Do Androids Dream of Dick? Writings of a Queer Posthumanist

Poetry, Scholarship, & Musings

Tag: poetry

  • <i> stick <my> hands in the <dirt>

    like <touching> grass

    but <more<intimate/violent>>

    <gouging<out/in>> <holes>

    fingers <exploring/creating>

    <holes> for <seed>

  • why do <you> <write> like that?

    Depends on what is <meant / intended> by “like that.” as a visual <poet> and zine <creator>, <i> <wanted / desired> a visual way to convey <uncertainty / impreciseness> in <my> <writing>. the <written> word is a beautifully imperfect way of <communicating> that <asks / requires> the <writer> to constantly be making language choices. and these choices are frequently never <perfect>. <communication can never be perfect>.

    <i> was <inspired> by a few different <philosophers / artists> to use angle brackets to <visualize / convey> uncertainty. like a good little grad school <student>, <i> read <theory>, lots and lots of <theory>. and <i> had a <<post> structuralist / deconstructionist> phase, which included plenty of Derrida and a desire for the <pursuit> of <creative> <writing> that could <visualize / verbalize> “sous rature” in <interesting / narratively productive> ways. Derrida (and yes, Heidegger is the <primary> source for this, but <i> have yet to locate a <desire> to <read> Heidegger) would <visualize> this in his own <writing> for <signifiers / words> that he <felt / believed> were “inadequate yet necessary” by <striking through / placing under erasure> the <inadequately necessary> words. <i> have <chosen / selected> the angle bracket for <my> own form of marking <erasure>. it is not a <form> of <writing> <i> always <employ / use>; <obviously> <i> don’t write like this in day-to-day correspondence and in the materials <i> create for work, and <poetry> that <i> want to send out for publication takes on a more <normal> structure. but blog posts and zines are a <adequate / appropriate> medium for <writing> in this experiential style.

    it’s also a way <i> used to express <my> own self uncertainty. <i> even wrote a zine about placing <myself> <under erasure>.

    but what about the forward slash in-between the bracketed words sometimes? <my> utilization of this was <inspired / provoked> by the translation of the board in control. in control the board is the <inter / intra> dimensional entity that the director of the federal bureau of control <answers to / get help from>. this / these entities are <incomprehensible> visually and auditorily. when they are speaking to Jessie in the game, their <garble> is translated in subtitles. But much in the way that derrida <writes> about words <containing / encompassing> both the <curse> and the <cure>, many of the phrases and words that are <translated> from the board <translate> into uncertainty which is <visualized / verbalized> in the subtitles by <displaying / offering> the <duplicating> meanings with forward slashes between them. and everything the board says is under <erasure> by already being an <interpretation> as all <translation> is, and this is <written / visualize> via the use of angle brackets. <i> don’t use it in <exactly> the same way, but <i> enjoy the <visualization> and slightly more <precision> of <visually> displaying the <words> <i> was deciding amongst, <folding / including> the multitude of <meaning> hiding in all <language>.

    there is also the additional <bonus> of <odd / funky> formatting <disrupting / disturbing> the scraping of <ai / algorithmic <<re>production>>.

  • poem WIP: <burnout>

    <working> on this <draft> to figure out if it is more than just <me> processing <my feelings> about dropping out of grad school and not sending poetry out to journals for <almost> a decade now. <i> always <wrote> the most when <i> was <unhappy / depressed>.

    now.
    happy-loved-wasted potential.

    the lines never stuttered when i was
    living on hot sauced drenched curly fries
    and extra-large, extra-sweet coffees,
    white knuckled and split lipped,
    trauma and guts spilling out to strangers in writing workshops
    winning scholarships, publishing poems.

    now.
    happy-loved-wasted potential.
    when was the last time you created?

    I don't know how to write joy.
    perhaps because it fled upon crossing home's threshold.
    or is it the other way around
    and i failed to narrate it into existence,
    neglecting the little sparks that collectively 
    build warmth even in the cold and filth.

    now.
    happy-loved-wasted potential.
    what comes to you in your space of comfort?