I & I
Is it possible the comments function on blogger is broken? because it is. My comment on the last post was: the poem could just as easily be written about the reproduction and proliferation of ink and paint.
Here's my post:
I, a being born in a place, my parents lead lives before I did, and decided when to create. Create a skin of a certain color. Hair with a certain texture. They bore me into a religion, which they thankfully would deny, leaving me free to invent one. But they still cut my foreskin without asking me whether I wanted it or not. I didn’t. Throw it away.
I, a being first stared into Lacan’s mirror, I remember the event. I breathed the glass. I needed the mirror not to see my whole self, but only to wiggle my fingers, the feel of an electronic impulse coursing down my spine, down my arm, my fist clenching. I did not yet know that I would not be a revolutionary. So I ate the mirror, became it. As I grew older, it became a camera in my belly. Then a camcorder. Then a projector. Now I consume movies, and project them inward.
I grew between my legs, becoming too heavy to carry through the everyday swirl of humanity on the sidewalks. Only fully encapsulated vehicles can kill me if I step into the street not looking, mere men cannot. So I cling to the sidewalk, only occasionally wandering into the black expanse of asphalt, for the thrill of defying the law most immediately at hand. Sometimes civil disobedience doesn’t need a cause.
I grew in the tightly choreographed American Tango. I believe in natural Cheetos. Because they exist. They lack the curve and neon color of original Cheetos, but they preserve the Dangerous Cheese. I believe in movies with names like “Let’s go to Prison” (coming November 17th) and “Snakes on a MuthaFuckin’ Plane” (sadly behind us now). I believe that computers can make better music than fingers, if the right buttons are pressed.
I, a burning man on the edge of time. A rotation of existence, casting myself over the brink of a flat earth, prepared to merge with the blackness. My empty intestines churn with starfire. I am the single stem cell of the world. My green grass settles over the pregnant earth, stirring itself into trees and undergrowth. I settle over America and grow into Cheetos naturally, settle flatly onto streets and become clean black asphalt.
My head rests on a cloud which rests on my neck. I am ankle deep in soil, and I feel my toes questing downward for nutrients. My mouth thirsts for alchohol, my tongue thirsts for loud ink. My eyes see in pixels.
Here's my post:
I, a being born in a place, my parents lead lives before I did, and decided when to create. Create a skin of a certain color. Hair with a certain texture. They bore me into a religion, which they thankfully would deny, leaving me free to invent one. But they still cut my foreskin without asking me whether I wanted it or not. I didn’t. Throw it away.
I, a being first stared into Lacan’s mirror, I remember the event. I breathed the glass. I needed the mirror not to see my whole self, but only to wiggle my fingers, the feel of an electronic impulse coursing down my spine, down my arm, my fist clenching. I did not yet know that I would not be a revolutionary. So I ate the mirror, became it. As I grew older, it became a camera in my belly. Then a camcorder. Then a projector. Now I consume movies, and project them inward.
I grew between my legs, becoming too heavy to carry through the everyday swirl of humanity on the sidewalks. Only fully encapsulated vehicles can kill me if I step into the street not looking, mere men cannot. So I cling to the sidewalk, only occasionally wandering into the black expanse of asphalt, for the thrill of defying the law most immediately at hand. Sometimes civil disobedience doesn’t need a cause.
I grew in the tightly choreographed American Tango. I believe in natural Cheetos. Because they exist. They lack the curve and neon color of original Cheetos, but they preserve the Dangerous Cheese. I believe in movies with names like “Let’s go to Prison” (coming November 17th) and “Snakes on a MuthaFuckin’ Plane” (sadly behind us now). I believe that computers can make better music than fingers, if the right buttons are pressed.
I, a burning man on the edge of time. A rotation of existence, casting myself over the brink of a flat earth, prepared to merge with the blackness. My empty intestines churn with starfire. I am the single stem cell of the world. My green grass settles over the pregnant earth, stirring itself into trees and undergrowth. I settle over America and grow into Cheetos naturally, settle flatly onto streets and become clean black asphalt.
My head rests on a cloud which rests on my neck. I am ankle deep in soil, and I feel my toes questing downward for nutrients. My mouth thirsts for alchohol, my tongue thirsts for loud ink. My eyes see in pixels.
posted by Jed at 2:24 PM
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