This one’s black. As outside chance. Also bigger and unruly.
I don’t want to be locked up! I can’t quit thinking tone
Notebook hair mood
Doubt or teeth. Truth under fingernail. Tighter interval
Don’t eat that! But I am starving.
I forget the taste of Bounty. I could walk on 5th Avenue. I don’t listen to their Snickers. I look up at the Milky Way.
The same but darker. No, it’s lighter, cloudy
Then saw a comet
The thing about not cleaning himself
Girls are supposed to clean. I mean be clean.
But I am called Hildebrand.
Unless Holden Brent.
There’s constant changing.
With already five dead books: Oscillator, Ruled Notebook, Unruled Notebook, Flaming Sword, Hildebrand’s Travel Diary
so worn out
I can’t keep saying red
Also my v-neck sweater. It’s grey wool, I lent it to my little brother. Except he took it without asking. Also my pants that zip or my maroon nylon jacket that zips like before.
But brother and sister/brother should always share, especially if they exist in the
I unzipped my chest
I am not sure about the spacing and the timing.
Immanuel is useless here.
There is no God here. Wait. Excuse me, what does God mean?
My little brother is named Gregory unless Stevie. Unless he is my friend, like Fredric was Fredrick’s. I.e. Shelley was Hugh Dillon’s—but possibly not Holden Lem’s. Ditto Georg Howel was.
Isaak becomes Zak or Igor or Grégoire or Bogdan or Stevie
Fredric becomes Stevie
Friederik becomes Stevie or Cyrus or Cyril or Sheila
Georg becomes Gyorgy or Georgie or Grégoire or Stevie
Grégoire equals Stevie
Grégoire should be Gregory. No, Grigory!
I don’t know who my friends are. Are there friends? Or only rooms? They have books with names who can befriend you. Only the ones in books or who write them are my true friends and comrades.
A friendship could go down the drain of the sink. Then the drain is slow and clogged as if from lost hairs.
Your big head could sink low onto your weak chest, weigh it down.
Some people are funny and comfortable so the people laugh at them and adore them.
Some people have a system or found one so they are very popular.
I thought, Quit laughing at me. Forget your Aufhebung! I don’t want to be liked anyway.
It isn’t charming when no personal hygiene of the Jesus tits with the halo nipples. He was trans when they sewed him.
The problem is with reason i.e. discursivity
I don’t want to think anymore!
I need to eat. I am starving from a longing
Jeanne D’Arc was given bread and a tower and rhythms with repeats by Robert.
No guards to bring me toast
I am not protected here
She was not protected there
They spied on her through the small hole in the defense
My room is getting very serious like a situational semantics
I never read that book. It was brick red and thick with technique flakes and pump fakes.
Forget the logical machinery, it’s too heavy now that I am weaker. It hurt my wrist’s ambivalence
Hugh lost his Susette. Once I had a Suzanne. Later I had a Liliane i.e. a Lili. She would’ve made me toast.
I stand up to go eat. I miss my grey v-neck sweater.
There is no first principal but there is a first poem. Is this it?
Hildebrand Pam Dick (aka Mina Pam Dick, Nico Pam Dick et al.) is a writer, artist and philosopher living in New York City. Her prose and poetry have appeared in Tantalum, BOMB magazine, The Brooklyn Rail, The Portable Boog Reader 4, Aufgabe and The Recluse; her latest piece is forthcoming in EOAGH. Her philosophical work has appeared in a collection published by the International Wittgenstein Symposium (Kirchberg am Wechsel, Austria). Her first book, Delinquent, was published by Futurepoem Books in late 2009.