Misanalogy & Agnoiology
April 27, 2008
False analogies exist–the argument from design [of watches] saw a metanarrative of Mechanism to its highest plateau. Is the argument from design monist or dualist?–A meaningless inquiry, and yet here we are. Some attempt a metanarrative by analogy, but, most times, these subtle tricks the “wise” handle do exactly what they were meant to do: explain something mundane, something practical, something meta-nothing! Analogies are used to relate something insipid to something uncharted and new, and with a minor degree of falsity, a successful connection is made. Down the chains of history, droll and profound analogies travel the sociolinguistic lines of probability of thriving. We might contemplate their ventures through unwary cultures, infiltrating norms, disrupting traditions–like rogues of meaning but containers of knowledge!
Agnosis permeates the cracks of public discourse; between each proposition masked in putative profundity there bleeds our dopey intellectual Oedipus. And who we blame is the mind while the brain absorbs us so, some of us to the bitter myopia of reductionism. Reified become our toys and childhood friends and our academic endeavors–in principle, so too our principles. Consigned to domains of idiocy become the cracks ostensible to our immature observations; we breed atheists who chide foolishly at the ghosts of the theists who rebuke no one but their imagined selves. Our private analogies please us not at all, and we look to battered knowledge from friends of friends. We pray that the analogy might convey something real, to place us within something definite and fixed. But I am afraid that too many misanalogies have been fed to us; we might call this human abuse, a form of child abuse. Now we suffer our own idle whines like wounded postmoderns.
#2
April 8, 2008
Hey now, that star is just a sun
Yet you grow weary of fun
We can go along narrow ways
Handling our hands in dismay
If you fall; if I stall; doubt not
My wont to care, it is my lack
Of grasp of Self to fit all of me
Into the world so thankfully free
#1
March 26, 2008
We're the interlocutors of proper problematics,
Infiltrating the meta-attics of your constant
Cognitivity; it’s quite a trouble, you say,—
Our roaming propositional convolution
We tune ourselves to afflictive resolution
In the face of your lovelorn pretexts,
And with convex contexts, our meaning,
Though complex, soothes, nevertheless, concepts
Death of Mind
March 20, 2008
On my humanity, I stand discreetly Smoke from fingertips; there arise Deep particles of Intuition; we beckon For complacency; but with rigor of mind Everywhere comes the darkest dreg of confusion Starlight and bulbs echo failed illuminance Trees bear beacons for hope of better thought The Black behind my eyelids reflects a world To the ubiquitous shallows of my Reason There I engage bitter cognition; higher, higher! Humans posit their causality, storing places For gross ideals which disturb the grid of Nature Of its axis, I am an origin that fits great Beings Together without falsehoods, without contradiction The rule of my Reason tells humanity to stop
Inoculator's Lament
March 8, 2008
Our expressions are latent with mistakes— Chisel that anecdote to the lobes of my ears, And I will perform questionable experiments, Legitimating its grammar along errant pathways Calculate the dexterity of my Reason: conclusions, I denote immanence with traps of certainty, Where with rhythmic tendency congenital earthworms Tremble in the presence of our faulty narrative We cabal of ears echo the misprints of our brothers, And our sisters rage with tits and minds bewildering Those writers and poets we ignore; their plight We implore; with threnodies we smash dated prophecies Historiography trains us in absurdity; never accept Hypocrites and bakers waiting, as a rise of theme Breaks the taboo—ensembles collide; to wit, Truths we speak drown in puddles of clever spit
stream #1
June 30, 2007
And as I persuaded myself to enjoy a smoke, I did so in the roaring quiet behind a present day tenement. From this painfully normal place, juxtaposed to lanes producing their howling from the city lions of manufacturing on wheels and fierce paws of thunder—
I contemplated the thoughts of a young man post-youthful endeavor. But since I am an absurd being, I found myself feeling as a whore and unfulfilled, and I was reduced to a suicide. My body ached for the earth, the prickly grass below, since the sterile form of metal pillars did me no pleasure to lean upon.
There I would lay upon those pricking agents of shades green with a most genuine beauty. My eyes found interest with the sky, from where most dreams begin, only to crash upon the dust of earth and humanity. A plane, there a lion of the above, dwelling solemnly in the confused everywhere of blue and sparse white smoke. It was clear way up there, and I could adorn this mechanical figure without error: red striped wings and gray exterior. It was as if I were peering into its window panels; light the delight of an enlightened bird. But no, I am below considering that once it disappears behind the horizon line of the roof of my tenement behind that I should die. It is the absurdity again and now which has stricken me into humility and fret. I do not shut my eyes, this plane will grant me release from the madness I assume to be existence. But no, again—another catches my eye. Some taunting asinine notion of the reborn infects my considering: a pity.
There I sit, defeated, with mine eyes now firmly fixed upon these weirding companions affixed therein my iris, plastered to the screen of my lenses. These amoeba-like instantiations of a varied molecular form; curse these unrelated creatures, jouncing and writhing, wiggling in my vision when I give them my attention, a detention into my mind. I am invested in my own stupor of entertaining and I dissent from thereto.
I dash my cigarette against the sole of my sandal. In distraction and moving on I find relief—I cannot be bound to anything at all. I am nothing to know, even to myself.