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I Have No Say Because I Haven’t Written Anything, so I Wrote This to Say I Have No Say

Internet’s anesthesia projects planktonic capsules of stimuli
that drift into his eyes’ devouring-bristles,
and release pixels of happenings,
numbing his beloved void in case he feels pain in his lonesome.

The binary of the digital and imagination compose together,
and influence his thinking, extending to megabytes,
virtualizing an ineffable experience:

encountering a poetry podcast, an engineered airborne virus,
by chance wafting in the direction of his browsing. Before he knows it,

sound infects his ears, hearing:

[“Today we have ‘I’m Totally Humble, and Not a Douchebag’ Brad,”

says the interviewing host. “He’s graced with net-fame by an audience wanting fame in return, showered with praise and gratitude in a sterile incestuous environment, and loved for the hype and not the hyped thing because he has a talent for blasting himself across social media, and is actually a talentless prick, yet he’s better than the scary void, bad especially in silence!”]

He should sign off and write, but boredom is his enabler, and he can’t help listening to the podcast’s rain of inspirational sparks­­, ignited by his streaming thoughts
that explode into words for his critical essay on poetry:

Are we too in love with each other, too in love with words, to question ourselves and poetry itself? To expand upon poetry, we must deconstruct it dispassionately and reconstruct poetry into something weird getting weirder that make sense by finding newness of reasoning through passion. First, set our egos and love aside, brave our self-integration for the answers to our doubts, and beware of self-serving logic that requires no change from the poet, and all change from the reader, or else we’re inauthentic with our work. Then we take responsibility for truth. Taking no responsibility stagnates poetry, and…

His unwritten musings hit a dead end.
The broadcasting sounds misalign with
his flowing consciousness — to produce double vision of the same world.

The two clash. His headache of thoughtlessness
collapses his vastness,
and arises — uneasy emptiness. To fill it,
he lets culture dissatisfy him in general,
or, specifically, he lets this podcast aggravate him
and assume the role of a literary terrorist,
and he a hero of esthetic righteousness,

empowering him with a purpose to write.

Mediocrity begets dissatisfaction that begets a minority of substance.
Yet, when he writes, he fears his beloved void’s cold water of nothingness, 
fished for invisible ideas.

Knowing ideas are something should encourage him,
but they’re chameleonic, adopting a convincing image of nothingness
chilling him with emptiness just the same.

He raises the external volume and listens some more.

[“So, ‘Not Douchebag’ Brad,” asks the host, “how do you prepare yourself when you begin a poem?”

“Well, I like to visualize myself in the scene.”

“WOW! That’s a fantastic technique! You say you visualize yourself in a scene like you’re actually there, and picture what’s most likely expected and obvious. How incredibly pedestrian! Genius!”

“That’s correct. I, in no way, work on my process, and that’s intentional.”

“Intentional, you say? Intentional as in being lazy and making excuses for yourself, and not intentional as if you have a vision?”

“Yes. Which is in my intention.”

“My God! You’re a meta-douchebag! Brilliant!]

Too much do we think narrowly, and linearly when writing our poems while using creative self-serving logic to explain our lack of creative conceptualizing. We must think with our “Poetry-conscious” which is non-dualistic, non-linear, and wiser than us, yet is ourselves as well. If a dream is a poem, the poetry-conscious is our subconscious in the dream. When we dream, our subconscious, ourselves after all, shows and tells us things that we would never imagine when we’re awake.
Dreaming is communicating with oneself which suggests that there’s a vagueness to us that needs clarifying. When directing our intuition to investigate meanings within us, and articulating those meanings to ourselves on the page,
we use our Poetry-conscious…

He knows there’s another form to Poetry-conscious within the said text,
but couldn’t quite find the words to explain it,
so he gave himself space,
flooding his eyes with an invisible ocean of his beloved void.

Then concentrative light fertilizes his embryonic pupils,
hatching out thoughtful dilations, staring,

populating nothingness with words:

Poetry-conscious in motion on the page is a daydream sometimes speaking for the speaker, and the daydream is alive with an obscure will that we must coax into illumination. Performative language is the vessel of Poetry-conscious. The pairing is an animal. Untamed, it frolics into obscurity. Neglected, it’s a beast bloated with simplicity.

[“’Meta-douchebag’ Brad, you’re known for your series of normal sentences, otherwise unpoetic, but you cut them up into line breaks, magically making it poetry. Correct?” the host inquires.

“Indeed, I write in the tradition of William Carlos Williams without any of his sensibilities,”

“Horrendous! Now, you have two styles. Don’t you?”

“Yes, I also write in a bat-shit-crazy form where I make absolutely no sense, or say very little with flashy verbiage padding, appearing as depth.”

“You have no balance whatsoever!”]

We’ve seen simplicity that’s somewhat relatable and transparent, but unimaginative. We’ve seen obscure experimental works that have shocked and awed but leaves nothing tangible. We haven’t seen much that’s ethereal weird expressed concretely without losing track of the breadcrumbs. There seems to be an imbalance. Sometimes us poets are afraid to state what we mean concretely because we fear we’ll lose the poetic element, so we write the idea obtusely. Maybe that’s because the idea isn’t poetic or interesting enough in the first place, so we must reevaluate the idea and/or expand on it. If the idea sounds uninteresting to ourselves, it probably is. We must excite ourselves first. The reverse is that we state something too simplistic in fear of being obtuse, so we hold ourselves back. If we phrase the words right and do our homework with conceptualizing our ideas right, vitalizing our own imaginations, we can be poetic and concrete.

[“Brad, Who do you write for?”

“I write for myself in hopes that someone somewhere likes it without regarding the reader at all.”

“You sound insufferably selfish and seem not to consider that you can write for yourself while keeping the reader in mind as well because both aren’t surely possible!”

“They’re not. No conforming to magazines’ ideals means rejecting outside influences entirely, despite that intergrading them into my work will not sacrifice my voice if it’s done right.”

“You’re a cliché that’s camouflaged as integrity!”]

He sighs indifferently and ponders,
Writing for yourself and the reader simultaneously is a possibility,

by…

He doesn’t finish his wispy thought, floating,
dissipating into his beloved void,
vacuuming the life of his attention span.

His gnat of a cursor flitters across the screen to exit out of the podcast,
and approaches the bookmark-tab. Scanning down his favorites,

he selects ‘Netflix.’  

***

Originally published on Medium in The Bad Influence.  

Recommended1 Simily SnapPublished in All Stories, Poetry, Satire

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