His glistening chest heaved in the half-light. Would she notice him in his pseudo-erotic pose? He sincerely hoped so. He hoped something unexpected would push their paths together. He hoped Chaos theory would finally be on his side. He hoped and hoped, and panted quietly.
Monday, December 23, 2013
Saturday, December 21, 2013
2.21
The solstice is a time to feel closer to the creator, the thunder and fury of the storm. Winter wind whips around my heart, sapping my heat. I draw near to the throne of power and am disappointed by what I find--warmth and love. I wanted fear and I got love. I leave to find the winter chill somewhere else.
Wednesday, December 18, 2013
12.8b
This magic rectangle spits light into my life. It outshines everything else and ruins my retinas. I look at you now, but you don't flash and blink, so I grow bored.
Tuesday, December 17, 2013
12.18
I'm in an airplane to meet Josue. There's a woman across the aisle from me who's poised and refined and attractive in her hoodie. It means nothing.
[From a journal I told myself was worse than it is]
Sunday, December 15, 2013
12.15
Wednesday, December 11, 2013
12.11b
[I wrote this because I said "I am a worshipper of words, not a ----- of sounds." And I can't remember what it was and it kills me. Shaman is as close as I can remember.]
Tuesday, December 10, 2013
12.11a
My First Coup D'Etat
[This is the most beautiful thing I've read in ages and I want to share it.]
If being in the band wasn't going to be a possibility for Sulimaila, then he at least wanted to be around the band. There were a couple of other boys who felt the same way. They volunteered to be the band's helpers. They would attend every rehearsal and performance. If a band member needed a glass of water or a towel to wipe the sweat off his brow, one of the helpers would get it. They were the ones in charge of setting up and packing the band's equipment.
Sometimes when the show was over, the stage lights had been turned off, and the band members were out in the crowd receiving adulation, Sumaila and the other boys would stand on the stage and hold the instruments. They wouldn't play them, they'd only stand there and hold them for a few minutes while starting into the empty chairs in the audience. They'd let the energy of their dreams seep through their hands and into the instrument, as if it were a Bible or the Koran. Maybe one day, they prayed, their dream would come true. Eventually, the other boys grew weary of being so close to something they wanted but knew they couldn't have. They stopped coming to rehearsals and shows but Sumaila didn't. He continued to dream and believe.
Pages 155-6
My First Coup D'etat
John Dramani Mahama
Tuesday, November 26, 2013
11.27
Stop trying so hard to sound like you know what you're doing, Robby. The things you wrote when you hated what you were writing were always your best work. Why be clever when you can be good?
Sunday, November 24, 2013
11.24
He finally let go of that axe. The smith who came to take it nearly lost a hand. The poor elf's face condensed into an unrecognizable scowl when he saw the blood-soaked haft and the worn, beaten starmetal. He has taken to carrying the shifting sword, but I can tell it's not doing the trick. I hope they bring him something to do, or he will die as surely as if he were stabbed.
--
He grows daily worse.
--
Today, it arrived. It is light roan, like the flank of a deer in the low sunlight of a darkening wood. The haft is long and straight but the grip is made for much smaller hands. He reaches out a trembling hand and takes the blade. Pulling out a hammer, he gently taps the haft free and tosses it aside.
We go running. We cross easy miles in the woods until he stops at a dead ash tree. He reaches out and rips a branch straight from the tree. The bark has been stripped from it by antlers and the surface scored again and again. He takes out a knife and scrapes off the end until it seems slim enough, and taps the head onto the new shaft. He grins at me and I grin back. Now, he takes the strip of leather from our first kill, so many hunts ago, and, with the skill of easy use, begins to wind it around the handle. He binds it by itself and it stands a finished work, shoddy but workable, unbeautiful but functional, completely him and completely us. He turns to me and I tilt back my head and howl. He roars with me. We are complete again. In the stillness of the woods, the leaves scraping against their trees, he whispers, and his voice is husky: this is the Stag, the one that runs with no reason but joy.
--
The other came today. He sheathed the Stag and greeted his old friend with two hands and a wary eye. He tapped the length of the haft to see it was sound, tasted the blade to see it was sharp, and swung it round his head to see it still sang. Its singing is near deafening, now, and it hums with the kind of malevolence that gets the heart beating and puts fear in the hearts of those who think they know death. It hums with the quiet anticipation of the hunt, waiting with explosive energy to break out and destroy. It hums like wind though tree tops or like ice in the cold, like a lake on a night that kills.
It feels like a kindred spirit, and we welcome it back. I can hear emotion deep in his voice and I can smell his sincerity. This one is the Fang, he says, the one that waits to strike.
--
Together, disparate. Two parts of a larger whole. We'll see who can stand against us now.
Thursday, November 21, 2013
11.22
Shelby slit my throat today. The crimson cascade rolled down the designer shirt of Egyptian linen and pooled in my navel. Hours later, she finally stopped crying and sat, distractedly picking at the mournful and crusted flakes. She rubbed her hands together, rolling the smear on her hands into countless tiny cylinders of hand grime and lifetime, eventually slapping her thighs to clear them. If only I could have spoken, then. The things I could have said! Don't worry; I'm sure you had good reason. Don't worry, it's not like I blame you. Don't worry, sometimes these things happen. Don't worry, I knew the risks. Don't worry, don't worry.
Her delicate little feet left just the faintest impression of themselves on the unfeeling linoleum, smudged at toe and heel from the scuff of her stride, marked indelibly in the last-wet remnants of my blood.
The next residents of the little downtown colonial will get the stains out with a cheap vinegar recipe. The young couple who buy from them will never know anyone died here. Things will go back to just the way they should be.
11.21
Well, I don't know what to tell you. I guess when I was picking up the pieces of my life, I found a sharp edge or something. It's really a considerable amount of blood. Can't you just hold me until the end?
You can? Oh, good. No one should die alone.
Saturday, November 16, 2013
11.16
The sound of your choir is so beautiful, but I can't separate its sound from your own. I try to hear you in it, even though you practice for hours to blend your voice so subtly and artfully that to my untrained ears the sound is as many aspects of a single voice. Even so.
This song, especially, I love the sound of you. You lift the noise up from an almost imperceptible pianissimo into a swelling grandissimo trumpet blast, the utterance of angels, the utmost volume of your hundred vocal folds, the outspread wings of a sound that takes the shape of an enormous bird as it settles to the shape of the church. Every feeling of the crowd is tuned to a feverish ecstasy by the glory of word and tone. We rise to the edges of our emotional limits, driven onward by the energy ripped from the conductor by your voice, playing back against each other in a reciprocal loop, feedback upon feedback, drawing us into the same rapture. I look at your face and hear your myriad voice lifting bell-like from the up-turned face I know so well and I am full of you in this moment, full to bursting with words and emotion.
But my moment is bittersweet, the taste desirable and overpowering to my sense. As if gifted to me by a cruel future, I know that this mood of glory and light, the meeting of your voice and the raw edge of my consciousness, is too much for my limited knowledge of spirit and void. My grasp on things that cannot be known is feeble and worried and you exceed it so far that I love the you that you have now become. The voice the voice the voice, it coaxes me to further heavens even through I know I will never fly like this again; my wings will melt, beeswax clinging to me as I plummet, ears full of your sound.
You will come to me after the concert is over and open your mouth and I will find the boy I met long ago under entirely typical circumstances, not the mythic creature that, sole object of my desire, I can never have now that I have for a moment met. I know I will be cruel. Please forgive me. I will leap away from you and throw myself to the froth and tumult to find the voice I know you can possess. I will sink beneath the waves of anonymous humanity rather than deal with the face that should be glorious portal to a voice so magnificent as to weep in smiles. I would rather die, solitary, than go without the voice now I have true knowledge of it. I don't mean it to hurt you.
You know I love you, but I love the siren more. Keep the wax and give me rapture.
Monday, November 11, 2013
11.11
I was pleasantly surprised yesterday by something that upset my sense of description. Usually the right word just bubbles up to the surface unbidden, like some sort of children's movie witch's cauldron—a cornucopia in a pot, a mélange on the make.
And yet, there was no word for what I was seeing. Could it be that the powers of diminution could have failed me? I was transfixed. The simple act of condensing my approximate state into a single utterance, a phrase or word, anything, was lost to me as surely as if it had grown legs and merrily skipped away.
First, of course, came the shock, but then I grew to be fond of the feeling as the sense of it grew in me. I was lost in uncharted waters, adrift in a sea of words the waves of which I had unheedingly trod for a lifetime. I suppose it is a feeling which will become more common with years and the slow, inexorable degradation of my neural capacities, but for now, the feeling is a pleasant stranger with whom I am just now getting acquainted.
Tuesday, November 5, 2013
11.5
Quite unexpectedly, I found myself swimming in the pool at my neighbor's house. The party has been so good up to that point that I hardly dared interrupt to point out the girls' error: that I was not, in fact, wearing a swimming suit but instead an expensive wool suit and silk tie, both in a rather dashing shade of gray. Really, it wasn't their fault as much as mine. I knew it was a pool party when I came over. I even knew that many of the attendants were inebriated, so really, what did I expect? In their defense, they had no way of knowing that I just wanted them to turn the music down; they couldn't hear me over the rough beat of the enormous speakers. And to be quite honest, I hadn't been swimming in such a long time that it wasn't impossible to derive some slight joy from the feel of water in my leather shoes.
Friday, November 1, 2013
11.1
I can see the headlines now. "Grape Mines Sink Alike."
Wednesday, October 30, 2013
10.30
Robby can sit with his book and pretend to be capable of wading its depths, but I know the truth. Faulkner is like taking a bath, and he always wants a towel afterwards.
Still, it's not as if he finds himself incapable. No, quite the opposite: unwilling. It produces the same effect. He puts down the critically acclaimed book and rushes to the sanctum of the five-minute-interval entertainment gluthouse of the Internet.
Tuesday, October 29, 2013
10.29
"Charles M Sweeney," the sign read, and it did his heart good to read it. "Charles M Sweeney," he slowly intoned. The words had a pleasant sound, and rolled slightly as they left the safety of his mouth to encounter the wide world beyond. "Charles M Sweeney," more like "Chuck," he thought. Not too pretentious, he hoped, to put up a nearly full name, the only mystery veiled behind an enigmatic "M" which he would tell all passers-by stood for "Montgomery," if only they asked. But of course, people always expect silly answers to questions like "what's the 'M'" and they would have been disappointed if they had ventured the query.
Somehow, Charles "Chuck" Montgomery Sweeney had found himself outside his business, staring at his own sign, wondering how to get in, and all the elegance of the lettering, all the quality of the veneer, all the belabored elaborate scrollwork in the world couldn't tell him that the key was in the coat he left in the cab now traveling through the square, freed from all responsibility and enjoying its life very much.
Perhaps he should have changed the sign to "Chuck."
Wednesday, October 16, 2013
10.17
I'm shaking slightly from the exertion of holding your weight, but if I let go, the shaking won't stop before we hit the ground anyway. I'm going to shift my weight--I assume that sharp intake of breath signifies pain. Well, we'll get out of this one way or another. Either someone will find us and take pity on us, or there's always the long, slow, inevitable fall to our little, meaningful deaths.
Tuesday, October 15, 2013
10.16
The only difficulty was getting in. There were some who tried the Brighton line with a single sheet of simple paper, as-yet-unravished by the hundred desk workers between them and the capital. There was no simple bureaucracy here; the entire working machinery of rubber stamps in London was called into play. The imagination gawps at the requirements, both civil and domestic, of an organization that had for years asked for the most intimate details of each life and then, with almost no fanfare, judged it to its core.
"WORTHY," was the lucky traveler's sight. No more terminals or buses. Welcome in.
The couple had high hopes. He was a carpenter with skills in several different series of employments, all practical and eminently desirable. She was a purveyor of trends and he thought her fashionably handsome. With skills and savvy, they hoped to conquer the hopeless task of the future.
The last stamp received, the two passed into the interminable purgatory of the waiting room. Every twelve seconds, she gave his hand a squeeze. Every minute and a half he kissed her cheek. She was confident that his talents had won over the employment officer. He was assured that her smile had melted the social ambassador. And still, the hours dragged on.
Then a shock: their numbers. Grab bags--do you have it? I thought it was in your pocket, but ah, it was here the whole time--love you sweetie, good luck, I'll be just ecstatic on the other side.
She to one room, he to another.
"Two-four-eight-oh-one."
"James, if you don't mind."
"It's all the same to me. Sir, you are approved. You are cleared for living quarters and your supervisor expects you on Friday. Welcome to London."
He can't wait. His true worry had been that the City wouldn't need any more of his type, and that he would be alone again at the beginning of a life with no reason to try again. Now, he could go with her into the city and they would slot in together. He rounded the corner and found her mascara slowly sliding down her face. Papers and bags fell from him not unlike an autumnal shedding as he rushed to her side.
"UNWORTHY" read the stamp, with a cruel red ink distilled and transmitted to the page with a slap and a smirking twist.
"Really, Sylvia, I'll leave, though. I'll leave and we'll be like before."
"I don't want your pity, James. I don't want your shit. The hardest test of our lives and you've just passed it. The rest of our lives and I'm the failure, I'm the one who couldn't even make the grade. I'm the one holding you back. You could have opportunity and health, a good life and a future, but you gave it all up for me? I couldn't live with myself, and I'm not sure I could live with you. I would owe you. I would be indebted for what I can't repay. And don't say anything you know isn't true."
her heart screamed, but
10.15
From Faulkner: "held by that electric furious immobile urgency."
Sometimes I feel too small to be believed. The walls expand out and the world opens up until I'm lost. I'm not saying it's pleasant; heaven forbid! I'm merely saying that sometimes the world seems a much more dangerous place than any of us realize and I should perhaps be far more afraid of it than I am. Truth be told, the open metaphorical places of the world are far more numerous than we commonly recognize, and it's up to us to notice and do something about it. Ice simply chosen to feel like I've been engulfed. Yes, I think that word will do nicely. Engulfed. That's me. So what have I chosen to do in those moments of complete obstruction, when the world is a smothering element? Well, I guess the common answer has been to feel small and then run away. That's how I deal with conflict.
[Where did the ending go? I thought I was going somewhere. I must have lost my touch on reality.]
Saturday, October 5, 2013
10.5
There were some who tried the Brighton line with a single sheet of innocent paper. There was no simple bureaucracy here; the entire working machinery of rubber stamps in London was called into play. Thus, the travelers often found themselves unbelievably detained.
[I love the sound of this. The middle line is what I woke up repeating to myself. But I can't help feeling to myself that the entire thing, though beautiful, is punctuated utterly wrong.]
[Also, I can't spell bureaucracy. The key,apparently, is "bureau." My cheating with the Google voice recognition only gives me "do you rock chrissy," and I can't help but wonder. Do you? Do you rock, Chrissy?]
Tuesday, October 1, 2013
10.1
The furnishings loom formidable, shadows with weight. My refrigerator, covered with the alphabetic magnet ramblings of a dyslexic household, has now become a creature of myth, bristling with sharp surfaces and kit from within. The chairs are traps for toes, a hundred legs thrust into indefinable darkness. The lamps are winged, ready to take flight on transparent skin. The walls expand and corners become erratic, close or far, moving to make room for the attack dogs: couch, coat rack, desk. Everything is an obstacle, madeunfamiliar and hostile by night.
My blind wife calls from the next room "Honey, did you see?"
Saturday, September 28, 2013
9.29
I'm very starved to the moment in Perks of Being a Wallflower in which the characters agree on their own infinity. Starved isn't the word I chose, but my phone chose it for me. I long for a moment in which I can be so sure of my own infinity.
My favorite tunnel in town goes under missionary ridge and sometimes I drive miles out of my way just to go beneath its years of history. The old civil war is in its name and the CCC is in its construction and a global community of commerce drives through it.
Tonight, I rolled my windows down to disk in the light and sound of the place and a beater passed me, old enough to rattle and smoke, but loud enough to satisfy what my Toyota was never designed to. He revved hard in a low gear, ramping the machine back on its suspension. I stuck my arm out the window and shook my first into the night air.
That man and I parted ways at two am on a Sunday morning, never knowing each other. We are not infinite. But I have this moment, and I'll continue to look for the moment my life.
Friday, September 13, 2013
9.14
This entire post will be recorded using Google's voice identification system. It's not so much my artistry, but it will do.
Toys brillig the slidey toes did gyre and gimble in the way babe all them see where the board grows the more math grade. Beware the Jabberwock, my son the jaws that bite the claws that catch beware the Jubjub bird and Sean the firmness Bandersnatch. So took he is also read in hand long time to make some phone she sought so rested he buy the TomTom tree and a while and thought. And as in official thought he stood the Jabberwock with eyes of flame came with flying through the told you would and burbled as it came! 1212 and through and through the vorpal blade with Snickers snack! He left it dead and with its head he went well um thing back. And hostile slain the Jabberwock? Oh come to my arms my boy friend just a Kalu Caillat he joke tokle in his joy. Twas brillig on the slide it over did gyre and gimble in the way babe Allman see where the boar Groves Rasta outgrabe.
Wednesday, September 11, 2013
9.11
Thursday, April 25, 2013
4.25
I'll have to have therapy after this.
Monday, April 22, 2013
4.22
He said he can't play favorites.
How many girls has he slept with?
Friday, March 29, 2013
3.28
I am a simple man. I have always lived a simple life. Things are pat, you know. Just so. I didn't want not one thing more. Content.
You mixed me up, of course. I saw that coming. What I didn't see was how much fun you'd be.
I'm a simple man. I didn't expect no extravagant love.
[I found this in the rolling desk and snitched it when he wasn't looking]
Dear Choice.
Your letter to me was in the mailbox with the bills and the monthly catalog but I could see it through the pile and through the tin and through the wall and through the field over near the pump where i was working and I run there so fast that mailman hadn't hardly closed the thing afore I had my hand on it. You know, I'm excited. I am. I'm excited by you and dad blame it if that don't feel more like dipping your toes in spring water then I don't know.
I kept that picture you sent me. Tucked it back of the bible so you'd fall out when I was having devotions and I'd remember to pray for you. I still remember you without the picture, but it's nice to see your face.
Here's the truth about us that you haven't known for a while now but I've been talking to your folks for a while. You remember last week after church when your father stopped me in the pew and let me have a ripping - well that's what it was about. I have found that they won't consider me unless I have a powerfully good reason for them to do so, and they don't want any no-account farm hand for their daughter. They do love you so.
I'm going back to the field now. I've got to prepare it so's McHartney won't have reason to bile at me.
Of course,
Roger K Beck
March 1937
Dear Choice.
You have asked why I type my letters. Well it is simple. I have no handwriting. Remember that scar on my hand, between the thumb and my digits well that makes it mighty sore to be holding a pen. My teacher always tried to make me write anyway and never said nothing good on my penmanship. I would ruther you didn't see it, so I'll just borrow McHartney's wife's typing machine and I can manage on that.
Of course,
Roger K Beck
June 1937
Dear Choice.
You have seen my leg and how I can't work no more. I am tapping this out with my left hand, even, because of the damage but the doctor says that's alright. The arm will be much better inside of a month. My uncle has written from Rushsylvania. I might have a future there. Don't forget me, please. I still pray for you.
Of course,
Roger K Beck
June 1937
Dear Choice.
I have a job in Rushsylvania in the store. I'm not the man I was but I hope you still think of me. I know it's been a powerful long time since the last we saw of each other
of course you know the time because of what you said to me
I remember because when you leaned in, the shade played tricks with your face and you looked awful pretty when you said it. You blushed right down to your roots and danced off between them cottonwoods up on the north end of your property. And I said Choice Titus I Intend to Make Good. That swallerd you up, and no mistake. You hid behind that camera of yours and didn't come out.
This ten dollars is for a new dress for your Mother and a picture show for your Father and a train ticket for you. I want to see you awful bad. Them photos don't cut it.
Of course,
Roger K Beck
April 1938
Dear Choice.
You know I hate to put this on you, but I can't decide for you. I never meant to come between you and yours. I never meant to pull you away. I always pictured you and I and the Titus clan thick as thieves, but that can't be how it's gonna be. I'll ask you one last time:
Ohio and me
Pennsylvania
It's your decision and I prayed you make a good one. I knowed what I would pick but I ain't you.
Choice Titus, I pick you.
Of course,
Roger K Beck
September 1938
Dearest Choice.
I am none too good with words so I will be brief.
Today I am more than I was yesterday. I can't explain that none. But I needed you to know. Don't forget this date, Choice Beck. It's today I found a life.
April 1939
[This is my seven hundredth post. Daily blog + three and a half years = two years' worth of posts]
Sunday, March 17, 2013
3.16
Can't you feel me wanting to hold you? I'm honestly amazed that you can't. My desire seems to have taken physical form in the room and now looms large over me like a monster of need. Teratoid, my wants are. Or maybe you have noticed and you've chosen to ignore the feeling, despite the hair and the spittle and the forlorn eyes and the stench.
When you leave, I feel like you ripped out a huge chunk of the insides of me and used it like Gretel to leave a trail of crumbs. I should follow the bits of me to get to you.
This is too dramatic. Simply: I miss you.
Thursday, March 14, 2013
3.14
There is much to be said for a woman who has fire. Let me tell you a story you'd hear in the night, one that would climb up with the smoke and join with the treetops. The crackle of the fire joins the sounds of the night, but you can't hear it for the sound of your ears in your head. You've been playing your guitar, but she got up to dance. In the half-lived light of the aging fire you can see the curves and the flow of her dance, the lines. I want to shout. It's welling up in me--the memory of the purity and the joy. Fire. Life. Her arms slip out and snap back. She spins and her hair whips out and around. You can't feel the joy of it. Can I stress this enough without reaching out and shaking you? I can wish for tremors in me to be the truth of it still, but I would lie. My shaking is only the fear that I'll die without ever again having her all to myself. All this is compounded by the knowledge that she came here with you alone because she's that sort of girl. You're out camping in the middle of the night trying to impress her by playing the guitar. You're the one chasing, but she caught you with her dance, tarantula-bitten in the night, fragile and febrile with desire. do you feel it? A woman destroyed by her men, torn apart by her memories, drunk on your admiration: you want her, can't you feel it? The ash and the heat and the light are hers and you quit feebly stroking the guitar and just watch her dancing to the music inside. You can't bring yourself to want her anymore, not after having seen her set apart and sacred. She isn't yours. She belongs to this night and all you have of her is the still fading flashing glimpse of the most woman you'll ever see.
Monday, March 11, 2013
3.11
I light a cigarette and roll it slowly between my fingers. The soft, papery white muzzle dances lazily on my thumb and forefinger. I can't look away from it, but I am still aware. I can hear the silence of the hall, smell the lights, feel the fear of the crowd.
Rewind.
I have just walked onstage, and I float on the murmuring turns of the audience as they wait for something to amaze them. I am myself, but I am larger than life. The carton in my pocket burns a rectangle into my side, awkward and unfamiliar but eminently mine. It feels right. The tidal swell of a heartbeat crashes in my ears. Did you know that if you put a conch against your ear, you can hear the sea? Well, only if you're standing near the sea. In an auditorium, you can only hear the sound of
thump thump
thump thump
when you're standing in the spotlight on an old, creaky floor just a few feet from where the hoarde is waiting for you to fascinate.
I pull up just short of the microphone stand and taste the iron of blood on my tongue. I wasn't aware I had bitten myself. Nervous, or penitent. For the two seconds it takes for my tongue to explore my mouth, there is silence, and I stare off into the middle distance. A man (I think) says WELL with an impertinent uptic. People laugh. I smile, but nobody can see the blood on my teeth.
Well, I say, You've come a long way to see me, some of you. Let's hope it's worth it.
I pull the paper box from my suit jacket. As its form is fully lit, the hall goes roadkill silent. All that's left is the bluebottle whine of the electric lights. My mouth has gone dry and snaps as I move my tongue. I awkwardly peel at the paper seal until it gives way. I try to tap the box like the Woman in the movies, but all that comes out is laughter. I give it a go the old-fashioned way. When I get the thing out,
I light the cigarette and roll it slowly between my fingers. The soft, papery white muzzle dances lazily on my thumb and forefinger. The symbol of it has always scared me, for some reason, and now I hold it just so. The flames on the end crawl, infection, poison, the slow replay of a cannon snot spreading and expanding until the sound of it hits your ears and you can't see anything for all the sound.
I can't see anything because the hall is so silent.
Look at the Christians all afraid of what must come next.
I explain You know I'm excited by being a cigarette smoker. I'm unique in this age--a man who smokes despite it isn't cool anymore. Everybody knows it's bad bad bad. I can't smoke anywhere but outside, and that hardly. Cigs have a prohibitive cost--at least, the good ones. It's not a thing that draws people together anymore, like it was. Now that's coffee. Movies. Running in the park. Yesterday on the bus, I met a man wrinkled like the end of the earth and he smokes. He saw my box when I put it in my pocket and he sneered and pulled away like I was gonna breathe on him.
The cigarette is burning closer to my fingers, the ash on the end waiting to blow away at a touch like an orgasm: a nuclear bomb. I tap it with my thumb and the collected debris falls slow to the ground but nobody watches it.
I clear my throat We smokers aren't a popular breed anymore.
I drop the thing just as my fingers get hot, and it falls too slow to the floor, where I grind it out and look back up at the black and the spotlight and the blinding silence.
I smile. I continue Still, I've never smoked a cigarette. I just like the idea.
I walk off stage and the blindness dissipates behind me.
Clamor.
Fear.
Pity.
Loathing.
But I've beaten them all at their own metaphor.
Strange, but I can't taste the blood anymore.
Friday, February 22, 2013
2.22
It's not like it made me happy to make that comparison.
[I don't like this post, but I like the sound of it.]
Thursday, February 21, 2013
2.21
Thursday, February 14, 2013
2.14
Because of the way your [organ] feels, I can't stand it any longer. Will you be my valentine?
I realize I [past tense action verb] you in the past, but you really can't blame me. I was swayed by the intoxicating influence of [emotion.]
Valentine, be mine.
Or don't. Whatever [singular action verb] your [noun.]
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
2.6b
People want to read interesting conversations. They want to know that a girl held the door for me today, and her friend called her a gentleman. I piled on, saying she could surely get all the women. Her friend attempted to be boring: "You know what they say . . ." "Do they?" "Well, yeah." "They shouldn't. It's scandalous of them."
Stop having boring conversations where I can hear you.
2.6
Sunday, February 3, 2013
2.3
Thursday, January 31, 2013
Monday, January 21, 2013
1.21
W.
UU
VV
W is the sound my soul makes when you
Art is the W of the psyche
Shame, really, how W she has always
Inflammable and flammable mean the same
The same W as W is how I knew
This has been an experiment in semantic satiation.
W is the same shape as her knees when she's working in the flower garden or trying to find the cat under the sofa or crawling into bed. W is the same W as her W when she's working in the flower W or trying to find the W under the W or crawling into W. W w W w W w W w W.
Semantic satiation is the condition of having W. Art is the W of the psyche.
I write all my W in one draft and I worry about my W. And then, I look at the W and I know I'm somehow gifted or the rest of the world is gone W up in a W.
W
W
Fracture
Friday, January 18, 2013
1.18
Thursday, January 17, 2013
1.17
"Kent--" she yells, and he stops abruptly. She piles into him and they both lose their balance and fall through the open door.
Wednesday, January 16, 2013
1.16
Hate is a tremble: the sum is taut and restrained, waging war against and on a self which self can't understand.
Love is a tremble.
Death is a tremble.
Words are a tremble, and sometimes, when forced, they can stand still.
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
1.15b
I say nix. No more of this. I'm looking for a woman who isn't celestial or seasonal. I want one as constant as the force holding the smallest particles of myself together. I'm looking for the atomic forces that push my parts together. I'm looking for an unceasing bond of man to wife.
1.15
Saturday, January 12, 2013
1.12b
1.12
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
1.8
What if you had a quota, and you could run out on a daily basis? What if heartbeats were a commodity? What if there were rich people who died during sex because they forgot to calibrate their electric heartbeat regulators to compensate for rigorous physical activity? What if manual labor wasn't "backbreaking?"
Monday, January 7, 2013
1.7
No, not that way!
Now the cat's alight. Can't you do anything right?
Saturday, January 5, 2013
1.5
And good riddance.
Friday, January 4, 2013
1.4
(Of course, he has. But that door is closed to us: the sweltering pair in the coldest embrace.)