Message-ID: <Pine.NEB.4.63.0508202307330.26560@panix3.panix.com>
From: Alan Sondheim <sondheim@panix.com>
To: Cyb <cybermind@listserv.aol.com>,
"WRYTING-L : Writing and Theory across Disciplines" <WRYTING-L@LISTSERV.UTORONTO.CA>
Subject: we are making another day
Date: Sat, 20 Aug 2005 23:07:42 -0400 (EDT)
we are making another day whose death is this anyway whose life and if i kill myself i hurt i hurt everyone around me should one remain alive on the life support of the other necessarily there are complications they'd end fast, abrupt, what a selfish act, you'd have to keep on living, deal with them later that evening, feeling the same way for days this feeling will last it is an everlasting feeling these days one someone dies they leave a bad poem, for example, the they not he or she, as if a multitude were at stake or was, their fecund death, now that we have written ourselves in this fashion. i will add this or to this later, will now abandon, perhaps you have already, or would at this slightest sign as if this were a poem, it is not. but homeless it is, wayward it is, almost the contrary of the poem of death, sung on all occasions. death precedes me, processes everything. i am so selfish but as my last act i will leave no one behind, bang bang, you are all dead. the 'eh' sounds is the last sublime. what next. death always already approaches, never arrives, cancels everything in an unapproachable end, always near, breathing down the corridors of being. there is no other side, nothing to cross over but the arms as the coffin shuts, last and unregistered daylight for this body. i am on the last journey already, twilight heeds me, rides my back and shoulders until i'll finally touch the ground. now guess what our connection is down here and i'll come in and out just for a second goodbye goodbye and later, we have all made another day