the dreamscape, the horrorscape, i wanted to live a life of words that transformed into pictures and we would all dance or lay back and listen to a certain kind of music that would set us at ease and my love i could see the world join us in some late night camp fire by the beach and our children would play without sandals and you would be in my arms while we watched the waves envelope the shore and kiss it goodbye over and over between crackles of a fire that would burn with each utterance with every breath i took to speak another and friends would hug enemies and starving old women would nourish themselves on each syllable and at this world’s end something would come to me before the dawn came that this was all everlasting.
Yeah, it’s gonna kill me
The sadness, the madness, the sleepless nights, the cigarettes, the listless imagination, the interminable pain, the split in the spleen, the hurried glance, the jagged piece of upturned on the highway, the ice in the veins, the ache at the base of the skull, the twisted arm, the relentless stress, the picture of you in my mind once happy and unbeaten.
The screen eventually cracks
The routine of it. A violence in of itself. Water torture. It wasn’t meant to ever be like this. All ephermeral and at a flick of a switch: what are you really leaving behind. Amass books. Things you can touch and feel and smell. Things that hurtle themselves through time by remaining perfectly still. The pace of age devours everything, but they will outlast you. The screen eventually cracks.
Silence. Break it. VIII
Silence.
On and on it goes. Late into the night and still. He’s not home. Hasn’t been home for quite some time. He sleeps next to me, bed edge, at a moment’s notice. But not here, not for quite some time. And I lay on my back and watch him. Where did he go? When did he die?
Break it.
Attribute
It is nearly impossible not to attribute some sort of significance to dates: new year’s, friday the 13th, your birthday, etc, etc.
It is, after all, just another day, a random moment in an orbit that’s been travelled for millions of years.
And yet.
37 in a matter of hours. The downward slide. A part of me dreads the spiral of this thinking, where it leads.
Another part thinks of the infinite and how infintismally small tomorrow is.
I oscillate wildly.
The liquor
Ah, the liquor, the liquor, the liquor: how it takes the edge off everything.
the things we forget
the things we forget, the things we let go. it isn’t all little details. it’s gobs of information strewn away, squirreled and hidden.
it won’t come back to haunt us.
maybe.
then again, then again, in the middle of the night, on a bender, or in the throes, they barge through, trample all over us, grab us by the throat, shove us against a wall, lift us right off our feet.
we will not be forgotten. we will not be ignored. we are merely biding our time for moments like these.
for moments like these.
silence. break it. vii
you’d think with time it would be easier. you’d think with a boy and a girl and work and birthdays and weddings it would be easier with him. and sometimes it is. sometime i can just forget and look at him and love him and see the promise of everything he had said to me at the diner when we first had met serving him a plate of sausage and eggs, sausage split please and how he had made a point of it and i knew then and there i don’t know why, but i knew i could believe every word he said and he talked to much and seemed so embarrassed to be spilling over himself, spilling himself over me and i was entranced, i was stupidly in love with him right then and there but didn’t believe, couldn’t believe that this stranger out of nowhere in from the rain would want me, and then, and then, and then
language digression
but i digress, i die.
it goes on and on, the language experience, because how with think in the world is not how we write in the world and the words we use are an approximation about what’s going on in there, other things are going on and i think that’s going on here, it’s the other things i’m trying to get at with just words. and always the wrong word.
An experience of language
When I had read blitz’s ‘five days in the electric chair’ it was the experience of language that blew me away. The attempt to transcribe that which was outside of the limits, to transcribe the liminal. Language itself is liminal, asymptomatic, never reaching, only-always suggesting, a gesture of pointing, but not the pointing or the thing itself. And yet, a thing in itself. Asymptomatic indeed.