Enhances (or extends)

thought as feeling.

We worry that our writing’s becoming “cheap,” undeveloped, personal, exhibitionist, unscholarly, shallow.  Well, this is

nonsense.  I think.  The writeosphere is immense.  It will hold us. Its boundaries are elastic. The very word elastic extends the boundary slightly, just and ever so, when you HEAR it.  We are making

sense, no?

We love our vertigo.

Whitman: "Fuck an A."

Reversed, Pushed to Extremes,

it is itself.

Retrieves

only again itself, itself, itself.

Obsolesces

obsolescence.

Enhances (or extends)

blindness. I swim in ideas like some thin oceanic plant, anxiously happy in excess, in the not-yet and the could-be, our small hot amnesia, galactic, amniotic, blistering cold, I told you so.  Not-knowing. Which is ok.  Which is fine.  My skin itches. 

Also silence.  In the everday roar of data, the crashed mind, the hard drive gone tiny and deaf, alone in that corner over there, grinning.  I can’t stop picking at my arm.  Alarms go off unendingly like ohm.

Reverses,

christ, I just don’t know.

Everything I’ve said is not true.

Then again, true.

The reverse reverses and then repeats.

Ohm.

Retrieves

the list, that lust, a tongue. The dated entry, the identified moment.  We try to weigh the moment

down.  In this way, perhaps, we keep it all from flying away.

Obsolesces

nothing, I would guess.  It’s all about crush.  Like in A Hundred Years of Solitude, the plot spirals in and in until everything, all of the story’s repeated moments, all of the story’s IN-FORMATION—it all suddenly happens at once.  Out of

formation.  Still,

small voice.  Happens.  The moment is bursting at its seams, we’re gagging on now.

If only something could be obsolesced.

ob lob gob

solesce    celeste    lascivi  

ous.  In the image, in simple sound, THOUGHT obsolesces, I think.  I dream of academic writing which is lyrical. Time to tenure bodies.