sorry

sorry about the rabbits. poetry is making me angry right now. man, watership down. what a rush. i saw it once and i think it scarred me for life. of course, never having been touched in my no-no spot as a child, the more scars i can accrue the better, right? poetic subject matter lying so thin on the ground that i have to resort to viy. or V--my universal symbol, my sin, my signifier. love, at least in poetry, truly does appear to be the great good use one person can get out of another. of course, in the case of my poetry, the "good" is purely subjective. distract from idiotishness! look at the freaky rabbits! freaky rabbits!

it's purely a literary exercise, of course, this tagging every poem back onto v. a compositional expedient, if you will. and you will, namely because "you" are me. v's the augustinian signifier--the place from which all of it springs. v makes it un-nonsense. i suppose the connection isn't entirely fantasy...it's possible that v was there and the world rioted, but memory's such a crap shot that i have no idea what really happened. like with proust and building the past up again, making the connections run back through time as though one's present self injected silver into a rock's veins: v is now what v once might have been, but i've got no guarantees. ergo v may or may not exist. and probably doesn't. but until further notice appears to be absolutely necessary if i don't want to spend my time meandering around with capulets and ice-plants...

i guess to retreat further and further into the object in the manner of petrarch according to that article, especially when the object is barely distinguishable from the self---i need to look into stuff more thoroughly. sorry.

and i just get so angry.