My name is Jordan Kit and these are my words.

Pick up a copy of my collection of poetry and short stories, Ignoring the Mistakes

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Nietzsche’s Tears

Friedrich opened the door to his quarters. Before passing over the threshold, he sighed. “So, it’s you again.” He stepped through the door and draped his jacket over the back of a chair. He turned and faced the mirror as he slid a cigarette between his lips. As he began to light it, he mumbled, “what have you come to tell me this time?”

In the far corner of the room stood a dark, hunched figure. It did not turn to face Friedrich. It loomed in an odd presence, fixated on a point immediately before it, but Friedrich felt its concentration upon him. The light in the room seemed to vacuum toward his guest, seeming to dissipate in the void around it.

"These visits are far from normal, Friedrich. No one has ever treated them so nonchalantly."

"Should they be treated as atypical, then? Six times before you’ve whispered poison in my ear and here I remain. If perhaps I had something to fear beyond the thoughts themselves, perhaps I would regard your nightly visits as more than just that."

"Heed my word, Friedrich. Consider now, that beyond what I have told you of man’s promise in the arts, know now that only true art will awaken the soul, and that awakening the soul will set it on a path to self destruction. In the end, the art will claim the artist."

Friedrich took a drag from his cigarette. He began stroking his moustache as he thought on this. “What then, if the artist were to produce empty art? What is the opposite of good art?”

"To create such art is to invoke the Apollinian, the plastic arts. In doing so, one lives forever, but in a life free of weight and substance."

"Is it then more noble to embrace good art, even if you are to be destroyed by it?"

"There is nothing noble in life. There is only life, if that."

"If there’s no noble or ignoble, then what does it matter?"

There was no response, but Friedrich understood.

Friedrich watched the form standing in the corner. The first night it had visited, it had said only the words “over man”. He had immediately left the house and pondered this vision at length. He wondered what the significance of the “over man” must be. He worried about the vision, but something had inspired in his heart a hunger to understand the words.

Now he fretted over the form. What is this? Has it really come to this? He said, “Why are you telling me such things?”

"Oh, Friedrich. Do you not understand?"

"I believe I do, but I don’t understand why but for some malevolence you would have transmitted this last message."

"To think you would be any different from the other thinkers is vanity, Friedrich. It’s not art proper, it’s your art, it’s any art."

Friedrich felt a chill down his spine. He turned away from the form, and as soon as he did, he felt as if he couldn’t move or breathe. He felt as if ice cold razors were digging into the flesh around his ears and his eyes felt ablaze.

"Friedrich, this is the last revelation. You are not invulnerable to its truth. The deeper you follow your art, the deeper you retreat from reality. You will reach a point where your thoughts will destroy you."

He fell to his knees and began to hyperventilate. His heart raced as he looked around the room. The figure was no longer in the corner. Friedrich sprang to his feet and upended the book cases and overturned his desk. Tears welled in Friedrich’s eyes as he brought his face down into his hands.

"It already has, and it always will." 

The Artist

The artist, the artist, the artist.

Adept is the hand that fills canvases

With dreams. Visions of other realities,

Of better, wilder realities that consecrate

The once empty and lifeless slate.

Doors open not into the mind of

The artist but into the onlooker’s

Soul. The artist, knowing strangers more

Intimately than they know themselves.

The artist, cruel jester, parodies life itself.

Armed with muses, with

Unseen compulsions, with

Ravenous Fear, with

Unconditional and mutually exclusive

Hate, rampant melancholy,

Or love.

The artist, the artist, the artist.

Fixed the link to my new chapbook!

My chapbook, “Summer on the Water”, is out and available for free!
All designed and conceived over the course of about 24 hours.

Read it HERE 

Writing was starting to drag a little, but my great friend and inspiration came over and we’ve been talking a lot about the creative process and it always gets me revved up. What makes us click so well, is that we are so well-versed in each others’ art, but actually pursue different arts. We thrive off each others’ creative energies but haven’t got the cancer of competition in a direct sense. And just like that, we both snapped out of our funks after a quick conversation about what we believe. How beautiful is that?

Will to power

Abandoning inhibition
heading west, then east,
then abroad
living in cold water one lightbulb apartments
writing sketches of strangers in crowded avenues
drinking with the band and smoking with the artists
walking to the library to learn about Rimbaud, sailing, Patti Smith, Eastern hermits
making ends meet

the moment comes: golden inspiration, a break, a rise, glory


greatness to the artist

all in good time entirely of time—a will to power, a struggle

Everything happens (for a reason)

Someone told me once
in gentle hopes
of cheering my
melancholy mood
“Everything happens
for a reason.” 

That’s the human
condition right there.
“For a reason” is what
drives man mad in misery
when it is simply
“Everything happens.”

No more,
no less.

I said to her

I think you’re most who you are
in some ways
right before you fall asleep,
and all those times
right before you fell asleep
you were in love
with me 

Moments in music

That moment when a major change in your life totally changes certain songs.
That moment when smile inducing ditties instead incite pangs of remorse.
That moment when understanding is found in a long forgotten tune.
That moment when the refrain feels like a punch in the gut.
That moment when meaning arbitrarily seeps in or out.
That moment when memories stain notes forever.
That moment when we no longer dance.
That moment when you sing alone.
That moment when I do too.
That moment
Is now. 

Hey, artists, I need your help!

I’m designing a  book of poetry to release and I need someone to design a cover for it! It’s a very small book, 4.25” x 6.875”, and if you send me a cover and I use it, I will credit you in the book, and send you a free copy, and anything else I can think of really! It has to be black and white and adhere to the size rules. Message me if you can help me out and we can talk about the book!

I know nobody likes blackout poetry…but…
"The Humanist Attitude" by Jordan Taylor Kit from "Taking the Path of Zen" by Robert Aitken (North Point Press)

I know nobody likes blackout poetry…but…

"The Humanist Attitude" by Jordan Taylor Kit from "Taking the Path of Zen" by Robert Aitken (North Point Press)