.

1001

there you go again, 

desolately crazy rhizo

bloggist writing rap-shod 

on a grafitti web of desire, 

eyes eclipsed by your screen-

wielding cut-up collages 

with stolen wireless and 

talking to poor dead Deleuze 

as if he were still taking 

off up into outer space 

in his dancing shoes 

high in the sky, so maybe 

I'll steal your fonts and 

your alignments, ignore 

your sideways glances 

and contemplate poetry 

as a kind of crucifixion 

that poets nail down 

words with because 

yours is metrically

antithetical,prefaced 

on a faster page loading 

King Kong theory 

ladled with the laws 

of laithest levitas 

How else can one write of those things
which one doesn't know, or knows badly?
It is precisely here that we imagine having
something to say. We write only at the
frontiers of our knowledge, at the border
which seperates our knowledge from our
ignorance and transforms the one to the
other.

Only in this manner are we resolved to write.
To satisfy ignorance is to put off writing until
tomorrow -or rather, to make it impossible.
Perhaps writing was a relation to silence
altogether more threantening that that,
which is supposed to entertain with death.
_______________________

Gilles Deleuze, Difference and Repetition (.)