The question mark defines our humanity, we are human because we have questions. Ask questions, always. Hang your humanity on it. i’m working a lot on sonnets these days; it is a wonderful form.

i’ll know you’re coming by | the momentary dip
in light. Describe yourself in the space of a quatrain.
i’ll take just 4 words & a ?: what makes me human?
The a priori tapped in human does the job
of cryptic semiotics | the crossword puzzle | hopscotch
of nouns & adjectives— is this the nihilism of progress
or the progress of nihilism? Reduction | acquiescence
or just plain sensible? i’d call it nothing short of deadlock.

This basic | we’re all odd & even: even with one another
& odd with the inestimable latitudes & longitudes
of the skull | which nature probably won’t survive.

The light still hasn’t dipped | you haven’t said a word |
while my 4 & the ? | remain hung on the air
in tension | daring to inform | our every move.

Posted by:DPM

DPM is an idea-logue (sic) and object-oriented speculative realist, attempting to be response-able in an irresponse-able society.

9 thoughts on “i’ll know you’re coming by…

  1. Thought-provoking as always, Daniel. 👍 Your work adds to everything I wonder about, and I agree that wondering makes us who we are. So the question contains its own answer, perhaps, or perhaps I should drink a little less coffee. 😄

    1. & as always i am glad it provokes. Of late, since spending some time with Camus for the first time, i am somewhat obsessed with the minute, for-granted-taken phenomena that distinguish us from the natural thing we are, the categories that set us aside, that make us human. It is just astonishing to me how much we take for granted our humanity, how easily it just might not have happened. All the problems & solutions, the questions, ideas, production, everything, is just so bizarre & unlikely. It has made me almost completely impartial to the whole existential anomaly that we are, ready just to observe & turn it all into poems of observation & oddness.

      1. Your statement about turning “it all into poems of observation & oddness” brings to mind Francis Ponge. Truly a poet of “things.” Have you read him? Camus was a fan of his, I believe, as was Sartre.

      2. i have never heard of Ponge actually, but he may be up my alley way. i’ll do a Google for now.

        These days i just can’t seem to distinguish what is of more worth than anything else. The only reason i haven’t just written about everything at once is because it is impossible. But i’m trying & someone may end up telling me to stop & filter. But they’d better have a good reason why.

        Thanks for the re-blog too, they’re always helpful. Was a laborious poem to get out so i am glad of the added exposure. i spent a great deal of time on the rhyme scheme. i don’t want the words just to rhyme, in unexpected ways, but i also want them to be a almost a microcosm of the poem, that from them you could almost reconstitute the poem, we’re they they only words you had. That’s obviously nonsense, but it was a good way to think in order to ensure that i could pack as much meaning into them as possible.

      3. Some big questions there, Daniel. You can always go with the anthropic principle– things are like they are because otherwise we wouldn’t be here to wonder about it. I think there is a spectrum, but I remember reading somewhere or other that our ability to maintain knowledge over generations gave us a kind of exponential advantage. At least as far as destroying the world is concerned.😜

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