Solving Differential Equations
I am getting old. I still demand miracles. I am headed for a closet gaudy w/memories. Each brick bails, trying to understand is masturbating in quicksand. poetry is resistance but so much dirt is stirred the water comes cloudy resinuous w/confusion. Score: anarchy one, god one less. I like: the way things can sound, pleasure in a relief map, my own desires.
I know I will never understand. This seems to be a rule/to keep things interesting. The game is just poker: You grab instinctually for the high hat, you bluff the players, or you sit hard on the few cards you have. So I lose to keep everyone happy, and in the game (mother assigned me this role). But it grows in me that losing is now my process. My luck runs against me when I need to win. I can't bluff, forgotten how.
Playing understanding game/god=disappointment. Can I tell you how? To stand shitless with wizards, your rings owning your fingers. We play it/again. You love me? Oh maybe you/hate me. Up this mountain, on this vocal track/your father or brother or a madman or a magistrate, someone from the front office wearing a tourniquet/we live so close to the ballooon's skin. All I see now is molecular interface; plasma bondings are prayers trying to hold this humanness together. But dissolution seems inevitable.
Another tone poem, cleaned up, from the late 1970s. There are some truthy statements in there, as Colbert would say. The business about letting other people win was something my mother required me to do as a child. I believe it truly colored everything I have done since. It combines with my younger brother Greg's absolute need to win at everything. So he win, and I lost, and here we all are, some years later. I don't talk to him, needless to say. But he didn't talk to me, first. There you have it. Another Osburn family fuckup. Not much left of Don and Margaret's vision of their children. Well, I hate to include my Dad, as he really seemed to love you no matter how screwy you were. But my mom really needed to be important and she needed her children to give her talking points and be important too. Nothing else seemed to matter to her. Probably that isn't so, but it's what I took away from my childhood.
This piece is dense, but it was worse. I cleaned it up quite a bit. Hopefully one can get something useful out of it. The ring reference is of course to the One Ring. I owned no personal rings at this pint in time, and actually in my whole life the only ring I have ever consistently worn is the one I wear now, the token of my marriage to Kimb Britton. My lucky ring, you could say.
I know I will never understand. This seems to be a rule/to keep things interesting. The game is just poker: You grab instinctually for the high hat, you bluff the players, or you sit hard on the few cards you have. So I lose to keep everyone happy, and in the game (mother assigned me this role). But it grows in me that losing is now my process. My luck runs against me when I need to win. I can't bluff, forgotten how.
Playing understanding game/god=disappointment. Can I tell you how? To stand shitless with wizards, your rings owning your fingers. We play it/again. You love me? Oh maybe you/hate me. Up this mountain, on this vocal track/your father or brother or a madman or a magistrate, someone from the front office wearing a tourniquet/we live so close to the ballooon's skin. All I see now is molecular interface; plasma bondings are prayers trying to hold this humanness together. But dissolution seems inevitable.
Another tone poem, cleaned up, from the late 1970s. There are some truthy statements in there, as Colbert would say. The business about letting other people win was something my mother required me to do as a child. I believe it truly colored everything I have done since. It combines with my younger brother Greg's absolute need to win at everything. So he win, and I lost, and here we all are, some years later. I don't talk to him, needless to say. But he didn't talk to me, first. There you have it. Another Osburn family fuckup. Not much left of Don and Margaret's vision of their children. Well, I hate to include my Dad, as he really seemed to love you no matter how screwy you were. But my mom really needed to be important and she needed her children to give her talking points and be important too. Nothing else seemed to matter to her. Probably that isn't so, but it's what I took away from my childhood.
This piece is dense, but it was worse. I cleaned it up quite a bit. Hopefully one can get something useful out of it. The ring reference is of course to the One Ring. I owned no personal rings at this pint in time, and actually in my whole life the only ring I have ever consistently worn is the one I wear now, the token of my marriage to Kimb Britton. My lucky ring, you could say.
Labels: Don Osburn, Greg Osburn, Margaret Osburn
posted by As Bjorn at 2:57 PM
1 Comments:
I enjoyed it, although "enjoyed" isn't quite the most apt word in the dictionary. It is, as you say, obtuse, but I liked it that way-- the slashes and equal signs made me think of a mathematical equation, so the fact that it was kind of vague and written in a very "that is this meaning this meaning that" chronological manner makes sense to me. It's like a theorem that doesn't quite explain what it's attempting to, probably because such an explanation is impossible to come by.
Family is silly. Your first line is perfect.
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