What about the lyric

What about the lyric as phenomenological inquiry? I wake up with the same thought I left off with. The last thought I can at least remember. There were others. So much of life is forgetting. Hmm, into the morning routine, except I eat and have my tea before brushing teeth. Jazzy morning. Vaughn buzzing around the living room. KC tottering along, room to room, with Dash in her arms. Room to room? There are only three-and-a-half down here. Plus a half-bath. Is that four? Never fully comprehended the mathematics of realty. Would a phenomenological lyric be called phenomenolyrical? Why care what it'd be called when I can't say what it is? Saying, saying. I hate saying. Intuitive movement through the lyric. Silence in the words. Between the words. Of the words. Constituted but not chained. KC sets Dash in his crib upstairs. She's "in the shower" before she's in the shower. Vaughn building Duplo towers in the living room. Chatting to herself. Taken over the years by the idea of "phenomenological lyricism." Taken over by the illogical impingements of connotations. Formerly in the full phrase: "a phenomenological lyricism which recreates the texture and logic of interior experience." Redundancy. The interior is built into the phenomenological. Texture in necessarily a result of the dynamic process of person-al experience, of self-reflective consciousness, of being in time. The lyric as synthesis of the minute analyses at work in the self-reflective moment. The moment is a movement. Jargon and redundancy led me to an ill-conceived, half-understood concoction of surrealism, cubism, beat, post-langpo, etc. quagmire, futility. The need to start over. Recognized over the years, but seeking articulation in order to act. Damn articulation. But is that right? The "free world" is riding piggyback on the inarticulate speech of a not particular president. A president of the Word. Who doesn't understand the Word is a black stone. Whose white stone is black with oil and blood. Whose white house is invisible black with oil and blood. Whose home is a mansion, but whose room in the house of being is a half-bath the size of a public bathroom stall. Who eats and sleeps in the oil and blood of his own shit. Empty mug of tea. Where's my family—they're upstairs. Black stone words. That "language is the house of being" is the poet's challenge, not his or her sentence.