[Newspoetry] What is NewsPoetry?

[Donald L Emerick]

NewsPoetic Thesaurum:  What is NewPoetry?
Whoever uses a word ought to own that word as his own
or disown it when it proves troubling to fend off claim-jumpers
who would steal the hallowed, dry ground beneath your feet
if they could just erase your shadow, impressionism floating. -- Anon

Assassinate Associates of NewsPoems,
According to my ever revising version of Rabbi(tzim) thinking,
I write NewsPoems for anagraphic editions of a Book of Questions.

What Should a NewsPoem Be,
if an affirmative answer is possible
to what happens in our eyes and in our ears,
in our face, really, long before it penetrates
our inner faces, finds our inner voices mute,
our hands and feet bound, paralytic innervate?

Not that I hereby declaim the power of erasure, either,
or cartoonization of a cartel's representations,
which ever threaten to cohere into monolithic block.
Stronger bonds of affiliation compare repression blocks,
recognizing that, though resistance is futile, resistance is void,
yet resistance is all there is to life:
death in myriad ways threatens to become us daily,
hourly, minutely, making us ever smaller --
smaller than the first moment of time is a last moment.
So we struggle to become larger than life's moments,
we blow things up to watch pieces crumble about us.

Well, not all us, at least not all of the time, are dying to be dead.
there is a fire lizard roaming the world, for instance,
whose preternatural friend and presumptive companion
occasionally honors us with a gift of words on his lack-a-daisia,
which is still no lotus-eating land of louts loafing about,
but rather a slow, methodical sureness of foot-following mind,
not rushing opportunistically forward to seize every day,
in quivering rages of carpe-diem, a tunnel syndrome.
She speaks order against compulsive disorderliness,
takes command by disavowing any other authority,
than what the senses say seems sensible.
And, such is the tragedy of our times,
that this comes to us as the greatest news,
incredible really, even if she reports as I-witness,
because no one believes the simple truths
when sleek and shiny gas-guzzling lies are available.

There's nothing libidinal about the truth, so they say,
and I suppose that they would have to be right,
for who argues with the nameless and the faceless,
a chorus of authorities that constantly cite themselves,
self-perpetuation being the only natural law of survival,
when existence becomes an accident waiting to happen?

Well, NewsPoetry is like its ancestral cousin, NewsPottery,
from whom it ascends or descends,
depending on your relative location and sense of direction.
NewsPottery, you may recall, started as graffiti
wedgedly written on clay chamber pots of Baby-Lone,
that we now honor in graphs and graphite and gravity wells.

Along about the MiddleAges, half way up the ladder,
or down the rope, if you have this other sense of heading
(Derrida asks "Call it a day?" in the Other Head(ing),
ding-ding-ding-a-linguistic turning dinging-sich-ens me.),
comes the NewsPottery Wheel of Fortune,
the carousel of time madly turning on Jacques Brel,
whirl-a-gigs become visible animations,
dust walks randomly in the air and everything spins,
hands on clocks mirror galaxies far, far away.
Things no longer go straight out of sight,
they turn and bend around the horizon of round worlds,
before coming back around to hit us in the back of our heads.

Chamber pots now fill and overflow from golden arches,
no longer do we see pyramidic golden triangles of rules,
even though we have stretched out upon the third leg of time,
the one that makes us stable, the arc of hypo=tense=use,
or hypotenuse, as a quicker pace of an aboriginality says,
speaking of how we live in modern times,
as if we could choose to live somewhen else,
by fixing the game, prefixing it or suffixing,
stealing the vote before or after the fact of a voting,
pre-modern or post-modern or, even, ultra-modern,
all would be hypnotic hypo-tense-in-use,
although some scholars say it is hyper-tension,
a problem of excess and not a rarity's problem,
but this is just the ascent-descent argument,
coming around again to haunt us once more.

Something of the hypotenuse stands out, erect,
and yet it appears to bend subtly away from us, too.
This truth dialectically conspires in quanta contradiction,
which contraries no laws of logic, properly compelling,
but insists on the totality of the emptiness that fills us,
as it were, and speaking metaphorically,
as if after a Shangrill-ad's happy meal --
a fast meal for fast grunting, belching and farting,
the music of the spheres is a rude tune, indeed.

One thing leaps out at you, in newspoetic quantal logic,
but you could not say how fast it comes at you
and where it comes from in the same breath and breadth:
do you get soup or salad for dessert with any happy meal?
Quanta hut logic defi<l>es gravity, by leaping about,
first here, then there, always somewhere, always in a rush,
racing to get out of sight, but leaving a trace of itself,
so it never will come back there again,
damning to eternity the eternal return to God:
you can't go home again, kid, unless you are already always there,
a predestination's certainty that the game is rigged
when the players are blind-folded and spun around,
and told to pin tales on some honkey-tonkey ass.

So, Nietzsche was half-right:
leaping around in laughter
is the only thing making sense by denying sense
its all-consuming hunger for happy-ever-after meals,
though he may have messed up the reruns business,
blockbustering eternal recurrences of the same.

What?  Should a NewsPoem be?
Take a word, a phrase, a string of text,
the symbols of an icon's representations,
such as one hears in a unit of speaking,
or a unit of seeing, as a unity of feeling,
for thinks works only on units of thinking,
and then, assassinate associate, leap out
from darkest hiding places into darkest corners,
for night comes tonight, as day comes today,
and yet, they being equal, scarcely average gray,
unless you mix colors in painting pots or pa-y-per-us views.

Some call this demolitive deconstruction,
this underminding of foundations,
this going down under roots of mountains,
deep into the bosom of the sea,
to seek ever new highs,
by going ever lower than the lowest of the low,
an almost humbling, almost terrifying descent,
for an ascent into the maelstrom.
I could say Zarathustra said I should do this,
but I think he dyed of his experiences too soon,
thinking daybreaking was heat of noon(e) and all.

Deconstruct images never imagine
some principle of exhaustion applies,
some observation of marginality ensues,
Proust pounds thinking without horizons near,
nor with any rims for the cups of our tears,
when one shuts up shutters and shudders,
and shuttles back in a relapse, fall back in time,
withdrawing from the fronts of living thought,
until one collapses, exhausted in bed, in text,
deposited cement hardening word-phrase strings,
past remembering how they came to be here,
cold, unmoving fingerings of inanimate things,
noted as cuneiform hieroglyphic figurings
of digital's read-out redoubting itself.

Scars upon black rock, gray stone and white sheets
show the ongoing versions slow imaginary inversions,
grinding ages pass over other, older ages, accidentally,
incidentally leaving us postcards, mementos, artifacts,
insignificant details as after-images for parasitic pedants
to practice pattern prevailing pottery pmutilations
("m" is silent, don't you see, double 'n' senselessly),
soft-slimy green moss, furry-soft grass, covers all.

Is there no method, no form to associate, assassinate,
no rule for valid association, proper newspoetic death,
obituaries of times it writes auto-obituarily, arbor diem,
knowing that it has to speak before the echoes die,
before light fades and fails to shine,
of future beauty that never shows up,
concealing itself behind fan-dancing promises,
beauty that never dons a fig or figures to don?

If a NewsPoem were, there and then thinking occurs,
falls into agreeing judgments,
a concurring conquering dissent,
decently descending thinking rising up, ascending,
condescending postures for syllogistic truths,
that what is true for one is true for all that are that one:
in looking down the barrel of a gun, in a Musketeer's logic,
perhaps, true for all would be true for one or none,
such news being newspoetic truth,
timeless as all time is one time gone by,
one moment let go, escapes all time, passes me by.

This unity says what one is and what one is not, what is none.
By such acts of fealty do we foreswear others for one:
loyalty tests h-acknowledge out of truth's sovereignty.
Swear that one is true and only one is true,
or else face the rack and the racket club.
One subjects associate assassinates to objects,
their objections become ejaculate discard, mere discord.
Pretension requires daily news as deferential sacrifice:
demonstrate how all reduces loyalty to one,
how one loyally reduces, one for all, all for one.

Strained as the worried words of heartless headlines,
Stubborn cases hold out against the news centurions,
the worshipped Times and whipping Posts of Heralds,
who decree what news shall be, based on reader interest
that they inculcate and calculate, manage and herd,
looking for profit from tree farms requires many years,
Ents become Trees when Trees become Cli-mb-Ents
("b" silent is a rule herd when all and one hear nothing).
Stubborn cases resist reduction, remain apart from one,
become an other differing from me, oh clever otherman,
weave wider nets to blanket dissent, strangle and smother it.
Mothers and fathers, make it no strange bed-fellow,
for you sleep well when you sleep among friends
in the graveyards of sacred grounds for thinking,
no unholy things may be buried, nor in newspoems found.

When association is free, it tends toward infinity,
becomes prose as Proust says, meaning to show
how a moment condenses eternity,
an eternal fount of NewsPoetic writing, youth-in-asia,
of one from all or all from one, either-all-or-neither-none.

The question of madness in method is a method of madness in question,
getting at the character of things, gettings by things of character,
in ranting arrays of NewsPoetic essays,
anti-poets ante up news, ante up antics,
right up auntie's anti-semantics,
for the right of a frantic's way of a poem.

I sometimes equivocate, call this character assassination,
and do not call it by its other name, philosophy,
for that calls up lovers who do not stalk their beloveds,
praying for it to be prey, fit things for its play.
Chasing the would-be chaste, assassinate associates
maim, destroy and kill the alien in others,
who else flee strangely over far horizons,
far away retreating from those who would know
inviolate and inviolable chastity's pure virginity.
Necrophiliation -- associate assassin says --
puts philosophy down to earth,
reduces it to how one lives upon killing, gets what wants:
no one returns, empty-handed, from happy hunting grounds.
Thus, satisfy, for a moment and in a moment, insatiate need,
inexorable urgings, imposing pretenses of death as sleep.
Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah and hurry up, hurry right this way for a hanging,
haurangings hang over all, in public NewsPoetic executions!

"Motivation moves characters because it shows intent to act,
an intent behind every act, as people never act autonomously,
though they think they act individually, randomly, curiously."
They always pretend to play a game of chance
as if the game itself were one of their choosing,
one that they could abandon or alter at anytime,
if they could but overcome themselves and their addiction,
by merest intent, by wish fulfillment,
by dream make determinate scene,
throw curtaining veils of certainty over uncertainty,
make silk purses from sow ears and soft eyes.

The spinning methodology of NewsPoetic intent
questions every motive's mythological portent,
to find the entrailing signs of the Times,
to make bulging guts of glutting news,
where savory food passes into smelly fertile shit,
show us how it works in glutinous gluttony:
GastroNominy gazes at stars grazing on names,
writes horror-scopes of its present of prophecies.

The mythology of intent invents fabulous beasts,
incarnate gods explain the otherwise inexplicate,
explain daily departures from ordinary normalcy,
where flights of the imagination are never on time,
and never come to any landing except a crash:
there are no soft-landings, no safe-havens for souls,
they take-off, they fly, they crash and burn.
It's really quite simple, ordinary normalcy,
for it needs none of mythologic's mystiques,
wherein good only comes to the good or bad falls only on the evil,
a one-to-one moral correspondence thesis that NewsPoets know
as contrary to fact, contradictory to the true states of affairs,
where good most often falls on the bad, and bad on the good.
Thus, NewsPoets only ask for Justice, a balance of states,
and want no happy ending in which the good live happily ever after,
wholly untroubled by the fate of the wicked, an unhappy lot,
who would have only gone on to their just desserts, too, after all.

Why should I be happy were evil to die unhappily,
and suffers omni-penal-ultimata thule forever?
ParaNormal NewsPoetry is neither abnormal nor anti-normal.
for it is paramoral, paramour of all living things,
paramourning death overtaking all, covering all.
It is this covering veil of death that makes man choose,
for man believes the veil is nothing more than a division
between moral universe and some other hyper-moral place,
hypo-moral, as I would say, based on reading morality plays.

How does one do that, this NewsPoetic transformation? --
How does one replace good by evil except by being evil to good,
and returning good to evil, for this is the way prophets laid down?
Does this upset the balance of nature, destroying evil's ecology,
Depriving it of quid-pro-quo characters, for welfare state habitat?

Assassins of associate character inverse multiply, divide,
into becoming mere characters of associate assassins:
philosophers in extent of their rule over their own kingdoms,
their own domains of thinking, of how it may be what it could be,
doing nothing but killing time, as it were, hunting it bare-handedly down,
returning from NewsPoetic hunt, pelts and carcass in hand, triumphant.

An individual could never have a NewsPoetic philosophy, anyway --
never seize it, nor even grasp it, but only chase it ever after,
in questions without end, beyond the walls of the cave,
where no philosophers live, out in the normal and real world,
where assassins without illusions prowl,
bringing no myths about deaths they bring,
always already quite cheerfully, usefully, to others.

NewsPoetry is circumstantial opportunity taking,
a murdering of myth and a myth of murdering.
It is one and all, some and none of everything and nothing.

Thanks for listening,
Donald L Emerick
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