Saturday, January 30, 2010

Letter to an Insomniac

Indiscriminately I slide down to bad posture in the chair.

Would it be that which determines my fate, this slide, let's cut the shit, think of the curve of the crescent moon against the chair of Cassiopia, and the lesser, duller shine as it rests.

Racecar driver makes this decision constantly. To refuel or to press against cement.

But tonight it feels...easier. To rest. To ignore fault. To heed the blue and yellow striped flag. To heed the expanding universe and its patterns, silver pinprick freckles of some obliterated Goddess.

Gravity is not so much a result of hurtling now, as of the illusion of lethargy. A turtle shell pressed upon by a palm.

If you do not believe this is an illustration of the flaws of time, I fear I have already lost you to lying ticking clocks/hearts/electric currents of our tongues. If my introducing the image of a tongue confuses you, open your mouth and allow whatever may to combust and burn. Listen to the metamorphosis of living tissue to ash. This is all you have to say in a human lifetime. Until you burn alive, then rest, you have never told the truth.

If it is easy, then, to rest, consider it a beautiful meteor shower.

Tuesday, January 26, 2010

The Sea of Tranquility

Sometimes you feel like a nut. Sometimes you don't. But we mustn't forget the times we do feel like a nut, which, invariably, cause us to slip between the creases of time and space into a void of loneliness so great as to cause one to howl sexually at the only other creature so large and so lonely as us--the pale, languid, horny tide-puller moon. If, by chance, sometimes we do not feel like a nut, one might suggest a moonlit, coastal walk, where the tits and ass of the ocean have never caused a more violent erection of lunacy.

Tuesday, January 19, 2010

Who Knows What the Fuck I'm Talking About

This is the beginning. There always is one. The yellow-bricked road had one, the brickless dirt path's got one too, we all reckon.

Too bad the beginning is also an indication of the end.

Indicating such things feels just like a kick in the left nut. It swells and seethes with spermy rage, and the other, the one just wanting to yelp, "Yippie!" can't but stretch his shoulders (had he shoulders) and the left nut's bumping into the poor guy with agitation written all over his face (had he a face). Such looks about the face are transmittable, like yawns.

Look I know nuts don't yawn and look and shout silly words beginning with "Y" don't you think I know that? Doesn't mean when that flesh grape gets kicked it doesn't make it hard to walk. That's what I mean about beginnings and ends and all. To enjoy the beginning, you got to steer clear of long-legged old fucks trying to kick you in the nut.

Tuesday, January 12, 2010

Reference Material

I am sitting in a library that might have hunched against the edge of a green mountain on the island of Jurassic Park. Dirty white walls cutting against the sky, you would imagine vines hanging in prehistoric dreadlocks from the library's roof--a perfect backdrop for a T-Rex to wail.

But all that is outside and the implications of my being inside are thusly more the matter of my future. Or our future, as you must admit we're linked by the circular nature of time.

The nearby book pages smell old, as old as any culture, and with as many colors as the people you pass from moment to moment, too. Brown, yellow, sunless white.

Some would say I'm an old soul. Out of place in the immaturities of youth's playpen. Better placed as the worried eyes of a mother near the fence; an observer.

I wonder if the book pages will humble me, or call my bluff, or maybe both. And I wonder if they'll, adhering to the rules, be quiet about it. I hope not.

Monday, January 11, 2010

The spiritual journey of a firefly

Sometimes I feel like being the spark that spontaneously combusts this pretentious fucking archival in its bear-rug adjacent easy chair, burning it as if the vengeful payback scheme of the nearby crackling fire log in the place.

But sometimes I am the flesh, and to do such a thing would surely, at some point or other, hurt like hell.

And also sometimes I am the berm of the boat that crosses a distinctly magma-filled river in the hell Blake wrote so fondly of in his marriage vows. So in those instances the pain, like hell, would be a necessity.

A burden is sometimes a necessity. Duplicity comes to be thematic in this way, like thread and cowhide.

Why cowhide, though--I don't fucking know, ask the Hindus. It's their animal, after all, and my late aunt Louise knew about the cows and one time when she slept on the pullout couch in our living room she and my father watched Planet of the Apes and laughed. My father will never be that happy again in his life. In many ways, neither will I.

When you lose someone, you are not the same person. So naturally, when my father changed, I had to change also, or be left behind a bastard.

To spontaneously combust these words, then, or rather, not spontaneously but meticulously planned, would be a great relief as they would then not ultimately lead to the core of my behaviors, my fears and my painful memories, opening my chest like a clam shell for dirty fingers to shovel...

But I cannot. Because while sometimes I am a can of oil and a match having conversation with a Buddhist monk, while sometimes I am the flesh of the monk, and other times I part the river Styx with my teeth, I always am the ink of the words. To write of the combustion, then, is to solidify my being. The ink which coats the idea is non-flammable, though the idea itself still burns.

Thus if you look closely you will see the glow of my fucking heart.