The persistence of memory as it crawls through my skin: re-invention I think I came off to them as being stuffy or witty or over exerting myself into their clutches: “so you’re not in the doctorate program?” I wanted to ask “how do you know?” but I was afraid the answer was going to be like “well, what you said before about being the new guy and re-inventing yourself came off as something a first year MA would say just to get the ball rolling, you know” and he would look at me and add, “someone who didn’t know what the fuck they were talking about when confronted with the big leagues.”
And he would be absolutely right. Oh god, how I miss the falling of writing, the sky dive head over heel freedom of going anywhere and not having a thing to really say. To let it just all hang. To stare at this keyboard and slowly mouth out the words out of my head and just follow them without having to prove anything: to breathe instead administrating CPR to my literary corpse of lung sorts. To re-introduce myself to language and let it all hang about the rafters until it congealed on its own.
That’s why you haven’t been writing old boy: you’ve waiting for bestsellers when you haven’t dug around in the garbage enough: what happened to the fun of it old boy? Y’know, the doing and writing for writing’s sake, when it was all you had and you hung onto it like a vein.
Yes. I now understand when the shit is ready to fall out of my ass and I have to stop.
Later. Welcome home.
Monthly Archives: August 1996
rust
like gears wearing down
the pumps heat up
steam starts to blow
you tell me to shut up.
teeth start to grind
tension: a coiled spring
wheels come to a halt
hate to me you bring.
a scowl a giggle a shrug?
all I need is a hug
to say I’m forgiven
to get what I’ve given.
so little a thing
a loose screw a lip
pulled back sneering
curses on the tongue tip.
lashes of nails
rip ripping the machine
broken junkyard parts
promises thrown into the bin.
a scowl a giggle a shrug?
all I want is a hug
to say I’m forgiven
to get what I’ve given.
and every anger is a moment in hesitation
And every anger is a moment in hesitation: where do you stand on the verge of?
Why do you turn away (as my father did and still does in my mind, turning forever away, his shoulder forever turning into infinity, my father infinitely abandoning me), how could you commit this sin to me to us, shunting us into a corner of silence, the most unbearable silence, one of distinction, you had done it on purpose, you went out of your way to silence me to silence it: don’t give me this shit about not wanting to say something that you can never take back: you already thought it and the turning back was already gone from that moment on: when you already have closed your mind to any other point of view other than your own, when that is where your being ends and the other side of the world begins, if you end at you and there is no one else to consider, than you didn’t have to say anything at all. Then, on top of everything else: “if i lived on my own i wouldn’t have this: i wouldn’t have to answer to anyone.”
Wake the fuck up. Or better yet: do you know what you have done?
a paper heart, bass ale and nestle chocolate
Of course the preoccupations must always come first, to divert you understand, to slip a hand and pull out the undercurrents from under you. Always to avoid it all cost: it cost much more than you could ever imagine.
You your body and everyone else who you brought along namely her: what happens if you keeping turning and you find yourself tizzy with no direction.
Write boy, write it all boy: why would you speak the silence that i loved to me when you turned thought it was a wall?
Here and on it goes, on the screen, onto page-mode, a simulacrum of a journal. It�s not there when you go to sleep! You can never touch do you understand?
�Would you like to touch my dildo?� she said as she stroke the inside of my thigh.
�I�m not a woman� i told her and she whipped herself into a frenzy because i was so convincing.
Isn�t this dastardly?
And of course you fall in love again and everything repletes/erases itself with a paper heart, bass ale, and a chocolate bar to boot.
On on on it goes, you interrupted against the rails and plaster like paint crud between the fingerprints.
And mother calls. Oh shit.
Hurricane season on the NYC end. Mz had called moms to check if the parental guidance was still monitoring. Alls well until manana when Eduardo makes a hit along the pretty much white coast of Mass/Cape Cod and Wrong Island.
Signing off onto the internet where mindlessness is a precursor for false advertising.