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poem

when you wake up hungover and want to write about destiny:

every word, so slow to come, is destiny to say

nothing can be unsaid until you scrap out the worst

parts but stop the cart keep rolling,

the only form, sounded out by tenzing the throat-singer, can

be a starstretched poem emptied out pouring quiet:

whether it’s good or bad it’s still your destiny and you’re still hungover.

go and find.

 

If you could not see me for seven years more

would you pop off facebook and leave me alone

would I have to seek you in the sage hollow fair

or would you just text me later

 

confront the ugly-faced gremlin who says everything you do is stupid

and wave your genitals at him in the crudest way

 

A half-eaten greyfut

it wasn’t very good

but then again, what did you expect? a grapefruit?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

from way back in a notebook from Nov. 2014.

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THIS WORD IS BOND–>BOND
table of contents
1. APHRODISIAC
2. SUMMONING TOOLS
3. DARK “ELF” MAGIC
4. GLUPP GLUPP GLUPP

image

Two men went to draw water from the well. One man said,
“My pot is broken, let me share yours.” But the other man was greedy, and dashed his pot upon the ground.
“You idiot!” The first cried. “We will have to go back empty-handed!”
“No,” said the second, “you will. I will carry the shards of my pot.”
He carried them home and planted them, and come summer
They had grown into a beautiful flowering bush.

My cousin wrote a folk tale. Text: "Once upon a time there was poop. They pooped on poop, so they pooped on the poop. Then after everyone pooped on the poop, the poop died. The poop's eggs hatched and made new poop. THE END. I didn't want to say poop."

Starting a poem over again

So I tried to write a poem to a howling gypsy woman in my bathrobe
sitting on orkun’s couch on a sunny weird morning
we had bulgur pilav for breakfast
jari made it with allspice, two fried ehhs, pepper, onion garlic,
two friend ahds

but anyways I want to be more a writer again
because I write sometimes
and this is what I am a writer
a writer who writes with both feet pointed down
a writer who is afraid of the whole world collapsing
and with my own two words (which are my hands in this metaphor within a metaphor)
I get to hold the construction up withont falling down myself

and then I thought about editing this piece of work and
didn’t

so the world fell down

 

anna and I had a long talk last night about what the hell we’re doing with ourselves in turkey. important conclusions reached–america is a country which encourages you to stay in one place. it’s set up so you lock like a barnacle on some fixed location and let detritus collect around you. It sounds sort of negative like that huh. but she has a lot of friends in florida who can’t afford to live anywhere else except with their parents (and I have friends in similar situations as well). In a place like florida or alaska, you have to get a car, which ties you to a place, and a heavy american lease, which ties you to a place.

you know, the most excited I’ve ever been for the future was right after I graduated college, and I just could see it. I’ve never really been able to see beyond maybe a year or so. (the biggest difference between me now and my younger self is that I have more faith that things will materialize if I pay attention, but it caused me a lot of stress back then). I was thinking–here I am in seattle, I’ve always wanted to be an actor and become an artistic force–before I went to college, i imagined a combination where philosophy would be the research to fuel my theater work–and I realized I had all the time and power and energy to make that sort of thing happen. It was really exciting and I could see it. Then I gave it up.

That really bothered me for a long time. Why would I do that? I gave up that future — again, not just a dream, but something which I could see and feel so near to me, something which gave me a lot of hope — to basically be homeless on a train for four months or so. And then Georgia, and then (seattle and AK again and) Turkey.

I guess my life experience had been sort of narrow. If I had stayed, I would have just wondered the whole time what it would have been like, to travel around, as my priorities would have been tied to where I was. The price, anna and I discussed, for living as expats (especially in Istanbul, the zaniest of cities) is that we live in a liquid uncertainty. I have no idea what will happen next. That keeps me very humble and pretty content, usually. Living in the US and doing it right, for me, would have meant knowing exactly what was going to happen.

Younger ernie really wanted to know what he was about. Very obsessed with the meaning of life, many years spent certain that once he figured it all out, he would finally move forward on Changing the World. Given the choice of a future he understood and a future he didn’t, guess which he chose. It was the only choice.