this word died with God.

an image-of-a-thing is a thing-in-itself;
both are something, existing in relation to other somethings
which actually don’t matter.

one Past is just as important as another.
Nonfiction is dead, and we have killed Him.

the words that replace it, therefore, are Truth.

this word is often considered to be an opposite,
or at least an antagonist, to another word:
Fiction.

odd.

odd because the line between the two is so faint—
so twisted, perforated, and at times non-existent:

so fictional,
that it takes away from its historicity.

absence needs no word.
and yet no word can quite describe the lack thereof.
Nothing is a thing,
in that it is defined.
but then how does one define nothing?

saying Nothing, one says something.
it’s funny—
normally, when one says Something,
he’s actually saying Nothing.

a one-word mirror.
if we’re to believe those postmodernists,
what does this word mean?

am I a thing?

is ME an acronym?

What does it mean—
my empathy,
my ethics,
my eroticism?

Me is my energy, my
monastic experience, is
melting everything
into myself.

Me is passive, objective—I am not Me, because me
is an outside and I am the inside,
or at least I think I am.

the moment I become Me I am no longer I.

Letters to a Young Poet
Rainer Maria Rilke

Dover Publications offers an extremely affordable (at $5.95 USD!) edition, translated and edited with notes by Reginald Snell. I recommend this book for anyone and everyone of all ages and interests. The style of the writing is beautiful and the thought contained within is profound. Read this book if you wish to encounter a wonderfully idiosyncratic understanding of life and the other—one that may very well reshape or at least inform the way in which you think about love, art, and your own identity, creativity, and spirituality. Rilke reconciles mysticism with a nuanced sense of being-in-the-world in what is an instant classic for anyone who considers his or her self a ‘reader’ or ‘writer.’

FREE admission, open to the public.

3:00 PM

@

St. John’s University BFA Senior Thesis Exhibition
Kick-off reading

BE THERE!

bonanzajellybean asked: I just read through your haiku book and uh I'm stoked to sell it and pay off my loans once the rest of the world finds out how talented you are. See you on Saturday!!

Haha thank you! Saturday will be great, if I can figure out what poems to read…

A priest with a heavy accent presides over a first communion
and instructs all participants, proclaiming the ways of Christ:

                You have to obey!
                Be like Him! He was obedient, and you can be, too!

And this is when something within me regurgitated violently.
If you’re going to be a Christian, at least do it correctly.
Be consistent.

                                                Jesus was a rebel,
                                                Jesus was subversive,
                                                he had two dads, a long beard,
                                                and travelled his world on foot
                                                fighting the rich in every instant
                                                extolling the virtues of revolution.

                                Jesus was the second hipster,
                                Socrates the first.

At Holy Cross High School, the hippies are forced to cut their hair—
adopt more suitable politics—but what if Jesus went there?

In America the Christian Right Wing demonizes a figure like Che Guevara.
                                I’ll let that stand. Hopefully you get it.
                                                What I get at is inconsistency.

                You have to obey your mother and father!

I gag. The priest sites Christianity’s lineage from Abraham.
The same Abraham whose father fashioned idols,
the same Abraham who almost killed his kid because he heard voices.

The Christianity most people adopt
is actually a lot more like Islam or Judaism.
Actual Christianity is a lot more like Platonism or Buddhism.
It’s striking how many of these Christians are anti-Semites and hate Muslims.
It’s striking how many think  paganism is a bad word,
how many consider Buddha a cult figure, liken the system to myriad Manhattanites—
                                yoga mat under an arm on the 6 train,
                                drinking green tea in a small café
                                when they ought to be in Church.

                You have to obey!

You, my friend, need to go back and reconsider what you call your philosophy.

This is a lot of fun! Message me for info, or if you would like a copy.

COME SEE/ HEAR ME READ POETRY on Saturday, May 5th at the Dorsky Art Gallery in Long Island City! Inbox me for details!

http://www.stjohns.edu/parents/PR_ACA_120417.news_item@digest.stjohns.edu%2Facademics%2Fundergraduate%2Fliberal_arts%2FPR_ACA_120417.xml

Disclaimer: any affinity for [modern] Greek culture you may sense is a misinterpretation. No more will be said of this.

—-

My last name is Kritikos. Until recently, I actually had not given this too much thought. I figured it had something to do with a possible lineage from Crete, mixed up in a lack-thereof Greek record keeping, and didn’t care about it any further. But lately, I have been thinking a great deal about criticism… critique, theory, and all of those good (nerdy) things.

When I was younger, people always made fun of my name. Duh. I did it, too (and still do). But I’m almost embarrassed to say that just now I realize the eerie connection between my name and apparent position and/or path. My last name is the root of our English word “critic.” As an English major, and more generally someone concerned with the liberal arts, one of the essential elements of my daily life is what many people call “critical thinking.”

Maybe I am crazy, but I find this interesting. Now, I don’t believe in fate— and probably never will (tongue just about tearing through my cheek here)— but someone who does might easily see a connection between this name and my aspirations.

Is it my destiny to be a critic? I can’t say. But I do know that I wouldn’t mind it. My whole life, I’ve hated my name. I have never really understood the concept of names, anyway… what about this arrangement of letters is descriptive of my identity? Do I even have one of those? These questions can go on forever, and they’d get even more pretentious (if that’s possible) if I were to continue. What can something someone chooses about me, before I am born, say about me?

In any case, maybe now I find that my name isn’t so bad. Dean the Kritik. I don’t seem to mind this distinction.

I rush into everything
in order to relax after the fact
but if there is no fact
do we run to hit the ground?

Run, trying to make what’s lost found
and yet have trouble finding what’s in front of us
and we’ve got eyes less concerned with sights
than they are with justifications:
we think a thing, and so we see it
because if we don’t think
what we are looking at is a table
then it probably isn’t

and personally I don’t mind the idea
of eating at an amorphous
conglomerate of mixed materials
but brevity is the soul of wit, right?

Everything is either just about to happen
or just past. We run at first
to enjoy the stroll
afterward

one trillion -isms,
all of life as one prism:
but what’s geography before life?

and what of he who lives?
a triple fool.
and of he who doesn’t?

not much can be said

the ability to speak
and the ability to think
are cultivated contemporaneously
in such a way that all philosophy
is bound to the flaws of language
which is bound to the flaws of the intellect
founded upon it
and called upon it to create it anew

so in saying essence precedes existence
or the opposite
one says the same thing, only changing definitions

all -isms aren’t.
what is is ridiculous

I’m flying with scissors, my blades are my wings
handle with care

soaring over cop-killer Queens
box-cutter Bronx
the island of Staten
Manhattan
and Brooklyn, if I’ve got the time

flying with scissors
ready to cut myself or anyone out of history
ready to interrupt art
cast a shadow on the industry

post-industrial neo-hippie me
new Romantic new Socrates new Milton
new Willie Shake less Anonymous
in an apartment in Flushing
in a school in old Athens
and Germany circa nineteenth century
transposed where I want it, flying with scissors

cut, paste

control freak with a ctrl+C ctrl+V
copying everything
flying with scissors
I am everywhere

and at the same time, nowhere

all-in on the opposing end of Pascal’s wager
waiting to win everything
waiting for the lack thereof afterlife to claim the pot
waiting to call his bluff
and the sweet I-told-you-so consequence
is just contingent on the flop

the table is a punnet-square

He’s something like a fatalist, now
with a strong poker face
and doubtless some configuration in the pocket

the other two I almost don’t notice,
because really the only player worth beating
is Blaise himself

me, counting cards,
thinking about the implications of a strong pair
Dealer’s just about to turn the flop

and just then, the unthinkable

car comes crashing in through the window
killing everyone
and just before that card was turned!

And there’s no one who knows who won that hand
because our dealer is dead, too