ditch,

the poetry that matters

Kane X. Faucher

Kane X. Faucher currently lives and works in London, Ontario. His activities span academic and creative enterprises, most notably in writing, continental theory, visual art, and music. He currently holds two degrees in philosophy and is working toward his doctorate in Theory and Criticism at the University of Western Ontario.

Dr. Kane X. Faucher is an FIMS/MIT Instructor; a freelance writer for Scene Magazine; co-editor of The Raging Face; co-editor of The Drill Press; and serves on the Editorial Board of Mad Hatter's Review.

He is the author of Urdoxa (2004) Codex Obscura (2005) Fort & Da (2006), Calqueform, Astrozoica, De Incunabliad (2007) and Jonkil Dies, The Vicious Circulation of Dr Catastrope (2008).

 

 

Action Items
Sorry: I am just a pilgrim in my own memory.
We could perform a salvage operation
And rather than reconstruct what once was
We can cast in bronze something new, 
          A new agglomeration, 
          A new social super weapon (perhaps).
There may be no elegant solution because  
This line you uttered before our silence – 
          You love but do not like me
Did indeed resonate in the ponderous state of
Protracted incommunicado.
Shall we reverse the order?
Make a new machine?
This time to feed it with grace rather than obsession?
I have a few things for you to read,
Where I clumsily try to set things aright in my mind without
Going over the old terrain, since I am just
A pilgrim after all in my own memory.
No sense restaging stale conflicts, my dear.
They can stand as warning markers, our sanitary cordon 
          Against perilous repetition.
Yours in the aftermath,
The Wizened Heart.

 

Syncategoremata
Fools think the author decides.
There is an ontological breach, of sorts,
a broken egg from which vapours issue
& this is the fundamental way
of appropriating all thinking into stinking
categories, the chop-shop mind, 
          a black hole - like renting or a mortgage paid
on interest alone (never to touch the tantalus' principal).
That wrinkled side of the patch of brain that
folds inward in contiguous union of
-unity manifold in sensu.
red over red
(on either side lunges blood)
over red
alone. Nothing decided,
but the emptiness of the context
delivers the way,
defines the motive,
makes us whole,
all moving with meaningful aimlessness.
So: ontology establishes no decent context,
but makes eggs -
pale blue eggs breaking
hatching nothing more than
author.

 

 

 

Ergo, nomics
I took aim at sun that day, 1980;

in it, a globule.

Exclaim once: "por-K, la pignorance?

Putty-coloured hands smoothing out the striations on a quilt.

If I am a shipwreck, then, yes, it means I navigate well

(as all things navigable go).

You made up a retort.

You did.

You matched my crotch-plug

with "lever in the beaver",

to which I quickly appended, "clit-mitt".

(we always have been, always will be, an ergonomics unto ourselves.)

 

 

 

 

 

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