5.28

Sometimes I wonder if I'll be remembered after I die. I watch the memorial services and biopics and television specials and historical reenactors and I despair that anyone will ever do the same for me. And then, I remember, and laugh.
Who cares?

Bury me in a cardboard box. Burn my papers. Give my car to a kid who needs it. Delete my photos and throw my keepsakes in the compost heap. And if, accidentally, some cold summer day, you look up through the trees at the incoming rain, and think of me, don't let it be a melancholy thought. You know I wouldn't want to ruin your afternoon.

5.25

She and I are surrounded by police at this point, and I'm so fully fed up that I finally shout at her.
"I'm sick of this! This sucks, and I hate it, and I hate that you've hurt me like this!" I don't curse, and it feels more honest that way, and it feels like it might sting more that way. She's the one who drove off the road and battered the car against the police officer and parked in a handicapped space and ran from the cops. She deserves to feel bad.
Why am I so unlikely to stand up to any woman I like, to ask for what I want, to stop something I know is stupid? Why am I like this? Why am I awake, writing down a dream that happened a half hour ago?

I lay here, wishing to go back to hear the princess one more time, her voice sardonic and small, her comedic timing excellent, her heart laced with hated for everything, her sarcasm boundless.

Dream 25 May 2019

5.24

What if we tattooed pigs? Our impulse for art meets our impulse for destruction and becomes this confluence where two continents' watersheds crash into each other, piling water upon water as rivers of [quiet humming, small doodles in the margins of books, a sweet note in a bite of pizza, the feel of old leather jackets] art meet rivers of [tearing the knees out of jeans, snapping a new book spine, topping a tree, cutting a cuticle] violence. [Noun] meets [verb].

Maybe if we tattooed pigs we would get [it] out of our system as we ate more and more of [it].

5.22

A found poem of machine language and God-language.

5.21

As I lay here, awake, I wonder what it would be like to love falling asleep. My thoughts revolve around that liminal space between worlds, and my mind rejects it. Why would I want to waste my time there? Hung like a wet shirt between space and soil, between waking and sleeping, between thought and silence—what great torture that must be! I prefer my long, agonizing hiccup of wakefulness and the agonized, last-minute plunge into sleep at last, two hours after I intended to go, exhausted beyond words, immediate. As I lay here, awake, my mind flitters on to a new idea and I wrench it back to the thought I prefer having: what if I could just flip a switch? What if I could think whatever I wanted? What if I could choose how long it took? What if I could guarantee it would be pleasant? What if I loved falling asleep?