Look, A-hole, this isn’t a fucking “game” and I don’t approach you and your fugging “poetry” as if I’m enveloped in a delusion that you’re “a name in a book I had to buy at the university,” and just because of that, I should distinguish between “reading philosophy” and “reading Literature.” This is LIFE. You’re “an Other,” or “another Object” (and subject, but for the moment, let’s just use the term “Living Organism”), whose precious moments of being here on this small, temporal planet are right now criss-crossing with my own, as well as infinite Others’, precious moments. What you write and what I read of yours, regardless the “Agency” that your ideal reader may have allotted your writing, is no more and no less than some animal crossing paths with me, perhaps looking to consume me, perhaps looking to provide me with nourishment, perhaps toxic to me, perhaps NOT ALL ABOUT, much less even aware of, “ME,” at all. But this is NOT “a Game,” and I read you, friend/foe/”other” pomer, with much of the same “digestive facility” that I am compelled to employ when I interact with any other Objects and Experiences in life.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Cranky today... Ha!
I read poets like philosophers, psychologists, and other serious thinkers. If you’re full of shit and you don’t cut it, then fuck you and your poetry.
Look, A-hole, this isn’t a fucking “game” and I don’t approach you and your fugging “poetry” as if I’m enveloped in a delusion that you’re “a name in a book I had to buy at the university,” and just because of that, I should distinguish between “reading philosophy” and “reading Literature.” This is LIFE. You’re “an Other,” or “another Object” (and subject, but for the moment, let’s just use the term “Living Organism”), whose precious moments of being here on this small, temporal planet are right now criss-crossing with my own, as well as infinite Others’, precious moments. What you write and what I read of yours, regardless the “Agency” that your ideal reader may have allotted your writing, is no more and no less than some animal crossing paths with me, perhaps looking to consume me, perhaps looking to provide me with nourishment, perhaps toxic to me, perhaps NOT ALL ABOUT, much less even aware of, “ME,” at all. But this is NOT “a Game,” and I read you, friend/foe/”other” pomer, with much of the same “digestive facility” that I am compelled to employ when I interact with any other Objects and Experiences in life.
Look, A-hole, this isn’t a fucking “game” and I don’t approach you and your fugging “poetry” as if I’m enveloped in a delusion that you’re “a name in a book I had to buy at the university,” and just because of that, I should distinguish between “reading philosophy” and “reading Literature.” This is LIFE. You’re “an Other,” or “another Object” (and subject, but for the moment, let’s just use the term “Living Organism”), whose precious moments of being here on this small, temporal planet are right now criss-crossing with my own, as well as infinite Others’, precious moments. What you write and what I read of yours, regardless the “Agency” that your ideal reader may have allotted your writing, is no more and no less than some animal crossing paths with me, perhaps looking to consume me, perhaps looking to provide me with nourishment, perhaps toxic to me, perhaps NOT ALL ABOUT, much less even aware of, “ME,” at all. But this is NOT “a Game,” and I read you, friend/foe/”other” pomer, with much of the same “digestive facility” that I am compelled to employ when I interact with any other Objects and Experiences in life.
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3 comments:
rock a bye you are a fucking champ.
That's an interesting post, Steve, and I do understand the emotion and intellectual drive behind it. It's problematic though.
What I relate to most is that poetry should be read with the same rigor as philosophy or whatever so-called serious discipline.
Beyond that, I wonder about the subtext of what you wrote, the emotions that provoked that short text. The things, I wanna say, which aren't typically discussed.
Your post, as I read it, is all about the desire for connection. The desire to be significantly involved in exchange.
You come across in the post as a mediator of the Real. And, I guess--in a sense--that's what any individual is. But I'd like to hear more. I'd like to hear something a little more nuanced.
as a stranger tardy to comment, I'm setting myself up for some tactlessness here, but what the hell.
This post is affirming and even edifying to my readerly practice of paranoia, 'this poet's pulling my leg I know it,' a bloated preoccupation that keeps me trailing behind the more rewarding reading experience afforded by *trust*!! BUT how can one manage some integrity before so much (easy to produce, often hard to detect) fishy writing??
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