Google Poem #1: Bad Relationship

Familiar with (and covetous of)
a nice pleasure horse barn,
she quit me
several years ago over my fees.
Was the Earth made to preserve
a few covetous, proud men to live at ease?
And she grows stuff in old things
like sinks and tubs and whatever,
a pit or dry cistern built underground
And every inch of garden ground ... poured of these.

No immoral or impure person or covetous man
had proceeded [sic] them, and soon everyone had to live with
His daily haunts.
I well discern the poultry yard,
the shed, the barn.
"Effeminate, effeminate man,
sissy,
puff;"
It had been a spiteful encounter.

Poem created by googleing random pairs of words and copy and pasting the descriptions of websites in a semi lucid way. This poem features "covetous barn."

Should I Write?

Oh yes, I will write
over and over and over,
alright?

Is it okay to fight
the urge to write
because I don't feel
the striking urge
to write today.
Nor tonight.
Nor tomorrow. Maybe
the day after, perhaps,
but the urge is slightly
lighter than starlight,
a shining spotlight
on blighted nightscapes.
Fuck writing.

The Slilence

The slilence is the sound
of no sound sliding backwards
feet first, nose pressed to the edge
of the crease where no crease is.
The sound of no sound is loud,
and stick and branches clatter
louder than the slilence in still wind.
See the limp flag sagging in the stillness?
The sound of that silence deafens.
That which hears the prick of pen
on paper plate, or pen on skin
strains to hear the breath of the slilence
wrapping itself around the universe at night.

The Slilence Journal: pt. 1

I feel that I need to take the time to transcribe this journal entry regarding the slilence, the concept that will revolutionize poetry and make me my millions. It is largely unedited (certain events and concepts have been clarified for those who are not me). It was written very late at night a month or two ago. It begins now.

What is the slilence? It is the most pretentious concept I have ever envisioned. It is absurd and stupid. It makes other stupid ideas seem that much smarter. It is like taking salted peanuts into the desert and forgetting the water, only stupider and more absurd. It is an exaggeration held together by the elastic of the universe. Did I mention it's pretentious? It is.

The slilence is, as I am envisioning it, the sound that the absence of sound makes as it moves away from you at speeds greater than the speed of sound. Sort of a Doppler shift of silence. The silence moves beyond the speed of sound, thus creating the slilence.

Here's how it all started, the whole worthless mess. It started at Rubber Gloves in Denton before a concert. I was being stupid and felt left out of whatever conversation that was going on, so I said the first thing that came to mind. Here's a very brief summary of the genesis of the slilence:

A twenty poem cycle written in a single night about the sound of silence going down a huge cosmic slide. Hence the name, slilence. I was only joking, but then the thought of something so enormous and terrrifying as a silence greater than silence started to really fuck with me. Thank the Jesi I don't do drugs. My whole fucking Amtrack would've been derailed. So I decided to go ahead with the concept, but got rid of the deadline.

My Art will not be constrained by mere time.

The twenty poem cycle will deal with--and attempt to put into words--the ways in which the slilence is felt in everyday life, either audibly or metaphorically, sometimes theoretically and fictitiously. The last page will be black with two small circles at the top right and bottom left corners with thin black lines connecting them. It will be a visual poem. It will also be mostly incomprehensible. The cover will probably involve black hole clip art and a tasteful sans serif font.

THE END of the journal.

This post is so pointless. Why publish the explination of a poetry cycle that doesn't yet exist, especially a poetry cycle that will receive next to zero exposure? Why should an artist validate his methods? Why do I seek to constrain instead of create? The final visual poem strikes me as incredibly ineffective. If the distance between sounds is expanding as fast as I believe it is, why should this be represented on the finite blackness of a page? Shortly after its conception, the metaphor would no longer apply, since the sound circles will have moved even farther apart--off the page. This requires more thought. Can such a concept exist as a snapshot or is the ever growing vastness between sounds impossible to capture?