what I have heard that blogs are for

Thoughts, feelings and all that impractical zero-matter.

I have a journal for those heart and genital outpourings. This blog is just for self-promotion,

I write my name in the dirt so that an aeroplane can see it from its height

where its propellor-eye meets the hawk from right wing party logos,

I write my name not like the boy without arms who touches by operating

keyboards, pens, remote control beds with his mouth,

I write my name with my bottom, I am affirming, assertive, with identity politics,

attitude so I am not on my knees, my knees are under my chin, legs folded

my belly and navel breathe wrath revenge pressed upon by my hips that evaded

the tattoo needles of Arubian brother scum under the influence of herb and synthetic dopeskin

when I was a lost prison child,

only my wrist has the barb wire hieroglyphs, my hands

are busy holding my weight,

it was not enough for me to be a writer

it was not enough for my body full of sadness, hatred,

love and ancestors

to cast a long shadow in the shape of what writes

in the color of what the stylus writes in,

shadows are not enough in the illuminated worlds scintillating

under the bellies of airplanes who cut a throat of their mother goddesses with her umbilicals

when they were born,

I once admired Italian Futurism,

especially the few anarchists  among them who didn’t convert to the fascism,

who didn’t worship Mussolini the aviator and the swiftness of the bicycles,

I drew myself,

I spent years lost in the country of cold and rational shadows of bycicles,

in the kaleidoscope of the shadows of bicycles, who interpenetrate

unlike the dreaming canals, unlike the streets, unlike men and women

my cut was cut to pieces

I was angry that the Italian futurists were ignored today because of political correctness

some mornings I forget my father and then I forget I am a Jew by my mother

some mornings I forget I am an Italian vendor from fort island to fort island

that in Genoa and in Oriental cities I admitted to my religion of the unfasting

I have ceased to fast

I write my name in letters so the aviators of the modern world can see it

by 2018 everyone will be a pilot of an airplane,

a poet thanks to Kraft, a writer

and a singer

hearing aids will make all voices tuned

and the primitive irrational need for Muses self-abolishes

and I find it difficult under time-pressure

of the Christian God Chronos who I hated

to self-promote and be at the same time a good poet, writer

and making of drawings–I draw outside of time,

I write in images

I am a semite lost
and was unable to be sufficiently disloyal to the shadows, the ancestors,
the muses

thoughts, feelings, romanticism

and all that impractical zero-point smatter

/Creative Commons License
impractical muse by ARTURO DESIMONE COPYRIGHT is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.
Based on a work at https://arturoblogito.wordpress.com/2013/12/14/what-i-have-heard-that-blogs-are-for/.
Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at https://arturoblogito.wordpress.com/2013/12/14/what-i-have-heard-that-blogs-are-for/.


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