I am a useless human being, come to bed with me.

he/she dreams of floating down Wittgenstein's river
inundated by language
holding out one arm
to steady the body
slow the movement
touch the bottom.
but the riverbed is vulnerable,

he/she sticks one finger into the sediment
“perhaps we are not so

(as we'd like to believe)”
he/she shouts

and the current moves the body
and the water is not so clear
as he/she first believed
when she/he first stepped in,
feeling cold at first
then warming
with familiarity
and the ease of it

not knowing who to communicate with;
he/she communicates
or nothing


the Subject is penetrated,
the information man
smacks heads against the wall
inserts codes like stitches
that play across our brains:
we refuse to speak except on screens

Benjamin is displeased
now the oral tradition is usurped
there is nothing to communicate
information has triumphed over experience
(for) now
and there is no past to preserve.

The gods and the goddesses
were murdered by machines
that took their faces and learned
to smile while disciplining

paranoia fuels my fusion into Other
we are quietly balanced between
being and nothingness
and have learned to embrace this
playful, strenuous, dangerous dance
to smile on the edge of ledges
and look down
from a threshold
that refuses to stabilize

we must re-learn bodies
and the way they move
against other bodies
and the way language cradles
and sings us to sleep
or disciplines
and abandons;
we are the progeny of
dead dictators

this is recoupling:
go to the next line
resurrect it all over again

this is closure


  1. (this is good poetry vs that is good poetry?)

    that is good poetry
    those are good words

  2. I love this poem so much. I've reblogged it on my own blog, I hope you don't mind! I've linked here, in order to give you credit.