“The Theory of “Subjectivity in Moby-Dick”
the truth, let us do
it miscarried the primitive
for a deviant, at first delay
The ... ous author
Clear the whole Clear where you wrote "that and what"
No blood is good blood purchased with a Franklin.
all confess to whole adventures.
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Chapter 1
Having little or no subjectivity brought into the world carrying cargo or amor or moral precept to the street.
Mount it high, this substitute for piracy sought and Lenten, mid-town is the Bath pooled and previous Were lovers there some afternoons?
Avenues, when awkward, peep, but the haunches and plaster tied to what is gone:
Once marketed for drakes, take whims or experiments: metaphysical procedures wedded to You (subjectivity, again)
The dreary sleep in the governor's cottage amazing us with handfuls of silence, refusals of purpose:
Will Narcissus result in carnage, we should shout that something is said about Image.
or something of everykind whatsoever say "myself."
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& shards. Their huge night behind them when "I," so to speak, "go to sea," I go by the royal dumb-down in the foyer to make rosy shadows. Of you.
The tallest assume "you" with concoctions of identity, but ever-alert, what about -roon blood, old sea captains, cup & punch, other kinds of servants of metaphysical trouble?
Whereas, "you" are never heard of.
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Constant. Constant stands alone, free in pure air of stern axioms far more private for their atmosphere, Pythagorean violations. Their stink of Fate that dogs me.
What better Whole is bloody as those stagnant parts of circumstances which being curated means the state, the ship of state, Constant.
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Chapter 2
Reaching inhaled reaching, followed by or tucked in as most stop at this place.
A place of departure where headrests, sleep, originals are required: cement banisters merge public and private lives, how can order disguise the bows, bowsprits, etc.
Frost lay. I said to myself, as towards identity and self-naming, lower your bag and cover the darkness toward expensive pavements and pumice the secret inwardness. It's all self, all society, dreary streets and buses on from here and hereafter. Moving absorbs many of the works in public, so encased in ashes, in poor boxes.
A common place. I muttered bathetic entertainment by the weeping negro church. I suppose I might look enough, seem sufficient that tenting indoors, that judgment more than ever divides. Matchless is the miracle on the outside where the window frosts only one-way. Northern lights raise the dead man within, silken his pillow lengthwise. Now fiery, more of this scrape and plenty.
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Chapter 3
Defaced by a system you could unaccountably call the narrative portion of the History of Art. Conflated with roadside attractions, here's an idea as long on authenticity as poems from a unified subjectivity.
Sublime as an oath --to be defaced, unrecognizable, calling down interpretation on oneself. Trembling ivory, aggregates of artists' designs aged and tinctured. With such low sojourns, the long-arm of weeping tyranny harvesting what years afterwards entered the category "rare."
This mark, this soporific, that clever way to make the product look big. Take a seat. Good green steaks, cramped and ragged, they seed her. Frozen jackets, a good full six days to express identity by sleeping two in a bed. I'll try.
the jumping off place to the outer seas, the weather-side of structure, unknown companions; evil suppositions by Sunday awaken conclusions. The clutter of implements mounted here turn utility to historic trophy to faceless, headless objects of conversation barwise. What belongs to what? A pasture for slander, this is me and my parts.
sight, hence built on rumor and imaginings.
It's time. Time divides sacred and profane in this harbor. Young marriage, damaged children. Satisfactory as a harpooneer, I am never satisfied to hurry over remembering pantaloons at last made a good offing. It was cold.
His cheeks and marks might be noticed, inklings of elsewhere, canary effects of tomorrow. Squares have a sameness, yet do they extend or segregate ignorance? Patterns provide a means, a similar manner previous to frogs and strangers.
A polite manner can be a pattern, too. An idol in ashes, a puffed out chest, a blurry reading of the skin.
Your head. In the dark "I" yell for coffin, for angels, for cloudy reassurance because "I" have yet to stop my old broken reading that betrays "me" now.
Reprinted from Representing Absence ( Los Angeles: Green Integer, 2004). Copyright ©2004 by Deborah Meadows. Reprinted by permission of Green Integer Press.
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