poem: monologue

on the park bench she has nothing of sacred otherness, ripping her face off
there is just, mine. cigarette draw – like i do in dreams – saying, hmmm
fifteen pages into gravity’s rainbow i had to reddit thread to
understand a monster on the page, i can’t stand that sort of referencial minutia; if the
Text cant hold its own meaning, if even the Referrants reference, my interior is lost
gone to shit etc. i cannot stand that sort of writing on principle but i understand
my impatience makes me stupid, that a better person would read the book then
tell you why – it doesn’t work. and this cult zadie smith writes about in, uh, her essay
about metafiction versus literary fiction it’s called neo-something: well if we’re
(per them) elevating imperfect matter (Noun Noun Noun) but there’s also this cleave
between everything being necessarily inauthentic (this seems a jump) and our actions —
wouldn’t our flawed matter actually be the most authentic thing against all
the rest? perfection is what makes the limit
even possible – but i am intrigued, in a poetic sense, by the little distance: mud ruts
in the road after the corpse is removed. What is in that space? jumping out the window
into endless height. my worst trait is perhaps cautiousness (the
parkbench avatar adjusts her face) and it keeps me the smartest person in the room
hence I hate the ubiquitous Stupid hence i am aroused
by reactionary thought. where I probably, given western-american-superiority and
protestant trudging onwards, wouldve have ended up anyway. zadie smith’s
contra to james wood’s decry of the overwrought many-fragmented novel, without character,
is sort of: I am what I am, trudging on. zadie smith references constantly david foster wallace referencing neurosis, the fear of the self, so instead: careful watching and maybe
(if you’re lucky) creation of the other. doomed to poetry/wet inward
of the self — parkbench says. the author controls the particular, that is intent, but the transcendental
creeps in – that is the universal. too much control of the particular crowds out
human spirit? they are what
i read recently. phone screams, at work, and in between i get a scab
of essay, build it inwards until the poetry screeches out, judgment-horns in back-to-back
aluminum traffic. maybe i read philip larkin next — 

she goes home on a train I have never ridden, listening to drums I do not know,
her boyfriend tattoos her style of clown on her thighs, the only Christmas traditions she keeps are sugar-reduced chocolates in cardboard; decorating in the style of her mother’s
credit-card guest rooms, Girl with a Pearl Earring over cereal bowls; dreams of heat.
she makes twin-talk with a lover who gives me sad jealously of juvenile
friendship our abandoned cities she drives to mythical cities; abandons online accounts
except for the ones I – wordcel, doomed – am destroyed by. she solves crossword puzzles where the answer is
not the word but the hunger. I am the friend with many opinions; since the softness
took system-control all I am, is anxious. girl goes to the bench to gather
sketchbook ideas and looks inward cautiously, did she read did she think what I have inserted straight-on into her mouth?

most successful was my sad artist, leaving – the freudians feeling the book through space-time
say, he was all autofictional therapy – but i disagree; he stood, traditionally slumped,
before the open trunk and told his half-daughter, people like us are doomed. in the complex
planning process he did not leave, just rotted in-office; i did not write him
to drive away.