Nicky Tiso is a student studying literature and creative writing at the Evergreen State College in Olympia, WA. His work has been published in No Record Press' 2008 The Red Anthology, as well as Slightly West, Evergreen's literary journal. He is now co-editing submissions for No Record Press, and editing Inkwell, the student guide to writing at the Evergreen State College.
it is what we do
it is what we do;
haha, I cry.
who plays host in this industry?
able to produce its own "reality"
of all that fame
to detect a pattern and a play of forces searching for that identity inside language
who plays host to this striking unity?
our skin on the billboard
we follow that space, this is that space
a rhythm seeking revival
the emotive vessel of disavowal from ourselves
"the unthought is the ground of all thinking"
insofar as it's useless
this writing itself challenges to not succumb
we build maps to guide us towards mysteries
so how do we move?
waves upon waves of narratives that one cannot trace back to one
within this rigidity we grind and push
reading becomes an act of rebellion
against barren dogmatic principles
that comes with it
we know this
an interaction on par with "reality"
for that would insinuate the holocaust as the pinnacle of cultural achievement;
how's that for hidden?
for that would insinuate progress
leading us away from the landscape already traversed and colonized
we expose our hidden commitment to things
a space for space
"the splintering word within every word and the piercing cry that is the unhealable wound of language"
but the burned bodies lay testament to a hollowness we cannot echo
and there are no wrong turns
when there is no ideologically free form of language to inherit
the pursuit of non-knowledge
under the monolithic sway of that particular darkness from which my eyes do not turn
the whole is the false
but what is happening?
consumerist state of tongue
shedding like snake skin
reading becomes an experience
to create our own space
peeling in the sunlight,
as it transcends the physical between all subjects, geographies, ideologies
capable of deconstructing or reproducing every level of interaction in sociality
even my homework, quantified on the refrigerator
the spectacle writhes
nor are there beginnings
as it defines movements – financial, human, material
convulsions produce meaning
multiply the space
of a continent dressed in violence and market sensibility
we are each, in our own way, in our own wounds, discovering the methodologies of healing
the unintelligible demands we have muttered so our silence can be heard
the perpetual revolution; the to what? from what? for what? is the question we don't answer
we are each, in our own way, in another's words, discovering ourselves in otherness,
the question is continual
the rest is quarantined
a rejection to closure by a swarming pool of writers whose views coalesce within
"the sterility of the bourgeois world will end in suicide or a new form of creative participation"
in the space of such definitions,
that pattern is a play of forces that criss-crosses into a moaning drive of material;
we choose both so as to prolong the diagnosis that we are dead
once upon a time All functioned as a totality to the ideological network of a concealed monopoly
as it follows highways to their undeniable ends – the spaces where monsters are kept,
as the damned, we embrace
to bask in the non-glory
lest we run out of reasons to write
we enlist a surrogate self to compose existence and make amends through irony
once upon a time, identity became imitation
points of contact became painful mimicry
that comes with it.
We know not what we do.