i. odd thoughts, poems
ii. "Things in Order"
iii. Story
a crenule a capering of sludge, noncompacristiplistorch, compellingly non-compute. Diurnal noct urnnoct urnal
deignite rike staging blistereophixtimchentricolatrimae......
choosing choosing choosing choosing
closed stopped stoppered limits what are limits where is the parilous parrallel where mite and man remissivly contain theire vast disleagance whyle names rocks stones what are objects what are subjects these things are important and how discribed do not qualities contain the thing, and dexribe that vitreolic essence or is it the thing that dexribes the strangeness that is ceratin, the thing as it rests in teh heart on the palm or deeper, out where no eyes scurries, where no scurvey-man repels rappels is woven into a fabric a formulitude that is dastardly, crunuline my own eyes is lost somewhere not here, ohow does conscioensness row it s way h=me out where fictions glance off tthe fact there the forehead out in the muddied waters, lets alook alight, take flight for there are beings there we dare nto name, that are names or are lines and they ahave a peculiar daggerness to them that is as open and fine and over as all the answeres that have not been solved.
I ought to deface this facelessness, there I formed that best mirror, black, for in it we learn to look at what we are, as we are, not a reflection, but that integral, even, ever-blooming that is inward and amoral, immortal, unbroken, stagin and storming, even its rings are wound EIts rings are only the arcs of a deviant knowledge, the scatterings of consciousness that breathe form into darkness, that shade the depths of the fulchrim. (fulgent efful iful eyeful ulge endulge deluge dulcim dimmering dancing demiurge damp drum despair spurn spoil spots defol destol rosk stapse strummage)).
Coping or capering nine sons made headway on the sudden inclination why take out these I choose there end it subscript excorporal
blank., what is integral, is conscious integral, is integral light into external dark, a borrowed shade, a (truism) task-braking why now hapse and scatter I clatter I am noisy here, that unwelcome guest the way things turn out oh why not blanch.
the lines between the points when points describe our lives, are the points in life we dare not take to point or they are the character, the gray that cobbles, and ought not trouble us.
Picking picky picayne pickadilly dilly-dallying derelict dirge down drum are names always dead, why speak for the dead, why only dead-speak? why live in a dead world, why dead things are immortal, nothing dead or rather living knows death is dead is living is scattered or is not entirely ticketed or is in some sense off-wain or into precincts unafforementioned.
Let�s lose. What? maybe , yes, maybe is good lost. How to lose something without being lost? no gain without beginning
Stillness: a crash-course in initiative...
Order. Names are not inasmuch
not ready, the words don�t stick, just sitting there empty, why not come up for a little air, must beg for a little tidbit, a leg of lamb a hack of the old cheese, stale albeit
tired of things, sound, close the door behind it, darkness
sitting, watching nothing, with the light
forgotten
ticking, lips
forgotten
even I
lean out
over the scratch and same to look and stomach
whatever emerges somthing other than I
dwells in that deep cave, where
a single light,
like the peep-hole at St. Peter�s lends a savage veracity to the cantankerations of rote.
wellby I note the something had it missed, a thumbing of chords and dimmering of chance, a simple retraction of tempers and a shoring a waving a flying and colors there
upon me
A woman, describe her
Two is company, three a crowd. Accompanied by my lone self, triangulate to know thyself, another mirror, another being, light of my eyes or moon-maiden all these stammers of ancestors and I glince you are pbreen, we shape on another�s sillhouettes there, frostglass the mirrors choke and camer, laepse into trimming, mirrors outward we chimera here are hiding ourselves upon ourselves, nicketispratchet longing to froggle and turn.
When one is tired of nonsense one is tired of life.
when one lives nonsense one fears dying.
to fear nonsense is to have a truth
when one fears truth, humor will not hide.
I have this peculiar need to conceive of fear and conception on parallel, each realization an undoing of immortality, a note of deviation from the still.
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The preceding, as well as all other parts of Nathan's Philosophy and Writing are pending copyright (c) 2006, Nathan Coppedge