individuation reflux

i used to write poems that meant nothing--literally nothing. that is, they were supposed to mean something, but what they were, really, was a marshalling of these formal elements that i suppose i shouldn't call formal, because i don't actually really know what i'm talking about--alliteration, rhythm, this sort of thing. but i didn't know that that was what those poems were doing until i came into a topic, namely v. of the 5's--and then i milked that for all it was worth. a good juicy topic like v. taught me things about the form--that is, that repetition and repetition-like actions, obsessions with forms and major sounds, depict the body's experience better than description can, at least the kind of describing i can do, which is terrible. this is an incomplete nutshell to put the things v/5 taught me--this is what i know that topic taught me; this is the part i can put into words.

but now that i know those things i think maybe i'm in another stage. and of course i don't know what that stage is--and i'm sure it looks just like the former stage. i've learned how to zone out and come up with something. not that the something is good. but it comes from a place beyond which my usual words can come. hence though everything i write at this point sounds like it means less than nothing, it actually means much more than my usual types of communication. hopefully. my brain zooms around in its skull, occasionally to the point of pain; this point of pain provides the static from which the words in the "poems" on this blog constellate. what is on this site, this "poetry" (if any of this shit can be called poetry), does come from a point of pain. occasionally joy, too--really anything so "overwhelming" (this isn't the right word) that i can't take it.

i'm an accomplished not-truth-teller, but this should not be taken with a grain of salt, because i mean it right now. permanence is what words give things, apparently according to w.c. williams; they give it badly, apparently, because retroactively, without spontaneity, without freshness, without making-it-newness, without a whole list of other shit that i refuse to accept. maybe it's because i'm a coward. i accept that. i accept that the reason i can't accept that words suck may be because i'm too much of a coward to truly examine the dirty underpinnings and coercions of language.

maybe. but maybe i just can't take any more people telling me who i should be in relation to myself, in relation to my own language. i don't have a right to feel; it's instead a necessity. i don't have a right to attempt to know myself, bumbling, shamed, and idiotic as i am; i have a necessity. i don't have a right to take this pain, or joy, or any other inexpressible (right now it's pain) and, if not stop it, at least create it diamond-hard and diamond-faceted, going not in and out but through the window. it batters me from out to in (the indomitable it); it is a necessity to push not back but through. like proprieception. let me propriecept.

don't hold me accountable to the millions of other people who are better than me.

i don't know who i'm talking to.