Tag Archives: void

selections from Of Walking in Ice by Werner Herzog

Our Eisner mustn’t die, she will not die, I won’t permit it. She is not dying now because she isn’t dying. Not now, no, she is not allowed to. My steps are firm. And now the earth trembles. When I move, a buffalo moves. When I rest, a mountain reposes. She wouldn’t dare! She mustn’t. She won’t. When I’m in Paris she will be alive. She must not die. Later, perhaps, when we allow it. Continue reading

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pooretry [archive]

four point four earthquake at four oh four am and i’m happy.

i’m not writing my thesis right now.

Kenneth Rexroth is a poet.


i hate pre-ripped pants.

tell me if you think this analogy works. you’re in the kitchen with this beautifully buxom babe, she’s just all in a tizzy, grabbing parsley, grabbing cheese, swinging knives, dropping pasta into pots, etc etc etc. you notice none of this because she’s wearing this evil blouse that pushes her perfect tits, perfectly ballooning into your face. christ. oh yeah, she has a boyfriend. she’s jollily making him dinner and he’s waiting upstairs, probably cybering with his backup girl from back home. it’s like walking near a cliff that drops a hundred feet to jagged rock and water. the horizon goes forever, the wind pushes itself into your lungs, the grass dances under your feet, and the cliff is just a cliff. it sits and waits, seemingly innocent; but it’s actually drawing you to the edge. the closer you get to the edge, the more and more you think you could just jump. this isn’t just possibility, it’s all-out desire. you WANT to jump. you want to run and leap, dive, fall, plunge to your death. the jagged rocks pull you. someone needs to slice me at the wrists.

the other day i received this text message from Adam:

Anyways, tool fails at being what they try to be. They don’t find peace in the void. Unless the void is not silent. It is in my mind. Anyways. Happy trails.

i hope you don’t care about being quoted. maybe you were just spewing nonsense for fun or maybe this is your final thesis on Tool, but i’m guessing it’s somewhere in between. i, on the other hand, was certainly stoned when i saw the text, and i couldn’t even respond properly. all i said was “silly, silly.”

“They don’t find peace in the void.” what does that even mean? for me to find peace? for Danny and Maynard to find peace? for everyone in the world to find peace? if it’s just the second, there can be no doubt that the men succeed. listening to them play, you know they are not just enjoying themselves, but freeing themselves. there is no way you can chant or drum or strum for minutes and minutes at a time like that and not find yourself lulled into a peaceful trance. in a way, this is a stupid point to try to make because we will never know unless we ask them. but i’m happy assuming i hear their peace through their performance.

i’m pretty sure that’s not what you were referring to, though. maybe you meant they don’t find peace for everyone, for people in general. trivially true. my dad finds everything but peace when i blast Tool at home.

you probably meant that you don’t find peace in their music. that’s fine…. predictable even. sometimes i feel like i’m one of the few fools who never grow out their past taste. i’m listening to Pushit [Live] right now and wearing that shirt you gave me, it’s fading into a nicely soft detergent black-blue. but there’s still one thing that bothers me about your claim that they don’t find peace: you might not have always said that. peace is the moment and you are supposedly telling me that Tool’s music never once sucked you into that moment, pulled you there, held you down with a force of six million black holes, ripping your mind apart in every direction, and, despite the noise drilling through your ear canals, filled your skull with the most unimaginable silence, a void. try to remember?

maybe i just completely misinterpreted you and i need to be set straight. let me know. in the meantime, have some pooretry:

ridiculous. leopard print
people peep attack. at each
turn, their own, more, more,
more. exactly how
they like it.

it’s true–
chickens hatch from people
disc is spelled with a k
fall is sometimes a season
without returns the weather

rum, Rexroth, and Chatroulette
sugar cane flowers bloom
in my mouth, merry weather. whenever
i go outside
i think
of one of my favorite poems ever,
no friends, etc, etc. it doesn’t rhyme
much. such gambling grows
a thesis statement, long-haired
green wine-stained, and bearded
down my throat.

pour me some poor porridge poetry,

Victory, pronounced
(KNEE-key) loses bluish heads and
dimes incessantly. doing, doing, doing

assigned the name
when crossing the Atlantic
from Greece to Rome. post-it pantheist
creation, magic undulation, black
swirly while.

turkey turkey, my favorite
word is “chicken.” flying to you
disentangles myths:
marble chai minaret of my mind,
your mind eyes rings,

California even has the best natural disasters:
fog, gold, hollywood,
Web, bears, franciscans,
redwoods, deserts, oceans.

Continue reading

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