i’ve been out of my mind lately. it comes in waves, i think
(in waves i think, in oceans, in drowing, i dream of drowning in wakes, funeral processions stacked atop of each other, held aloft by dirt and flowers and crabgrass)
there so much talking instead, so much body language and the wearing down of the body. sometimes you have to dance without a tune to figure out it’s rhythm. i’ve always been guileless, i’ve always been two left feet.
blitz said i had a habit of putting together incredibly complex things and then going backwards to figure out the simple stuff they were made up of. as if, why did i even bother. i miss him. i miss being a writer-in-becoming, artist-at-large.
now i’m just large. i’ve grown ridiculous. l’ve grown lazy. i’m just not hungry anymore. this is not the life i imagined, not the life i wished for. and it’s become this steamroller of a thing, perpetual motion machine, bringing me into this life i never thought i would allow myself to succumb to.
but then my daughter comes to me, still early in the morning after i’ve just gotten home from the night before, and she tugs at my fingers, pushes the hair out of my eyes and looks for my face. she pokes her fingers around there, finds my eyes to wake me up. and even though i can’t even keep my eyes open, i want nothing more than this, half dead from lack of sleep, flipping between day and night and night for day, nothing more than more she poking for my attention.
or when my wife has this look on her face that’s only for me, when her faces juts and curves like classic sculpture, something permanent and something permanent for me and only me, and i become her bear and we touch and it’s like water along stone, every fissure, every crack, every crevice bridged, covered, healed.
if only we could split ourselves, divide out across time, across each fork in the path, to have it all, every outcome, every possibility, every lost love, every lost child, every lost utterance, all at once, at all times, to live, to live, to be a pertpetual motion machine instead of being trapped by one.
Monthly Archives: July 2006
and with nothing there are words
and with nothing there are words, plenty, all over the place, out of the corners, out of the cobwebs, a swirl of words, a haunting, a cackle.
with them there is nothing, only them, no words, only them-as-no-words, them-as-no-words-needed, them as everything.
and here i need to lose myself, to obliterate myself like the old days, myself-as-once-was, myself-as-lost-within-the-cackle.
myself-as-all-draped-in-noise, myself-as-looking-for-signal
were you only just a ghost, figments. i don’t sleep, i twist into and out of a state of consciousness like a worm in dirt
disneyworld madness or is that just the world?
walking right in, just past the castle in front of the carousal, on the floor screaming, a child and no one listening
and hear, grey matter
and hear, it becomes all grey matter, wet matter, slushing through the tears of this thought or any other. i’ve been here before, it never gets easier, this is the state of anxiety of my smile, or my tenderness, always on the verge.
it still whispers, these voices, one of many, echoes back and forth and takes turns just beneath the surface, like a soft murmur, like commentary. it glides and stops like a conversation. it’s not a pretty thing, but it’s alive and that’s got to count for something, like a battery charge. charging, saving up, building, what the fuck is building up there these days.
and i thought it was all dead matter, still matter, that all that mattered was before me, all the inside dried up, bare grass, bare soil, bare sand, barrenscape.
comes and goes, but it grows.
generalities
bbq burger secret = boar’s head meat marinated with peter luger steak sauce.
sat tv (or lack thereof) = inspired, i got a hold of an rf-modulator (takes s-video and rca audio cables and pipes it into coax) and some remote extenders and now all the tv’s in the house can tune into channel 3 for shredTV (the tivo pc in the basement)
cherokee = it drives like a car, which is deceiving and have to keep the curb corners in mind. five minutes at my parents’ house, already bird shit on the windshield. but i think it suits me. it’s got a compass. 11 miles on the odometer, ain’t that fresh?
and hear, this for her
his child by the shore, by the rocks, jutties striking the sea, against the rocks, he watches her there, hair wild like her mother’s, she prefers it that way
he does not want her to lose the spittle, i do not want you to forget what it means to be angry and full of fists and an impossible sense of urgency, of there’s something wrong with all this. he wants her to have these things, this beach, this sound of the shore, the taste of the air caressing your lips, the warm tug of a forgiving sun that laps the sweat of your skin.
he wants this for her as well, the fury of the night, the sense of inexplicable loss, of having lost something vital and precious and that this life was for finding it again. the mad search for something to protect, to find something worthy, to be worthy.
he prefers her that way, wild all the more to temper but never tame, all the more to keep the anger up and the spittle.