I made an audio
object
to what I was trying to say
in the moment
of the past reversing course into
the future
and of course, the audio objects:
it’s withering inside of my mind
like some vocal chord strung out of tune.
Still, I hum its melody
in hopes that the present I receive is reverberation
of my future self writing to my past
–Kevin
PS — a wee bit of line lifting, and remixing contest of words, for poetry. I’ll be sure to send this to you in a few weeks ago.
🙂
Your time capsule is set up and ready to go.
Mine is already launched like Pioneer.
Only time will tell
And it ain’t telling
But I suspect
That imagining the future
Is halfway to
Living it.
I commented on this post on Dec 2 – did you see it? I asked you if you think there was no space for participants to exercise agency and decide what they wanna do how and where. I showed you that they had (I just can’t tell you how or what because it’s not something for me to suggest).
L8r ago, ma’am, l8r ago. The lurkers might be doing all of the above or none of it so can’t really be sure about agents deciding what they wanna. I can only tell you what I don’t already know.
Done with the term lurker;
methinks it has been deemed a glorious possibility of unseen involvement
but my mind’s eye sees it as a blank screen.
An unpunctuated deluded potentiality
of infinite numbers.
So many of you are in my mind constantly,
but you can’t know this.
You all feed my mind much more than 95%
of my f2f colleagues,
but you can’t know this.
#Clmooc fried my brain like a concert I loved
but should have left because it was way too loud, smoky, long,
and crowded
in its overflowing emptiness.
I write from the future.
My cat with cancer keeps eating velcro and
throwing it up.
Perhaps he knows something I don’t.
I write from the future.
Having another read of your poem in these early hours and I think it could easily endure many rereads because it speaks an equal truth about lurking but it goes beyond that into something truer about how we are all seeds, always growing in each other’s minds. Real potential (is that an oxymoron?) not faux potential. I love how it echoes the sentiment in the post when you say “you can’t know this”. The funny thing is that we can know it–you just told us–and even though we couldn’t have known this, you have written from the future and told us.
“because man goeth to his long home,
and the mourners go about the streets:
Or ever the silver cord be loosed,
or the golden bowl be broken,
or the pitcher be broken at the fountain,
or the wheel broken at the cistern.
Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was…”
Ecc 12:6
PS “coodawoodshooda” Didn’t know you spoke such fluent Australian!
Permalink //
I made an audio
object
to what I was trying to say
in the moment
of the past reversing course into
the future
and of course, the audio objects:
it’s withering inside of my mind
like some vocal chord strung out of tune.
Still, I hum its melody
in hopes that the present I receive is reverberation
of my future self writing to my past
–Kevin
PS — a wee bit of line lifting, and remixing contest of words, for poetry. I’ll be sure to send this to you in a few weeks ago.
🙂
Permalink //
Nexterday, man, nexterday.
Permalink //
Your time capsule is set up and ready to go.
Mine is already launched like Pioneer.
Only time will tell
And it ain’t telling
But I suspect
That imagining the future
Is halfway to
Living it.
Permalink //
Hmm
That should read “context” not “contest” but still .. interesting grammatical error for new context (or should I say, contest)?
No Twitter Spam to report.
Kevin
Permalink //
I CouldaWouldaShoulda commented on your frog hope dispenser
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I think I combine that anti-hope dispenser with a workman-like value we share quite strongly in my family: DYFW–do your fucking work.
Permalink //
I love this also.
Permalink //
I commented on this post on Dec 2 – did you see it? I asked you if you think there was no space for participants to exercise agency and decide what they wanna do how and where. I showed you that they had (I just can’t tell you how or what because it’s not something for me to suggest).
Permalink //
L8r ago, ma’am, l8r ago. The lurkers might be doing all of the above or none of it so can’t really be sure about agents deciding what they wanna. I can only tell you what I don’t already know.
Permalink //
I love you.
Permalink //
Done with the term lurker;
methinks it has been deemed a glorious possibility of unseen involvement
but my mind’s eye sees it as a blank screen.
An unpunctuated deluded potentiality
of infinite numbers.
So many of you are in my mind constantly,
but you can’t know this.
You all feed my mind much more than 95%
of my f2f colleagues,
but you can’t know this.
#Clmooc fried my brain like a concert I loved
but should have left because it was way too loud, smoky, long,
and crowded
in its overflowing emptiness.
I write from the future.
My cat with cancer keeps eating velcro and
throwing it up.
Perhaps he knows something I don’t.
I write from the future.
Permalink //
I will never get that line about cat eating velcro and throwing up. Yeah, they know shit and they ain’t tellin’.
Permalink //
Yes, this much I know to be true.
Permalink //
Having another read of your poem in these early hours and I think it could easily endure many rereads because it speaks an equal truth about lurking but it goes beyond that into something truer about how we are all seeds, always growing in each other’s minds. Real potential (is that an oxymoron?) not faux potential. I love how it echoes the sentiment in the post when you say “you can’t know this”. The funny thing is that we can know it–you just told us–and even though we couldn’t have known this, you have written from the future and told us.
Permalink //
Thanks for posting the link to your future feldgang, my cynical friend. It looks like a great exercise in reflection and reaching for growth.
And, I love you more than Susan does.
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Hold on a second. Charlene, no you can not.
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Terry, I love you way more than Charlene does. Way.
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And she loves you a lot, so that’s how much I love you. More than that.
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Oh yeah, well I love you both more than that. No returns, everlasting. I think I can get through today now with this help from my friends.
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“because man goeth to his long home,
and the mourners go about the streets:
Or ever the silver cord be loosed,
or the golden bowl be broken,
or the pitcher be broken at the fountain,
or the wheel broken at the cistern.
Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was…”
Ecc 12:6
PS “coodawoodshooda” Didn’t know you spoke such fluent Australian!
Permalink //
Sorry it took so long to approve comment. Yes, we are all grass in the end. All flesh is grass.