I’m only 18 hours away; from finding truth. I’m only 18-24 hours away from being enlightened and amused. I’m only several days to a week away from being the best person I can possibly be. It’s not just random chance, I’m waiting for it all to come full circle and for the world to open its sleepy eye and say we found a fucking winner.
I saw you bright and luminous, and you made sugary promises to me. You told me I could have abdominal muscles and true love, with one simple machine. And you yelled to me;
Bla bla black sheep,
Haven’t you any shame.
All these blokes on QVC,
Aren’t they getting to your brain?
What do you lack in kitchen cutlery,
That keeps you all alone,
Surely if you get that bargain treadmill,
You won’t always be stuck here at home.
There is hope for you my chubby friend,
And it’s not in a face machine,
Because when you go out, we will make sure you stay out,
Or go home with a just of age teen.
So tell me the price of your happiness,
Before I fade to blue screen,
Just one chance, if you call in the next half hour,
Your credit card condensed to dreams.
I switch to talk shows… I wish I could put Popsicle sticks up all of their butts, and keep them in line, talking cheap falsetto over their voices as I solve their problems. It’s taken years of skill building with the ol’ remote in hand, but I consider myself a cultural commentator and veritable warehouse of human relation skills.
I could do it alone, but you will see how much easier it comes after I have read “Who moved my cheese?” I’m only a small excited jump away from unpacking my new lives from Styrofoam and flimsy cardboard, and assembling them with poorly translated Chinese instructions that tell me “do no use, keep out of children…” or some nonsense.
Laugh all you want, but ill be a new man soon. Women and stock buying powers. Sipping the ice of good life, what a solid American dream.
Sunday, March 21, 2004
Wednesday, March 17, 2004
On Sleeping with a Human
The things I remember, I mean thoroughly recall; they are flashes of sights and sounds that shuffle like shaky movie frames, like dull light plunging headlong through diaphanous film reels.
They are the strange combinations of body chemistry or the succor of another person saliva, the sweet taste that her sweat leaves on my body. It is the rhythm of blood in my ears. It’s the texture of her breath on my neck or cheek, or the feeling of her eyes looking down my body over my shoulder blade.
Again, the memories are more of a stroboscopic rendition of my reality, pieced together with loose frames and poor lighting, sometimes missing a curve or with a hair out of place.
The pale lemon glow of her skin under the incandescent lighting. The stark hue that the human body takes when under lit, when on the fringe of good light and the envelope of darkness. The glow of flashed smiles and the subconscious covering of the body with movement and hunched shoulders.
All of these pieces have place, in the nonlinear crèche of the mind. In the perhaps bulbous entity of memory making and storing, the unkempt repository of old thoughts and passions, of untidy regrets and hopeless pursuits, all of these have their place. Though the strata may reveal unwieldy combinations and conscripted falls in personality, the faculties remain and waiting like a pervert in a snowstorm, drawing in all the bits he can with eyes closed, and when all is said and done opens his lids to think that he has changed the world. These are memories that border on precious and precipitous, that stutter between the curtains of fact and faux.
I try to write it down quickly, before I forget the minute details that have made the situation, and I hopelessly feel that with pedantic prose I can record the emotion and the environment to totality, so that if I am alone I can take another dose. So that if things were to change, I can grow and methodically piece together what remains, what can still be found growing in the pastures of distant history.
I could most certainly begin writing a Haiku for the simplest piece of her body, and how it inspires me. Something like her toes, or about the way her stomach folds when her jeans are too tight and she is bending down to retrieve her rumpled shirt.
I could try to sculpt in words, on how the air in our closed room carries a simple breed of dust, and how it in practice responds to the sunlight wafting in the high windows and speckles her cheek. I could draft out the somber song of many lonely mornings, waiting on a step, or looking at other people, knowing your doing the same, knowing I could be touching you.
That could be me in the bell tower, or in the park breeze. It could be you I see in the coffee shop with your nose wrinkled at the crossword puzzle and your teeth holding back the bag of crushed lavender tea. It could make one irrevocably frantic.
Images spliced, pieced together from the mounds they are clipped from. Tragedy embracing farce, tumbling this wheel into awkward jerky motions.
They are the strange combinations of body chemistry or the succor of another person saliva, the sweet taste that her sweat leaves on my body. It is the rhythm of blood in my ears. It’s the texture of her breath on my neck or cheek, or the feeling of her eyes looking down my body over my shoulder blade.
Again, the memories are more of a stroboscopic rendition of my reality, pieced together with loose frames and poor lighting, sometimes missing a curve or with a hair out of place.
The pale lemon glow of her skin under the incandescent lighting. The stark hue that the human body takes when under lit, when on the fringe of good light and the envelope of darkness. The glow of flashed smiles and the subconscious covering of the body with movement and hunched shoulders.
All of these pieces have place, in the nonlinear crèche of the mind. In the perhaps bulbous entity of memory making and storing, the unkempt repository of old thoughts and passions, of untidy regrets and hopeless pursuits, all of these have their place. Though the strata may reveal unwieldy combinations and conscripted falls in personality, the faculties remain and waiting like a pervert in a snowstorm, drawing in all the bits he can with eyes closed, and when all is said and done opens his lids to think that he has changed the world. These are memories that border on precious and precipitous, that stutter between the curtains of fact and faux.
I try to write it down quickly, before I forget the minute details that have made the situation, and I hopelessly feel that with pedantic prose I can record the emotion and the environment to totality, so that if I am alone I can take another dose. So that if things were to change, I can grow and methodically piece together what remains, what can still be found growing in the pastures of distant history.
I could most certainly begin writing a Haiku for the simplest piece of her body, and how it inspires me. Something like her toes, or about the way her stomach folds when her jeans are too tight and she is bending down to retrieve her rumpled shirt.
I could try to sculpt in words, on how the air in our closed room carries a simple breed of dust, and how it in practice responds to the sunlight wafting in the high windows and speckles her cheek. I could draft out the somber song of many lonely mornings, waiting on a step, or looking at other people, knowing your doing the same, knowing I could be touching you.
That could be me in the bell tower, or in the park breeze. It could be you I see in the coffee shop with your nose wrinkled at the crossword puzzle and your teeth holding back the bag of crushed lavender tea. It could make one irrevocably frantic.
Images spliced, pieced together from the mounds they are clipped from. Tragedy embracing farce, tumbling this wheel into awkward jerky motions.
Monday, March 15, 2004
Love doesn't float
I found Love… She was left behind some nice Italian restaurant, beaten and battered. She was bunched up behind a crumbling dumpster, graffiti ironically commenting on the situation with a few prize four letter words. Laying there, holding her stomach, black eye up to the fading daylight. The cold brick alley lay somewhere in a blind spot of the city; only a bent light pole motioning me subconsciously to seek her out here.
She sat catatonically, coiled upon herself. Onyx hued refuse bags craned their necks over the mottled dumpster as if to scan her weakened body. I did the same, watching in shock, checking for subtle motions or signs of life. I caught a lung rising and quickly stopped holding my own breath.
“Love…”
I bent over her as she whispered, and as I pulled her frail and fractured body into my arms.
In a weak voice, she asked me to carry her to the river, to its muddy shores, and to throw her into the cool surging water.
I asked with half of a smile, if she intended to give up on me so soon.
She laughed; and coughed, and laughed some more.
She then looked into my eyes, and rather surely told me that I didn’t need to be afraid. She said that sometimes people make up great ideas in their minds, and the fun is in searching them out, giving them our own meaning. Shaking her head and speaking in even a more hushed tone, she explained that it was just in believing that these things existed, just giving your life some strain of meaning…
I thought… Large steps carrying her out of the alley and into the sun dried street. I thought as I hoisted her higher in my arms, being gentle on her tiny crude ribs, and letting an emaciated hand drape over my shoulder.
I told Love that she was full of shit. After all, I did finally find her, even if it took all my life and even if she was in my arms bloody and hurting at this very moment.
Her hairless head rolled towards me and with wetness on her cheeks. Her eyelids unsealed like dry rubber as she unlidded her dilated pupils and focused on me with the whole of her eye. It was an action of sincerity; I read her mottled cornea to say she needed my gravest attention.
Paused on the sidewalk, a limp Love in arm, guilt and consternation in tow, and a burden of disenchantedness; I was wrapped up in a moment of fog. In such a haze, the memory of emotions may become blurred or numbed. It is difficult to draw perspective on an important moment when you are submerged in feeling it with the present.
She whispered again and begged me to pitch her into the swift moving waters. The lake, she said, waited to couple with her lungs, waited to suffocate her as an obsolete construct, as though the world had outgrown her and become comfortable with dying alone.
She was tired of being hit; and blamed. She was at the end of her abilities, of her tolerance for guilt. So she breathed in sobs and hushed gasps, like hiccupping air. Love lacked a certain self confidence.
She grew heavier and more bitter as the steps passed, as the distance bit into my feet. Her sighs turned into moans and morphosed into wails. Her pain was warm and harsh, sitting all too close to my tired fingers. She was losing herself. She was dying…
I sat her down in the dry grass, her back still against me; and I took a thin cheek into my hand. It gave like a paper wrapped stone. A hard mass under a sloppy brown bag, disguising the strength beneath a papery sheath.
I dared not look away and gamble with missing a single word or gesture, but amiss was my attention, for her movements slowed and her eyes quit from blinking under their lids.
Her chest rose no longer…
With a wet splash and a watery clamor, the thing I once knew as Love went into the drink. She united with the water as one gulping noise and invisible crescendo.
Dive, Dive, Dive, to the bottom of that scorched and brown river. Brush your calloused body over sharp stones and through porous sands that wear down your skin and bones into unusable pebbles of human less essence.
Don’t leave me Love!
But, it was far too late in graceless plummet to the black water. She was at the event horizon of oblivion.
People watched me from a distance, still bodies and wide eyes. They listened to me wail at the bubbling gulping water, screaming for it to give me back my Love.
And what an idiot I was, because Love was gone forever, pitched into an oblivion of seas, driven by the monstrosity of society. Now Love is just a snapshot in the memories of those who were in the wrong place at the wrong time to be touched for a moment by a confused and restless metaphor…
It all ended with a tug at my hand.
I looked down slowly, searching out who might have touched me in my time of need; when the world had its back turned.
She was so… tiny… and she looked so familiar with that little upturned face. But the eyes were different than I remembered, they looked… untouched.
“I think I should grow up with you.”
So I walked away, eyes on this precious new part of my life. Hand in hand with the little one who pulled me from doubt and back into life. Really, who else ever gets a second chance with Love.
She sat catatonically, coiled upon herself. Onyx hued refuse bags craned their necks over the mottled dumpster as if to scan her weakened body. I did the same, watching in shock, checking for subtle motions or signs of life. I caught a lung rising and quickly stopped holding my own breath.
“Love…”
I bent over her as she whispered, and as I pulled her frail and fractured body into my arms.
In a weak voice, she asked me to carry her to the river, to its muddy shores, and to throw her into the cool surging water.
I asked with half of a smile, if she intended to give up on me so soon.
She laughed; and coughed, and laughed some more.
She then looked into my eyes, and rather surely told me that I didn’t need to be afraid. She said that sometimes people make up great ideas in their minds, and the fun is in searching them out, giving them our own meaning. Shaking her head and speaking in even a more hushed tone, she explained that it was just in believing that these things existed, just giving your life some strain of meaning…
I thought… Large steps carrying her out of the alley and into the sun dried street. I thought as I hoisted her higher in my arms, being gentle on her tiny crude ribs, and letting an emaciated hand drape over my shoulder.
I told Love that she was full of shit. After all, I did finally find her, even if it took all my life and even if she was in my arms bloody and hurting at this very moment.
Her hairless head rolled towards me and with wetness on her cheeks. Her eyelids unsealed like dry rubber as she unlidded her dilated pupils and focused on me with the whole of her eye. It was an action of sincerity; I read her mottled cornea to say she needed my gravest attention.
Paused on the sidewalk, a limp Love in arm, guilt and consternation in tow, and a burden of disenchantedness; I was wrapped up in a moment of fog. In such a haze, the memory of emotions may become blurred or numbed. It is difficult to draw perspective on an important moment when you are submerged in feeling it with the present.
She whispered again and begged me to pitch her into the swift moving waters. The lake, she said, waited to couple with her lungs, waited to suffocate her as an obsolete construct, as though the world had outgrown her and become comfortable with dying alone.
She was tired of being hit; and blamed. She was at the end of her abilities, of her tolerance for guilt. So she breathed in sobs and hushed gasps, like hiccupping air. Love lacked a certain self confidence.
She grew heavier and more bitter as the steps passed, as the distance bit into my feet. Her sighs turned into moans and morphosed into wails. Her pain was warm and harsh, sitting all too close to my tired fingers. She was losing herself. She was dying…
I sat her down in the dry grass, her back still against me; and I took a thin cheek into my hand. It gave like a paper wrapped stone. A hard mass under a sloppy brown bag, disguising the strength beneath a papery sheath.
I dared not look away and gamble with missing a single word or gesture, but amiss was my attention, for her movements slowed and her eyes quit from blinking under their lids.
Her chest rose no longer…
With a wet splash and a watery clamor, the thing I once knew as Love went into the drink. She united with the water as one gulping noise and invisible crescendo.
Dive, Dive, Dive, to the bottom of that scorched and brown river. Brush your calloused body over sharp stones and through porous sands that wear down your skin and bones into unusable pebbles of human less essence.
Don’t leave me Love!
But, it was far too late in graceless plummet to the black water. She was at the event horizon of oblivion.
People watched me from a distance, still bodies and wide eyes. They listened to me wail at the bubbling gulping water, screaming for it to give me back my Love.
And what an idiot I was, because Love was gone forever, pitched into an oblivion of seas, driven by the monstrosity of society. Now Love is just a snapshot in the memories of those who were in the wrong place at the wrong time to be touched for a moment by a confused and restless metaphor…
It all ended with a tug at my hand.
I looked down slowly, searching out who might have touched me in my time of need; when the world had its back turned.
She was so… tiny… and she looked so familiar with that little upturned face. But the eyes were different than I remembered, they looked… untouched.
“I think I should grow up with you.”
So I walked away, eyes on this precious new part of my life. Hand in hand with the little one who pulled me from doubt and back into life. Really, who else ever gets a second chance with Love.
Thursday, March 11, 2004
Gummy Bear kisses
One, in just simply catching,
Two Gummy Bears entwined in kissing,
As though it were some fact I was missing,
About their rather strange predicament,
Of in the plastic confinement…
And with a rather hurried touch,
I aim to break their amorous lock,
With jellied fingernails set prying,
With a hard jealous eye a spying,
To split these vapid bear from such holding dear…
As though they were birthed of an eternal mold,
Their touch stays fast,
Their bodies hold,
And as with an elastic “twang”,
Did “snap” their arms around each other again…
Their lips turned gently,
To let the furry noses pass,
Such sweet gesture cannot last,
As if it meant their merriment,
This concept now,
It had me quite bent…
I hacked with toothpicks,
To sever their fingers,
A butter knife,
But the caressing lingers,
Nothing less than flaying their chests,
Would from this entanglement wrest,
Admit defeat,
Is not within,
My grasp of letting this horrid sin,
Go unabated uncaringly in,
My morbid gaze,
My hate now brimmed…
Matches succeeded in burning me only,
And keep me rather precociously lonely,
And with baited consequence,
Relinquishing myself to the gummy resilience…
I sit on the floor,
And cry with a vision,
All hateful and spiteful,
Devoid of compassion,
I begged of my brain,
“Who allowed this liaison?”
Of who promulgated this union without reason?
Without necessary rhyme,
Out of contrast and season…
Why do you mock me?
In pastel shades of jelly,
So inhumanely defrock me,
To reduce me so utterly,
I profusely detest,
As I’ve waited the best,
Of my fifty plus year of betting,
That PEOPLE are human,
And thus made for loving…
I put them down,
Like so much jelly,
So much dread up heaving,
In my churning belly,
Joining such concepts with reckoning folly,
Two bears embracing,
I calculate and tally…
My hands are limp from jealous prying,
Eyes read and raw from crying, dry them, crying,
Fingers dead from so much groping,
Breathing gets tired from long hopeless hoping…
Lips now sweet,
Hopelessly sticky,
For finding a place for my friends so quickly,
As they plummet and turn down my narrow throat,
Their disappearance is surely worth quite the gloat,
For I am ONE with my captors,
Those that tease me with love,
But now that I have consumed them,
Perhaps I’m vicariously loved…
Two Gummy Bears entwined in kissing,
As though it were some fact I was missing,
About their rather strange predicament,
Of in the plastic confinement…
And with a rather hurried touch,
I aim to break their amorous lock,
With jellied fingernails set prying,
With a hard jealous eye a spying,
To split these vapid bear from such holding dear…
As though they were birthed of an eternal mold,
Their touch stays fast,
Their bodies hold,
And as with an elastic “twang”,
Did “snap” their arms around each other again…
Their lips turned gently,
To let the furry noses pass,
Such sweet gesture cannot last,
As if it meant their merriment,
This concept now,
It had me quite bent…
I hacked with toothpicks,
To sever their fingers,
A butter knife,
But the caressing lingers,
Nothing less than flaying their chests,
Would from this entanglement wrest,
Admit defeat,
Is not within,
My grasp of letting this horrid sin,
Go unabated uncaringly in,
My morbid gaze,
My hate now brimmed…
Matches succeeded in burning me only,
And keep me rather precociously lonely,
And with baited consequence,
Relinquishing myself to the gummy resilience…
I sit on the floor,
And cry with a vision,
All hateful and spiteful,
Devoid of compassion,
I begged of my brain,
“Who allowed this liaison?”
Of who promulgated this union without reason?
Without necessary rhyme,
Out of contrast and season…
Why do you mock me?
In pastel shades of jelly,
So inhumanely defrock me,
To reduce me so utterly,
I profusely detest,
As I’ve waited the best,
Of my fifty plus year of betting,
That PEOPLE are human,
And thus made for loving…
I put them down,
Like so much jelly,
So much dread up heaving,
In my churning belly,
Joining such concepts with reckoning folly,
Two bears embracing,
I calculate and tally…
My hands are limp from jealous prying,
Eyes read and raw from crying, dry them, crying,
Fingers dead from so much groping,
Breathing gets tired from long hopeless hoping…
Lips now sweet,
Hopelessly sticky,
For finding a place for my friends so quickly,
As they plummet and turn down my narrow throat,
Their disappearance is surely worth quite the gloat,
For I am ONE with my captors,
Those that tease me with love,
But now that I have consumed them,
Perhaps I’m vicariously loved…
Sunday, March 07, 2004
The Tub
The way she holds her body in the tepid water, I can admire that. It is no experience in tenseness. It’s soft swirls of dirt and pitch in the gray water as she brushes it off like so much sin.
Ill sit at the edge of the tub and listen, she needs this, to be cleaner in other ways. If there was anything I could say that I would truly miss from my life, it would be these moments where two people can be so open and naked in front of one another, so genuine and comprehensible.
I say that I listen. It’s true, we don’t take turns with passiveness, we share, I tell her about my lingering dread for the city and she shares a day a week of apprehensions and misgivings.
That’s the gist of it. I need it just as much as she does, it cleans me up inside. What a nice human story.
Ill sit at the edge of the tub and listen, she needs this, to be cleaner in other ways. If there was anything I could say that I would truly miss from my life, it would be these moments where two people can be so open and naked in front of one another, so genuine and comprehensible.
I say that I listen. It’s true, we don’t take turns with passiveness, we share, I tell her about my lingering dread for the city and she shares a day a week of apprehensions and misgivings.
That’s the gist of it. I need it just as much as she does, it cleans me up inside. What a nice human story.
Saturday, March 06, 2004
A Snapshot
The night was one without particular virtue. Sad clouds sat nestled in a gray tumult of mottled sky, hidden by the streetlights and uncaring of the human crap beneath. Shards of shattered night fabric, cropped up against erect towers of huddling, glimmering silver, and endless stories of wet brick apartments. Trees bent lazily from smog and sunless ness, whittled out by the collective loneliness of this forsaken city of shit.
Somewhere in the world, I can imagine birds singing their songs in happy daylight and kissing nectar from tree buds, fruit from the tassels of berried vines.
Drown all of that out with traffic. Its time to dwell in the city. It keeps you going, and supplies you with reasons to keep hating yourself.
Now all of that disappears under the mist of hyperactive pop music and screams of the joyous underclass. Alcohol brings out the best in the citizenry. Sirens have long ceased their wailing in these, the most emotionally desolate parts of the world. These are still the less enthused about lining up to be parts for the big machine.
Somewhere in the world, a quiet family evening at home is being interrupted. It could be the celebrant new mother in the upstairs apartment or even the grieving old mother below you. You could hang your head out of the window and feel the sluicing of group angst, pouring through hollow streets and running into hollow hearts.
I'm laying back on a soft mattress, lined in cheap satin, feeling the chilled springs that prop up the complex artifice of my spinal column. Surges of lazy strength pulse down its length, twitching my fingers with an unfired anger.
The walls around me ache with memories of an old life. I sit in the bedroom of my childhood. I was nurtured into life in this very space, took beginning steps and falls on this coarsely grained oak floor. There once hung a good collection of pictures on these walls, frozen frames of the better parts of my life, times when people cared enough to step out of their lives for a moment and be a new actor with me in front of the camera.
A lone blanket covers my legs as I recline, reeling from the vicariousness of the day. My mother made this threadbare garment for me, working patches of cloth meticulously into one another, for nights on end. She lent her blood and countless hours to this worn gaudy blanket that keeps me nominally warm.
I'm lying in this giant mess of shredded experiences, each one bloated by the new problems and the disillusionment. Each memory is just as threadbare as my sad little blanket, torn from being worked over and over again by tired fingers, with them searching for the faded meaning they once held.
Somewhere in the world, I can imagine birds singing their songs in happy daylight and kissing nectar from tree buds, fruit from the tassels of berried vines.
Drown all of that out with traffic. Its time to dwell in the city. It keeps you going, and supplies you with reasons to keep hating yourself.
Now all of that disappears under the mist of hyperactive pop music and screams of the joyous underclass. Alcohol brings out the best in the citizenry. Sirens have long ceased their wailing in these, the most emotionally desolate parts of the world. These are still the less enthused about lining up to be parts for the big machine.
Somewhere in the world, a quiet family evening at home is being interrupted. It could be the celebrant new mother in the upstairs apartment or even the grieving old mother below you. You could hang your head out of the window and feel the sluicing of group angst, pouring through hollow streets and running into hollow hearts.
I'm laying back on a soft mattress, lined in cheap satin, feeling the chilled springs that prop up the complex artifice of my spinal column. Surges of lazy strength pulse down its length, twitching my fingers with an unfired anger.
The walls around me ache with memories of an old life. I sit in the bedroom of my childhood. I was nurtured into life in this very space, took beginning steps and falls on this coarsely grained oak floor. There once hung a good collection of pictures on these walls, frozen frames of the better parts of my life, times when people cared enough to step out of their lives for a moment and be a new actor with me in front of the camera.
A lone blanket covers my legs as I recline, reeling from the vicariousness of the day. My mother made this threadbare garment for me, working patches of cloth meticulously into one another, for nights on end. She lent her blood and countless hours to this worn gaudy blanket that keeps me nominally warm.
I'm lying in this giant mess of shredded experiences, each one bloated by the new problems and the disillusionment. Each memory is just as threadbare as my sad little blanket, torn from being worked over and over again by tired fingers, with them searching for the faded meaning they once held.
Thursday, March 04, 2004
daytoday
March begins it's progression of days upon me. Promising a longer exposure that last month, sinking its teeth into the meat of my cerebellum. It hates to admit it, but ive got it all won. My days melt together like a fretful roadtrip, naps between the jumps required in time. And, when its all done and said, when this month flickers out like all the others and I'm left dangling in monthlessness...
Journal, journal,
where to start,
where to display,
this broken heart...
and birds chirp, and with a cacophony slam headlong into picture windows and sliding glass doors, stretching screens and breaking necks. They drop babies from high limbs, and feed them the accidental wad of cellophane. They crack an egg with a beak meant for scratching. They forget their home and leave the fiends shrieking; to death. Infanticide, ignoricide, forgetacide...
Squirrels rip up nuts from the forest floor, packing heat and stuffing them in their cheek pockets like so much heroin picked up discretely on street corners.
Deer nuzzle and scrape at tree limbs and bark, eating the lichens and papery skin of sapling trees. They are like crack addicts, rubbing up to a dumpster or a back alley wall; coming down from a visceral trip. Tongue out, eyes rolled, eating it up...
The trees team with alcoholic banter. Beaver that beat their wives. Frogs that elicit underage and occasionally non-consenting sex. Bats with depression, and insomnia. Crickets with a goddamn headache; stop the bloody racket...
and that's just a walk in the park. I think the city has changed me... All of us...
Journal, journal,
where to start,
where to display,
this broken heart...
and birds chirp, and with a cacophony slam headlong into picture windows and sliding glass doors, stretching screens and breaking necks. They drop babies from high limbs, and feed them the accidental wad of cellophane. They crack an egg with a beak meant for scratching. They forget their home and leave the fiends shrieking; to death. Infanticide, ignoricide, forgetacide...
Squirrels rip up nuts from the forest floor, packing heat and stuffing them in their cheek pockets like so much heroin picked up discretely on street corners.
Deer nuzzle and scrape at tree limbs and bark, eating the lichens and papery skin of sapling trees. They are like crack addicts, rubbing up to a dumpster or a back alley wall; coming down from a visceral trip. Tongue out, eyes rolled, eating it up...
The trees team with alcoholic banter. Beaver that beat their wives. Frogs that elicit underage and occasionally non-consenting sex. Bats with depression, and insomnia. Crickets with a goddamn headache; stop the bloody racket...
and that's just a walk in the park. I think the city has changed me... All of us...
Wednesday, March 03, 2004
handy
I can change a light bulb, and wire a bathroom. I can sew curtains and type 55 words per minute. I can cook broccoli in a cheese sauce - without a packet. I can change my own batteries in the remote control. I can clean dishes, without leaving spots. I can orate the commandments, or H.C. Anderson, or my favorite movie (based on my favorite book). I can put the seat back down. I can lock doors and shut out lights and recycle garbage and rewind my video tape and look both ways before I cross a busy intersection and stop at stop and yield at yield and go on reds after stopping and having a good peek around the corner.
I can stop and ask for directions...
I can lend you a quarter... or 27 cents...
I can hold your hand when the baby is coming.
I can hold the baby when the drugs knock you out.
I can keep praying.
____
SWM seeking Personality- age 43 - 217 lbs - blonde hair, green eyes - robust (?) build
I can stop and ask for directions...
I can lend you a quarter... or 27 cents...
I can hold your hand when the baby is coming.
I can hold the baby when the drugs knock you out.
I can keep praying.
____
SWM seeking Personality- age 43 - 217 lbs - blonde hair, green eyes - robust (?) build
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