on mirrors

Dann wollten wir uns kuessen, aber eine Schafherde kam dazwischen.
Maren Kames

hallo, wilkommen

when i was picking out what i was going to read, i tried my best to employ a methodology of selection based on phonic comprehensibility, an overall sense of available apprehension, the potential for enjoyment, a balance btwn poetic language & formal evocative functionality, i tried my best to pull apart what i had written & really imagine deeply what i would like to hear @ a reading,

& then i thought about the differences btwn poetic language, the language of metaphor or implication, & the language of the every day, the language of function, & realised rather quickly that i was diving headlong chasmward,

since, as we easily understand from every day use, the line is never really so clear cut btwn the language which let's us purchase an apple & the language which imbues the purchase of an apple w/ poetic intention, it may be argued that it's simply a matter of context,

it is conceivable that one might start a poem w/ a simple hallo, wilkommen but what makes this a line rather than a greeting?, our intuition tells us there is none, & that is perhaps the great tragedy of poetry, it becomes poetry simply by virtue of our belief in its poem-ness, this invisible quality which is more of a mental state than an in-itself quality of language,

in this way, poetry, the apprehension of poetry, is a psychosis, 

but that's just 1 interpretation amongst 100s,

academics investigating the meaning or intention or the mere actuality of poetics is as old as the impulse itself, we need only read Plato's Ion to see the world's suspicion, & in a materialist secularist society, his argument from divine inspiration slowly loses steam, the line blurs, & the problem is no less solved than codified,

there is also an argument from evolution, where the prelinguistic sounds of protohumanity, much more akin to singing than to a voluminous rounded kernel of meaning, implied rather than intended meaning, & perhaps the poetic reading is merely a matter of pattern-seeking behaviour linked to this protohuman warbling, where the repetitious phonics of speech induce a sense of greater overall meaning, since, as w/ music, our instinct of beauty is toward patterns & concordance,

but the problematic breaks down poorly when slotted against poems of intention, for instance the political poetry of jailed South Africans, which in principle can hold just as much poetic weight out of its context for an individual as any New York school "L-A-N-G-U-A-G-E" poem,

we can conceive of being moved by hallo, wilkommen,

& yet further when we see the abstract chaos of the most experimental noise music, where patterns might rarely emerge,

it's conceivable that this music may move someone to tears,

the counterargument here might be that the person is moved less by the music's structure than the context it has in their life, the associative meaning of the music rather than the formative meaning of the music, & then pop music is like buying an apple & Metal Machine Music is, &c.,

all this being simply illustrative of the depth of this chasm into which i plunged,

so i looked @ my poems,

& noticed the line breaks,

& how i might read them, slowly or quickly,

how this might tamper w/ intention,

how intention becomes association or implication in the ear of the listener,

how reading fucks w/ that association, ordering thought into a particular mental pattern like an MRI scan, the subject individual & wholly independent of the operator's reading,

how abjection, in Kristeva's definition, or queerness generally might delay that meaning,

how the line might blur as i went further on, until perhaps, if i was good enough, my most esoteric metaphor might be intimate & familiar as an apple core,

how you might begin to wonder what was me & what was poem,

how you might if i,

spoke like,


might realise that i've been reading all along,

that i've always been reading,

that we've always been,


& that, if my acting skills are good enough, that realisation might blow your MIND,

that might make you say holy fucking shit,

as you become aware of the line i've always seen,

the seam in the middle of all,

where what is & what was fold like a wing,

break like a cliff face, plunge,

like a chasm, wide, so wide you can barely see the other side, but also you are the other side,

& looking in the greasy mirror later, brushing your teeth, you might see the seam, ever so slight, & call it


or he,

or they,

or us,

& that's when the real show starts,