The Mutiny Of Twilight

Maybe it’s just a foolish game, this desire to get the exact words to describe a feeling, a sensation, a phenomenon, because it’s impossible, words are symbols, not actualities. The illusion persists that the word & thing are married in a wonderful phonetic embrace & exude the full reality to which they refer. Re fur. Reefer. It can all go awry so quickly. And there’s no real match, no connection between words & reality, it’s ultimately a stencil you put over all that stuff out there, inundating efferent & afferent nerves. Language puts a gauze over things. An opacity. And the waves are made for having fun. And the waves are crashing over my small boat. And the waves are predicted to get better for the weekend. And the waves are nouns immersed in sound. 

        If you write a poem, are you really making anything? The words are already there. Aren’t you just choosing which words go where? Clearly, there’s more to it than that. But I can’t pinpoint just what it is. First there has to be a desire to create something. Something out of clay, something out of wood, something out of motion, as in dance, something out of sound, à la music, something out of words, a novel or a story or a poem. Or a joke. Or a complaint. What is the nucleus? The nucleus is the energy. And it happens quick. And it’s more than choosing words. There’s an engagement at a deeper level. There are sensations, feelings, articulations that take the air & sculpt it into a circus of words, the boil of creatures scraped from the unconscious. 

        But here’s the good part: making something that has minimal – if any – commercial value, is inherently joyful & liberating. Doing things for money can be a gas. If I could write a hit song & get a gazillion dollars for that I’d be pretty happy. But doing something with no intent of making money is subversive. It’s exhilarating. And hilarious. Maybe this only works in a capitalist culture. So be it. If this is the case, this is an excellent age for writing poetry. People are obsessed with money. People evaluate everything according to its value as a commodity. And this poisons everything. Poisons the mind. Poisons the spirit. The antidote, clearly, is art. And the highest of the arts is poetry. The least likely to lend itself to commodity. The most likely to liberate you. What happens when we put things into words? And what do I mean by things? Sumptuous daubs of nimble real estate. Ideas chattering among themselves in jackhammer rapture. 

        As I was leaving the laundry room I spotted a dead moth on the floor. I went back to pick it up. As soon as I touched it, it flew away. I let it be, and went back to making the bed. 

        There’s an art to making a bed: I begin with the tags. I like the tags to be at the bottom. And smooth. I like everything smooth. 

        What was it Heidegger said about tools? The object reveals itself to us in its use. Or something like that. If memory serves. You can write with a tripod or a harpoon. Pens work. I’ve never tried a quill. I’ll bet they’re messy. I like typing on a laptop. It makes me feel like Chopin. Playing a nocturne. And dreaming of serums made of moonlight. Disillusionment sometimes has the tartness of olives. The sudden clarity is good, but the overall feeling is acrid. You want to get that into writing. So much ignorance & evil arises out of illusion. Denial. Childishness. And you want to avoid symbols. Even though writing is symbols. It’s all symbols. But avoid them. Avoid symbols. Use depression. Minarets. Hydrants. Sorrows. The mutiny of twilight.