I am neythyr eretyke ne loller

I’m trapped in a sea of my own language, descent into madness virtually, digitally, inevitable.

I cannot write, nor record, for both offer a permanence, but one offers a sickening imperviousness to decay.

I write poetry in the margins of my assigned readings for graduate school. Particularly, I write when her eyes catch me. Some days they are brown.

Sometimes I write poems like this:

“His humor reads like a leather-bound book, its
corners worn from repeated thumb-slides, its
edges dull, and I ask him, ‘Kid, what’s that thing
on your neck? Barber nick you?’

‘No,’ he says to me. ‘My mom.’ And I feel nothing
because in my days I trained myself that way. I
put my hand on his shoulder and I said,
‘I’m sorry,
that happened to you, please tell me if it happens again.'”

And these are always about people I love. Others read like this:

“blue eyes blank
trapped in what you want to say–
‘Stay.’
Every day you wake, thinking it’ll be today
your tongue gives,
loosening its grip on your Real, the Ideal.”

Obviously here, the eyes are not brown. But I include this first so you can see the difference:

“you wouldn’t think it from the way you speak, but
your brown roots stretch under the
Sea to Shining Sea
to that continent, and to its pillager;

you are
Reconciliation.”

There are no eyes. There is no body, save the tongue that speaks, so no organs or flesh. There is only the Real, the Ideal.

How do I conceal myself? Even as I write I feel everything being obliterated, leaving me nothing from which I can create.

But maybe that’s part of the process–becoming nothing. The last time I wrote in this kind of vague, mysterious manner was when I was moving toward self-annihilation. Maybe this is the part where I become a good writer again.

I don’t know if I’ve listened to the rest of the podcast on creativity yet. I can’t think that my creativity is linked to my mental illness; I want to get better. I said I’d get better at the expense of my skills as a writer.

There is something hidden deep within this poem that I hope no one finds. I hope no one finds it because it is transient. I know it’s transient because I know nothing about the subject. I ask myself over and over again, “Why?” when I know nothing about the subject.

Yes, it is transient, and I will look back on this entry with bewilderment.

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