I prefer the teeming crowd of souls to the teeming soul itself. This has nothing to do with my material condition. Every kind of virtue is found in a crowd: that humans in a crowd create their own paths as if they are water that creates its own stream of water. How an individual, alone, can do almost nothing. She cannot make children or be a poet alone. If she grows carrots they are less delicious for she has no one else to taste her carrots. She has a crowd of carrots but carrots alone. How if she dies alone she is less than dead. How in a disaster, humans in a crowd. How he might, alone, drinking a Michelob and watching television, but in a crowd in a disaster carry an immobile man down the stairs. The building falls around him but the man carrying the man he does not know is not Hobbesian. He may die in this moment being completely ordinary so not Hobbesian. Only the state and the man who loves it are Hobbesian and even in a crowd, how at a party, humans in a crowd. What causes the women to shout out in high voices a woo-hoo in the parking lot, one two or three of them? What causes the men, in the parking lot outside of the velvet room, to make those deep dog woof cheers as they walk in the path the crowd has made like how water makes a stream? This is the crowd, how it turns the voice of one man or woman into a voice without words, and this voice without words is the voice for the crowd. How this voice without words is another poetry. How the remedy for the state is always the crowd. How the state exists to blanket the crowd how poets exist to advertise against the crowd how poetry is often the service of the state how oh what a piece of work is the crowd that we work so hard together to work against it. Every architect works against the crowd. The architect is building only stadiums to corral it. How in a stadium there is that fear of falling into it. How in a stadium there is so much obedience not to the crowd but to what is not the crowd. How the poets wish to sing the national anthem in the stadium. Where are the grand halls, flat and open, in which the crowd can gather? Where is the lack of elevation? In secret the architect builds for the crowd She makes grand halls, flat and open, but these are only in her dreams, at night, when she is sleeping as the crowd also sleeps. To dream with the crowd is her cognitive surplus. At daylight the architect wakes alone and sets off alone to plan against the crowd. At daylight the philosopher wakes alone and goes back to his rational inquiry and does not wonder, “what makes the crowd like water making a stream?” At daylight the statesmen sends secret cables to the other statesmen whosend secret cables to the other statesmen who sends secret cables and all of these statesmen and cables are against the crowd. How the crowd is the first to go hungry. How the crowd is always leaking. How the crowd is never neoliberal in its desires. How the crowd is its own ideology. How the crowd will kill you and barely notice it. How it will save you or rage if the state has made you dead. How the men and boys who stand there with the guns shake and grit their teeth and suffer, a little, as do the young male elephants who are exiled from the family of elephants. How the crowd so often starts with women together conspiring. How for this reason you are not allowed to see women together in the movies conspiring unless it is about clothing or a man. How the young male elephants who are the humans like the young male elephants can hate the conspiring women and also the crowd . I watch the girls I watch conspire as they play and this is the seed of the crowd that could become later revolution or a party. I prefer the crowd itself to what makes up the crowd. At night I dream of a poetry for the crowd. I imagine the bodies pressed against each other until there is not one set of feet left on the ground.

Nov 23
anne boyer

How to tell you that I am happy?

How to say that loving all is better than being confined

How to say that speaking is more valiant than silence

How to say that anger is more sensational than humiliation

How to say that pain is more visible than ease

How to say that writing is more permanent that thought

How to say that self is more solid than subject

How to say that causing discomfort is more formidable than submission

How to tell a truth that is perceived as a lie

How to say a word that is heard as a scream

How to shed a tear that is seen as a crack

in the visage of All That Is Right

How to tell you that I am happy?

But that happiness is not ease

nor a good nights rest

not even a gaze at the mountains in clarity

nor a hug from a lover, tender and kind

How to tell you that I am happy?

When there are scars on my wrist

When there are bags under my eyes

When I question whether to live?

I’ll not not shout it from a mountain

but you will see me sigh

I’ll not write you a letter

but you will read my rhymes

I’ll not take you to court

or produce the evidence

that’s right

I’ll not hug and say I love you

that’s for your heart to decide

I’ll not stay anywhere long

for my winds blow too strong

I’ll not behave the way you want

for taming is not why I was made

I’ll not write books on love

for love is in the making

I’ll settle with the outcasts

I’ll weep inside a cave

I’ll color pictures of mandalas

I’ll go surfing on a wave

I’ll make friends with the animals

because they can’t tell black from white

I’ll go on sleeping naked

and stay from out of sight

I’ll bleach my hair white blonde

and wear a piercing in my nose

I’ll keep on saying yes

when all I hear are no’s

And this will not convince you

but that is not my art

I can only say I’m happy

and keep ending where I start

Oct 26
How to tell you that I’m happy?
Oct 10

Neko Case “Afraid”

"The harvest is past, the summer is ended, and we are not saved."

- Jeremiah 8:20 (via interruptions)

(via liesjournal)

Sep 24
Sep 16

the symbol of women in general is the apocalypse, on whose forehead is written: MYSTERY —diderot 
Sep 16


the symbol of women in general is the apocalypse, on whose forehead is written: MYSTERY —diderot