idiocy civilization in its monuments is the controlled burn of idiocy across the landscape the patchwork quilt of the plague across the globe it is t he ch ief def i n i n g ch a racter ist ic of moder n it y idiocy it underlies and precedes even Kafka’s nightmare can’t have The Castle without idiocy can’t have shit there is no totalitarianism without idiocy no technological chaos without idiocy the absurd when it rears its head for a decade or so in art is just a concentrated form of idiocy what we all await 6
which incidentally is why we all love the Zombie Apocalypse what we all await is civilization without Man the sordid collapse of all the concrete cubes urban tenements the slow decay and quietude of the remnants which is where sunshine meets the cold air again the old human wreckage our buildings lapsed in decrepitude idiocy evaporated