I feel my life outside school approaching, and that causes me even more fear. All the people you have to get to know, all the effort you have to put in to find an empty place in the midst of the crowd, all that frightens me. But I’ve been put into this world to live and I’ll do my best.
Grease on my cheeks—the fat of the season
Now dead and sealed, now dead and waxy.
Foxes yap on the tenement stairs;
Hope arrives in a Checker taxi.
For a significant-if-actually-miniscule fragment of the population (and I’m speaking of myself) personal identity is staked on a series of affinities…
Now that Zizek no longer has to defend himself against over-intellectualized accusations of being a “sellout” by writing copy for a clothing company, we can see the work for what it actually is: amazing text art.
I do hope you will be kind enough to satisfy a wish I often voice to my distant friends. When I come to visit them in thought, I do not like to have my imagination at work in the void. So I like to ask for a drawing, a sketch of their house and its surroundings. May I make the same request now to you?
At best willing only to consume, to rifle through trash on her Kindle, ready to relinquish her final moments of quietude to the noise of visual culture, the reader is whispered about as an aphasic oldster awaiting euthanasia…
As I pondered at my desk, with the shutters closed, my black grief found entertainment in composing the following letter which you will perhaps write to me before long—for, after all, what would it have cost you to write me a few words?
You can’t trust them as poets either because they are too busy acting like poets. The true poet is anonymous, as to his habits, but these boys have to look, act, and apparently smell like poets.
This blasts out of existence forever all the puerile ties of the dum te dum versifiers and puts it up to the reader to be a man—if possible.
What good are the legs?
The girl
Waits
Like the rat’s daughter-in-law…
