I'm not afraid of publicly expressing myself. There is not one that is interested in my personal endeavors. this website is as secure as the notebook in my backpack, and if there by anyone who is destitute enough to stumble upon my bag and rummage through it in hopes to find some food, or some inspiration, or some money, or some relief (which is what every man is in search of), then let him rummage. I take no fear in this. Let him take what he will for he must need it. I give out an open invitation for someone to steal from this backpack, this website, this notebook, and if they feel so inclined as to call it their own, then let them claim it as their own. I do not own words, and if they feel that they want to own these words then let the woman or man who desires such to inhabit them, to feel them to be his body, to escape the feeling of emptiness, to feel relief in living in the body of something else for a time. they will find that they are unable to stay in another person's body for too long, before someone finds the doppelgänger out and asks them to leave, or invites them to stay. but who would stay when they are found out, when their illusion is broken, when they can no longer lie to themselves, when they realize that living a double life is too duplicitous. who could bear the burden of a broken illusion.
besides, you will find nothing that is finished here. the organic nature of this site won't allow anything to be finished, and if it reaches a state of beauty, a state of fructose, then I will clip it and send it of to some journal to enjoy, to some place that will distribute the dehydrated fruit, for as soon as you cut the fruit from it's mother, as soon as the flower has reached it's maturity it must enter into a taxonomic state, a dehydrated state. those who relish in a journal only know jerky and not the real rock of the bull's fleshy flanks, how red it is, how it gleams with blood, or how it shines in the sun as it is in motion. this is the beauty of this work, to see the animal in its natural habitat, to witness the work of creativity unfold. yet here you will not see it, but only witness a shadow of it happening. unless you were behind my body in the room where I type, and yet further still, behind the eyes, no, behind the brain, no, behind the self, no, unless you were the very self you could not witness the organic nature of my efforts, or any other man's efforts for that matter. No, we only get appropriations to the truth of a thing, we only come closer like Zeno, always approaching, but never arriving, always cutting the distance in half, but only cutting the distance in half, until we are infinitely close. Such is the nature of any relationship, always approaching, but never arriving.
in which case this website is my offering of appropriation to the public. take it. (but how can you appropriate it now that I have given you permission.)
(perhaps I may be criticized by my peers for publishing my poems/writing/etc. on a website. But I think that the attempt to keep them hidden is a silly notion, the idea that the world is so interested in me that they will snoop through my things.
I think of no notebook that is not secure from anyone who wants to view it. come to my home, try to open my front door, find my backpack, open it up and look inside, take my notebooks and relish in whatever work I have done. I see that there is very little danger in anyone taking any kind of interest in doing such a thing, and why would I think that they would care to look at this website. Is there a certain amount of voyeurism that takes place.
I think it healthy to speak openly and publicly. Perhaps this is the danger of our age. How many hypocrites we have that are not willing to show who they are.
in fact, I admit at this time that this piece of prose has gone nowhere and that it has developed nothing of importance, at which point I digress except by saying that this serves as a mere impression of something that was wanting to be fulfilled. maybe it will change. perhaps I will find the mustard to finish lurking in the depths of this.)