the season of green is unfurling, and
we’ve eagerly yearned to be circling
eternally, whirling forever
in search of the
vermin, & only abjuring
when discerning and earning the spins
it’s not absurdity, because we know that we’re
sure to be, I mean we’ve certainly learned that we
aren’t pure or mature so the
word is we got to be
Everything I know is everything I’ve always known:
Shadows are only shadows to those
who’ve seen stars, who aren’t
locked away in caves, tied with chains, caught behind bars.
But even stars are not necessarily what they are
today, but now only light from white dwarfs
yesterday, because nothing
red or hot can survive this inflation, this
long ago explosion and dilation.
I could never drink enough to warm this
mistimed chill, could not fill
consistent malicious spiritlessness, and still
our universe, everything, once tight with absence, an
impossibly dense vastness, all knowledge, the very
last sense, will burn
off into a nothing
to which we’ll inexorably return, and
meanwhile, I will go about losing the things to say in
trying to find the ways to say them, and
will go about forgetting the thing I am in trying to
remember the ways I was then.
Even when everything is covered in white, and
up is down, and left is right, and
being over is through, I won’t
ever feel right when
a thing you have lost, a
part of yourself
once had, now
among the inscrutable white of
pages, notes, memories
forgotten, though nearly captured, only
surrounded by interminable
whatever you do, don’t forget:
I can wrap my jaw
spazzed-out little neck.
I am Kaiya the crazy koo of
come to git
all up in your shit.
This past weekend was full of dem readings.
First off, on Saturday, the THIS IS NOT A CONFESSION tour (Rothko and I) loaded the BIG SIGN into the truck and drove to Philadelphia.
This is a book party for THIS IS NOT A CONFESSION.
I’ve always considered the process of writing to be mostly a solitary creative endeavor. And, if I’m being honest, that’s one of the things that has always made it appealing to me: the idea that a particular piece—an essay, a poem, a beer “pros and cons” list, a love letter to Emma Stone—can be my vision, and mine alone, from start to finish. There are, of course, other art forms like that, too. Photography, another thing I do a fair amount of, is sometimes that way, at least the type of photography I do. There are some other forms of photography which are more about collaboration and teamwork. But man, I tend to shy away from those forms. Fashion shoots. Working with human models. Christ. That seems stressful. I much prefer dogs. Or if I’m feeling particularly antisocial or misanthropic, just give me some inanimate objects and a good fixed focal-length lens.
But here’s a surprising thing I’ve learned in making my first book. Here is a confession, if you like, about making This Is Not a Confession…
My book, This is Not A Confession, published by Awst Press will drop in a little over fourteen weeks. April 22rd, to be exact. And as we get closer to that date, I’ve been wanting to tell you something. Okay, I don’t really want to tell you this. (And my publisher probably doesn’t want me to tell you this, either.) But here it is, anyway: You may not want to recommend my book to your easily-offended Aunt Marsha, your church pastor, or anybody else who you deem sensitive to graphic sexual content.
I am not exaggerating when I say that I have taken tens of thousands of photographs of Honey. As I go back through them, I am struck with a sadness. I thought it was a sadness of remembering. But I also felt like that didn’t seem right somehow. It didn’t explain why I didn’t necessarily want to look at those photos, yet. It seemed more complicated than that.
Here’s why: It wasn’t a sadness of remembering. It was a sadness of forgetting.
All these photographs I’ve taken of Honey have been to “preserve” something. A spirit. A feeling. And the sad, terrible — indeed “treacherous” — thing is that as I go about looking at these artifacts, they feel like they’re having the reverse effect. Instead of bringing those feelings back to me, I feel like they’re moving them further away. Instead of recreating those memories for me, I feel like they’re destroying them.