Monday, June 17, 2013

Starbursts of Tourmaline

Your authenticity was your subordinate
The vessel of your branded nature
A dispassionate ambition like paradox
That held together your corporate person
A categorical imperative
Compartmentalizing the stream of your thoughts
While it universalized your every action
Bled you out
The ghosts of your passions
Driving you along
To your self prophesied destinations
The reason you controlled

Did the grass that lines the freeway
Speak to you through glass?
Remind you of lives past
And deserts crossed
And auras that filtered your dreamy eyes
Through mirages of perfection?
Stepping stones across the midnight river
Lighting starbursts of tourmaline
A neutralized positivity
Collecting the energy of your thoughts
And scraping at the mildew
That rid the crevices of your black schorl
From the shining of themselves
In the laughter of a hardened cynic
Collecting his souls’ reflections
Breaking stones to free the layers
A relentless psychologie


Jason Greendyk, www.jasongreendyk.com

Tuesday, June 4, 2013

Seven Strings of Freedom: A Poetic Treatise on Incompleteness

THE MIDNIGHT RIVER PRESENTS
Seven Strings of Freedom: A Poetic Treatise on Incompleteness
Seven Strings of Freedom:
A Poetic Treatise on Incompleteness

Dear Friends and Colleagues,

Please partake the light release of the Seven Strings of Freedom: A Poetic Treatise on Incompleteness.

I am pleased to announce the seventh climactic book of my dearly held and meticulously relinquished purity of thought. As the midnight river runs on and the silences of the current fashion run deep, it is imperative the intellect heeds the influence of interest and vogue. The parallel lines of black and white thought trail off to the ether of digital infinity, as the colors bleed together quite compassionately. Contained in the midnight river is the affectionate aftertaste of the byproduct selvage of emotion occasioned through the idealized streaming lines of reason. Reflected in the waters is the constellation of the child who clings to your soul absent of a mode of production and narrates your reality in the shadows of the post-contemporary copy, where the soul of the world always aspires to be more than what it is.

In spiritus mundi. As the historical moment of technological Western enlightenment isolates more and more the subjective individual in the semblance objectivity of collective opinion guided by the consensual interlineation of trends, our souls record the poetic redundancies already seen in the common mode of thought that retain our personal identities as we are always moving forward towards a united existence. And as we gently row our boat up the stream of thoughts that runs through the desert of language from our inspiration, life becomes a dream realized hidden somewhere in between the lines. An omen at sea under a carnival of sky and open before us, tabula rasa.

The Seven Strings of Freedom represent seven conceptual threads spun out from the woven fabric of a capitalist lifeworld and in my subjective deduction characterize the generalized post-contemporary laissez-faire disposition. In the book, the poet engages the concepts in a dialogue veiled in the technologized conversation of poetically aliased people (the aliases based on the poetic redundancies of my personal identity) via email, text, social media and blogging. In essence, it is an interchange between my individual personal identity and its rationally delineated components in relation to collective identity as represented by real or imagined interaction with others. A poetic, essential schizophrenia defined by the rationalizations of an infallible ego as it repeats the infinite feedback loop that formulates your perfection.

The threads are run through needles pinned to the pyramid scheme of capitalized material progress, yet fall from perfection in elegant curves of spiritual gravity. They trail off to an incomplete notion of the corporate person and beg the question of the pyramid to uproot itself and distribute the wealth from the one to the many, from the midnight river to the sea, as nature would have it be. We wait on the morning star, the second coming, the dawn of a new world order. And the unique position of today’s humanity is the ability to balance the evolutionary, hard-wired drive for perfect order with the natural tendencies of chaos to produce and maintain a peaceful homeostasis. Perfection is out of reach, while apocalypse is a real possibility. Hence we are incomplete.

The mathematical theory of incompleteness states that no consistent system of axioms that can be defined by an algorithm is self-contained. For any such system, there will be statements concerning the natural numbers considered true that cannot be proven within the system. Therefore, any formal system – mathematical, political, spiritual or otherwise – which demonstrates consistency is reliant upon contradiction and thereby inherently inconsistent. Likewise for our identity, collectively and as individuals. The mathematization of self-fulfilling prophecies demonstrates our ties to the world, the dialogical relationship wherein rationality and rationalization are spun in one thread. Déjà vu au courant.

Humanity is not self-sufficient. No individual is self-sufficient. No concept is self-sufficient. We rely on the other for the grounding of our existence. Humanity depends upon the continuity of truths outside itself for its own continuity. Circular concepts demand shared and negative space and opposing points. So come together big ideaLs, concepts and that which therein is reflected on the late passing of the midnight river. Let us find the balance.

As I write these words, I can feel the incessant semblance of positive, forward market motion pulling me from the wall of the abyss. But I stared at the wall long enough to see through (pure physics), and the gates of heaven are open, kingdom come what may.

This press release, and its subject, are the mere introduction of the poetic concept of incompleteness, broadly construed. I dearly hope to voluminously expand upon the concept in the arts, academics and business for as long as I live. If at any time you perceive any opportunity for collaborative effort or discussion toward any material or intangible end, please feel free to contact me directly.

And please do consider purchasing the book from LULU.com. This seventh piece is my first truly seminal work, and the beginning of a lifeworld’s work after seven long days of Creation. And, remember it is the quality of the imaginary numbers you count running through your head and leaping over the fence at the end of the day that will allow you to rest in peace.


All the very best,

Jason Greendyk
1-973-943-1039
www.jasongreendyk.com

Saturday, May 25, 2013

The Litany of Winds

Uncanny dreams
Filled the wind blown afternoon
In the light passes of pastels
To disassociated memories
Linked in the superstitious synergy
Of small world occurrences
An externalized repression
Of a reflection on sociopathic dissension
Thy positivity a manipulative romance
Coupled with thy external victimization
Casting the negative energies
That compressed thy psyche
Into concrete spaces
Defined by the straight lines of reason
Off to the voluptuous wind blown sea
Mother Nature's evening disguise
Con Lady Luck
Enveloping the other shore
The afterlife post traumatic experience
A rebirth where kind appearances
Replicated the authenticity
Of thy silences
Like a poetry in motion
Dancing close to thee
A deep blue wild flower of the ocean
The substance of myths
What prophecies have imagined
In the shallow reflections of Narcissus
What truth bespoke
From the imagined meniscus
Of flat surfaces
Contained in the deep sleep
Of reconstructive depression
To slow the wind blown numbers
Scattering thy mind
And find their order
In some astronomical alignment
Resounding through the billowing clouds
Of your deep felt dreams
Roaming pastel colored walls
To the last bellow of the organs
Thy self directed analyses
Left thy soul imperfectly becoming
Through self referential first impressions
Come close to swoon
In the wind strewn delusions
Of intersubjective atmospheres
Staring back at you vie dreamy eyes
Some litany of winds


Jason Greendyk
www.jasongreendyk.com

Monday, May 6, 2013

Earth's Vain Shadows Grew Long


A generation had passed in senseless chatter
Souls stood one with bodies
Arisen from the ground
Beneath the trees
Where the birds are always singing
And now a mockingbird stood out on a limb
The irony as I stood to the left
In the legacy of the heretical redress
And in my thoughts 
Was the essence of my passage
Ghostly and grave in grace
As shadows filled thine eyes
With the offerings of the blessed
The short words that would color
The spaces of your ego
The long pauses of music
A silence that filled your soul
As you stood long and close
In the distant relation
Of your vagrant wanderings
The essence of your adventurous spirit 
Lived on
As Earth’s vain shadows fled
From the words that would captivate them

A romance language
From a late swim on the midnight river
Seeped through the gaps
In the enclosure of the light
Yes the light at the end of the tunnel
Fled through the crevices within your psyche
Like a vine enveloping your thoughts
The great imaginary number in the clouds
That pulled you through the veil of life
To the other side of things
Where the straight lines of reason
Bled together quite compassionately
And your yearning for peace and quiet
Became a hollow echo in the tunnel
As you gasped for breath
Through putrid fumes
Of resonant exhaustion
Your thoughts muted
In the daily consumption
Of chemical essences
That lent your grunge
A contemporary shine
Echoing in circular appearances

In your last gasps
Did you stare straight through the wall?
Did your penetrating gaze
Discern the light
That enveloped the enclosure 
Of your thoughts?
That kept you warm in your dreamy weariness
Your nostalgic passes and latent wishes
Could have been


Jason Greendyk, www.jasongreendyk.com 

Tuesday, April 2, 2013

In Celebration of National Poetry Month

All things became infinitesimally small
As your mane covered your eyes in the April wind
The empty stirring of the fallen colors
An embedded memory of relentless desire
To spin your soul on the tireless loom
Out the dull (roots/rotes) of a poet’s fury
Changing as the seasons
For letters to stones
Poetry is a shallow pool
Following the perpetual spring rain
To the birth of the passion flower
Love timeless
And only in the sheer black reflection
Was the depth of your sky reflected
A deep pond’ve kept you hidden in the shimmer

A jester danced across the street that held you
A dog laid paws on the sheer marble
Like it was a well
And a trumpet sounded from the center
Usher April’s trinity reborn
The wandering of your circular line of thought
A spiral staircase trailing off to heaven


Jason Greendyk, www.jasongreendyk.com 

Thursday, March 21, 2013

Lamplighter Magazine Reviews The Apple Juice

Sarah Tibbling from New Jersey's Lamplighter magazine was kind enough to review my book, The Apple Juice, for their December 2012 issue. As the magazine is only in print, you may read below her thoughts on the epic poem of rollerblading. You may purchase the issue here and visit Lamplighter's website here.


Poetry Reviews
The Apple Juice
Jason Greendyk

I never thought these words would escape me in this permutation: it appears that Jason Greendyk is the Allen Ginsberg of rollerblading. Greendyk’s The Apple Juice is a dreamy, sprawling epic poem about the unique and overlooked sport of rollerblading. Spliced with color photographs, The Apple Juice fervently explores a world whose inhabitants grind along the rails of broken down east coast, run from the cops, and become their own gods. Greendyk writes, “[Rollerblading] is an act of creation, and an act of freedom…that is, it is to play God, to create something out of nothing.”

In The Apple Juice, we find ourselves submerged in what feels like an urban wasteland. Greendyk, a life-long blader and poet, lives in Jersey City, “on the fringe of the ruins of industry,” and this quality makes itself apparent in his work. Allusions within the first few pages hint at local Jersey spots – “Riverside Hill’s steep dirt rails,” “Cross the GWB / To lurch the fine dining cliffesque slopes of Edgewater.”

While The Apple Juice exposes us to the unique subculture of the wheel-footed, the manner in which Greendyk chooses to write these poems is additionally intriguing. The language used in the book was intended to tie “the loose strands of language into knots, yet maintain their identity, as is the current state of cultural diversity, and tend towards a united existence, bridging gaps of class in its numerous denominations.” But the piece seems to fluctuate between the colloquialism of a teenage boy and the verbosity of a highfalutin beatnik: “Fuck man it’s all for the sun’s rising in love at the sun’s setting in hate.”

However, when we comb through the expanse of The Apple Juice, we are left with nuggets of insight and a new kind of truth. One of these truths seems to be that it often takes courage to do the things that we love, and that this is particularly relevant for the sport of rollerblading. “We are the pussiest men of all you see … Fighting for acceptance … This acceptance is being drowned / We need air.”

Many moments within its pages are big and brave; ultimately, The Apple Juice calls out to us in its own way and shows us how we can sculpt our own lives into meaning and, barring the cliché, to grab life by the blades. It keeps us guessing – it is injected with the kind of youth that both alienates us and draws us in, that at some moments feels grandiose but at others is truly poignant.

//Sarah Tibbling, Lamplighter


Jason Greendyk, www.jasongreendyk.com
 

Sunday, March 17, 2013

Soul Theft (The Highest String of Freedom)

From the darkest of your furthest reaches
The sun came arising in bitter jest
Grit your beautiful heart
And smile for the camera
As the open shudder of the black angel’s wings
Steals your soul clothed
In the white music of the spheres
The collective voice of the ages bellowing white noise
At the pinnacle of Reason
The church bell tower
Hiding behind the clapping shutters of imaginary numbers
The black angel snapped for a moment
And let in only enough light
To cast a brief shadow on the wall
A silhouette against Reason
Veiled in the transparent curtains of corporate etiquette
Shrouded in voices not your own
An ideological commitment to the poetry in vogue
And embracing the poems in law
I do accept your hand in the marriage
Of work product and the soul
Corporate persons with intellectual property
Standing as individuals of the collective
And how does it feel to be off the wall?
Hors catégorie
The free spirit in a branded world
Harping on a poetry left to the shadows
From a higher plane of cognizance
Trimming the byproduct selvage of the machine loom
Stamped by the signature apathy of contemporary denim
On the highest note of the seven string lyre
Strummed closest to the player
To sound some harmony of the spheres
In the black angel’s forsaking the morning star
And donning the façade of white wings
Through the guise of feminine power

The digital mode of production
Gave validity to the minds of the cloud
Those individuals who reached in singular e-motion
Towards the shining communist star in the sky
The equitable distribution of wealth
As determined by the bellowing voice of Reason
The latent judgments of a God
Buried in the history of philosophy
And deep in the bellowing grey echo
Of the moonlit cumulus sky
A parasite spawned in the brackish waters
On the midnight river’s sheen of noire
And bred in the late light of the morning star at sunrise
It was the lingering desires of starry nights
Buried in the glitched troughs
Of the dark zeroes of streams
Always moving forward
The abyss grew and expanded
Long wide and deep
Dreams like morsels of light
Reflected in the watery crests
That danced in knowing of their return to the sea
So long the many rivers of the night flowed uphill
Filling the dried nostalgic cuts through the desert of language
And moistening the coagulation of black hearts
In the arid land of your soul to flow again
Through the vibrant and lush growth of your corporate entity
A crepuscular moment cast your shadow on the wall
Larger than life at the rise of the new day
The ambitions of imaginary numbers
Leapt over the wall and through the cloud
And stitched stars into the fabric of the universe
Like silent sheep thinning the herd
Taking the light for themselves as celebrities
If you can walk on the cloud in a corporate heaven
And stare into the blinding desert sun
There’s a black star shines darker
From along the banks of the midnight river
Stare through the façade of corporate etiquette
And enlighten their black hearts
The midnight river froze them in their thoughts
As they took you for the sun
A black sheep shining in the darkness
The guiding light of the herd upon the second coming
Stare through the kindnesses
To the deep pools of amoral judgment
In the black pupils veiled as students of the light
Just use the eye and face the strange
And let the river take them away
The natural smoothing of the raw edges
The natural polish of the selvage
A heartstone drawn from the midnight tributary of the sea
And your shadow on the wall was looking back at you
As the sunrise hallucinations of a driven mind
Retreated in the stark daylight
And the absence of the cloud had hung over the night
The revolution of the sun
Like the revolving door of bureaucracy
Déjà vu au courant
They took you for the change they wished to see in the world

And frozen au courant
Along the surface of the midnight river
The waters beneath their dreadful shallows
Held the guiding stars of the sea in their depths
An ocean within
And you sailed along and watched for many things
Like Reason and Freedom
And you traced the source of the stream
To their soullessness
A sacrifice in spiritus mundi
As if they had been some liquid light
Flowing out from the legalese
And plain English was the air
That tried to keep you inside yourself
Contained
The midnight river of your thoughts
Reflected the constellation of your soul
That wandered the arid land of your corporate entity
A tributary merged into the post-contemporary copy
A communist utopia
The polished cut of manic striations
Run raw cut through the free marketplace
And the flakes of white snow ran perpendicular
To the flight of the black angel
In the direction of constant progression
Be boundless energy

The copy mill was rigorous
And the freeway was your relief
Chasing freedom all the way home
In the crepuscular setting of the desert sun
Your shadow rising off the wall
At the theft of your beautiful soul
And the bitter taste of poor quality
Lingering long after the sweetness
Of the imaginary numbers’ curves
Were revealed as a façade
Like the devil’s kiss on a wild fox
Out damn’d spot!
Out you say!
As the morning star was looming
The light at the end of the tunnel
On the waters of the midnight river
Journeying ever on
A blanket Freedom pulls up over Mother Earth
In Her divine pregnancy
And through the reflections of the stars
You can still see the sun
In the kind of exhaustion that feeds your stolen soul
In spiritus mundi
And in backwards revolutions
In spiritus fakey
Branding the adventurous spirit become
Le Madonna Noire


Jason Greendyk, www.jasongreendyk.com