Blurred self images triumph in life style by ways other people reject you.

We are expected to continue this mockery of violence promised by the state as the best alternative to anarchy-- like melted character-snowballs that end up in Hell in Paradise Lost.  The subtext of this book is a world turned upside down like an alter to an unknown God. Perfect for a culture like mine that would serve up hemlock to Socrates.

Everything good is now an old story and much of my confusion is about how day and night are split in parts by the motion of the universe as everyone laughed at me as I tried to understand ways it got dark at night and then ways light returned in the morning

Like Eve I did not listen and then matters got ponderous beyond what human appreciation can understand even though I now have the right to describe anything that I want to as the muses keep feeding me.  They make me curious about how weaklings would react if I changed some punctuation, adjusted pauses between phrases that didn’t have the kind of sense that mere modern pauses might imply

The serpent throws fruit from the tree which Eve bites. Demons fall from heaven and I win the battle that sets the scene in Hell.  After that my head cannot help my brain keep up with everything and my thinking falls like angels who escape from fetters over a lake of fire

The best idea I can come up with for combining my despair is mixing Earth and Hell because everyone more or less finds themselves in Babylon at the end when the Whore of Babylon lap dances the beast and raises a cup

Instead of having a culture small enough to evaluate everything we rush into the political cockpit in our snobbish dog outfits competing in a popularity contest that is equal to my desire to mix Earth and Hell (Our Beast of Babylon has light whirligigs on top and can blast a siren)

I’m writing in despair with others who renounce the tradition of putting someone else as top dog in a global electronic situation where social networks have no rules except to limit themselves by desires of ego bounding leader-treacle that signals more and more troubled waters

My own interest is some form of escape from my own anarchy.  I’ve become a lifer at taking over low notes of culture. Sometimes the best parts of me float on my raft of metaphysical powers where I get overtones as bad as an augmented sixth

Poets become familiar with what happens to people who are drunk, who are not supposed to slip into any kind of harmony.  Bad things happen. In our America, where people are most comfortable inside their homes for so much of the year.

So much of art has fallen from its high horse then everybody starts combining their own combination of songs, making their own “Sympathies for the Devil”

We are not social enough yet to understand pathological hatred making history the wrong approach. Even if I call 911 it is a death camp crime that gets the full treatment

I hardly ever smoke but man, reading Nietzsche takes me there!  Like weird access to establishment death games which are one way of keeping score. I know I’m fighting for a bunch of liberals when I actually have to stop to count the bodies (war is a purification of what seems rotten when no one any longer has any great hopes in common)

I’m a medical fictive personality I want to die at the right time mentally.  I’m also a happy person and happy people don’t have big stories (the way social interactions become a real trick)



Kim Rosenfield is the author of several books of poetry, including Good Morning–Midnight– (Roof Books, 2001), Tràma (Krupskaya, 2004), re:evolution (Les Figues Press, 2009), Lividity (Les Figues Press, 2012), and USO: I’ll Be Seeing You (Ugly Duckling Presse, 2013).