Ketamine
May 20, 2008 – 8:46 pmSome some times I’ve I’ve
in the red tube run
running
Terribly terribly this
this glass you hold
hold
Waste waste space
to waste time
time
Tired tired and
long gone
gone
A little death
April 30, 2008 – 11:21 pm1.
Whenever I turn over a white napkin
I see the death of my mother
She is alive and well in Xanadu, Persia
And you are my princess forever to be
Whenever I am kicking off bedsheets
I can again see the future
With my left hand on the wheel
And the rain and wind beating on my coat
Whenever I step on a crawling thing
I am the bastard that locked his daughter
In the basement for twenty four years
Made tea every morning and never missed the Times
2.
If you are alone one day
Turn over a white napkin
And speak to your mother about death
Because already and always she wants the wrong things from you
And shall shield and be yours with whiteness
And cool can enter the rivers of sweat in your skin
And you can speak into the pillow so they can’t hear
And you can find little deaths in the corners of the things you bought
If you are alone one day
Kick off your bedsheets
They are too white to wrap around your old body
Too wretched the sweat in the rivers in the folds of your skin
And you’ll find her
And she will see you as the boy she has always seen you as
And you will stand in the shadow of the boy she has seen you as
And cower in corners and curl and ramble like epilepsy
If you are alone one day
Step on a crawling thing
A little death will be there with you
And you will talk to her but you can’t touch her
And she will see you as the Knight
And wait for you as the apartment shatters
And hold on to what is left of the sheets
And find a little death in a teacup
3.
To feel the weather change as you go
From where you were to where you need to be.
4.
Green ring, silver with
dark rust spots,
smells of cigarettes
and fragrance. She floats
in a cloud and I.
There are certain things
that shouldn’t be said.
I wish that you
would stop lying. Dear,
these sheets are lined
with GOD. Wishing for
a shorter tomorrow
I wish I could live
In the night. I’ll
find it again, a pale
blue sky. Come and
touch me Demon.
Demon god of the
universe. Her under
wear looked clearly
above. A sky of
diamonds. Betray me,
Demon God. I’ll come
back. I’ll come back
tomorrow. Speak
not of the future. Speak
not speak not. They
need to think the they
are high on the stage
and in the act and
the everything will
be funny. And you will find
find me. You will
find me. And I
will jump above many
a wall. Dark eggs you
fuck. I will do it.
I will kill him. I will.
Don’t leave me alone
in the stove. Don’t
leave me alone in the
stove. Democracy,
a multi headed dragon
one said - this time
has already passed and
this place this place
will shine in hell
s bell. Not too many
like us. So don’t feel
Challenged. Not too
many like us at
this moment. Come
ride the cloud. You
Demon god of understand
ding. Come to, come to
me come to come
to me. There goes
the sound, round
and round. I’ve
run out of ground
and of speak of
this and that
you hand me
the world’s dead
child. Give this
to me give it.
Don’t let me stop.
Right now fuck her
buy. You give it
to me. You give
it. Wrong. I will
find a way. A
way in many way
to live the metal
life. Fucking dead
strong. Fucking.
As. Dude you’ve got
to be crazy because
this and the universe
for you. Too pretty for
long. Growing up on
fear. Let me stop
this water. Stop
this stone. Stop
this line here’s
mine. To yours unreplied
unrequired acquired
totally fun the life
of colored lights
and shakes I can
handle it. Drive
me to a phone and
I will show you legends. Barfing
Take me there.
Take me to the ballroom.
This make it takes me.
Taken here
Take me.
5.
Keep all the windows closed.
No one will thank you for your kindness.
Down with the fishes
April 28, 2008 – 9:29 pmThere’s no hole like this
and I’m there and you’re long dead
playing a guitar worth more in dollars than your soul
and the shadows that are your friends, accomplices blink in haze
as the pizza breathes the dust off the table, smudged by the dirt only some of us try.
A girl vomits in the corner. She was happy four hours ago.
The way out is below.
Gem
April 14, 2008 – 11:36 pmLove in the castle of Xanadu is a marble thrown down the steps of the old fortress, each bounce an image of the loved one’s eyes changing. At the last bounce one is to unsheathe the standard issue children’s sword and align it with the direction of the marble and trace its would be path with the sword on the soft soil all the way to the market, where amid the legs of tall shoppers a world completely separate breathed, due to the large difference in heights, where children roamed through passages known only to them, and where rules were set by the leading boys and only the most beautiful of girls and where magic was practiced behind the darkest of stalls. Love in the castle of Xanadu could start with a punch to the nose outside Moishe’s, where, if one was small enough, a passage could be found through mountains of watermelons in the basement to an old bag of secrets. But I never made it there that day, because I got punched in the nose.
Reading was a pretty small fellow, but he carried two standard issue swords, a rare feat for a kid, he had to be a very good fighter. I was running from a gang of his boys when another group cornered me next to Moishe’s.
“We heard you’re in love with a girl from the north side,” one of the kids said. I ran for a random door on the right, but it was locked. Reading came toward me, his walk very fox-like, holding both of his swords by the handles. His hands were fluid and I, caught staring at them, was punched in the nose, by Reading himself.
And no, I wasn’t in love with a girl from the north side. I was only more mad at her than. I was throwing tiny stones at the broken vials nailed to the top of Granma Black’s stall, hoping that this tunnel lead I got from a tin box from a boy in the fish stall was true, and one of the stones fell in her cup of water. She laughed and ran away, now I have to get beaten up for it. To be honest, girls don’t interest me at all, it is a tunnel or even a portal I really want to find, because all I ever want to be is a Freelancer. Freelancers are famous, you can spot one immediately around a castle. Their long black worn coats, or some other jaded or ridiculous outfit stand out amid a crowd, or in an eatery, like no other. To me, they even smell different.
They can take the smallest clues to find a portal. Last winter, I was trying to arrange icicles, because a series of books were lined up at the library to form the word Ice Castle among a shelf, and when I got out of the library there was a building totally covered with ice - a freak wave from the bay had reached over the castle walls and hit that one building and now it was frozen. As I was stringing the two together I saw long letter-like icicles all round the building and decided to give the lead a chance. I spent what must have been hours rearranging icicles on the ground, spelling names of places and people when a Freelancer with a bloody boot stooped over me an asked:
“Whats this one start with?”
“A line of books at the library,” I answered
“What was the first book?”
“JOT,” I said
“And the second?”
“Tyrannia,” I answered and continued with the titles of all nine books and their authors.
“This is a tough one for a kid, but I’m going to solve it and take the portal. Maybe you’ll learn something.”
I moved to the side and he built a castle with icicles, hundreds of them, elaborate and beautiful. A small portal shined in one of the windows. Before he touched it with the tip of his finger he said, “Two things could solve this puzzle - lots of reading, and a heart of ice - and you already have one of them.” He disappeared, and I inspected the castle carefully. I didn’t read all that much, but I started to after I met him
to the kid from maine that stole my
April 14, 2008 – 9:45 pmflowers are a petty word
enough to ruin a poem
more so a book of poems
thought i as i walked away
from their bleeding bodies
when i was in a mental hospital
they used to bring us these awesome marmelades
so colorful and sweet
in the winter you have to be careful
not to lose your heart
and there are five ways that can happen
ice shards among the nicer three
prefers tea
and baskets full of tools
it is the smoother bigger rock, she said
that is smarter, dumb is an inversion
of our fear of timeless and smart things
take even that which is
not supposed to be taken
prefers tea
and baskets full of tools
it is the smoother bigger rock, she said
that is smarter, dumb is an inversion
some time before i thought about the flowers
and walked away from their bleeding bodies
the best way to get your heart back after a bad winter
is to leave the walls of the castle and find the culprit
this should only be done during the warm season
just as hunting and games resulting in death
prefers tea
wont let me take that which is
you live in a garden
you live in a glass dome
i want to kill you
prefers tea
prefers tea
wont let me take that which
monkeyfuckraw
March 14, 2008 – 3:17 pm
Knees
March 10, 2008 – 10:13 pm
That season
March 10, 2008 – 12:35 amYou find yourself smelling ticket stubs from warm pockets of summer clothes
smelling pencil stubs (with the erasers worn out by rubbing, not erasing)
smelling summer in a drawer of paper and chemicals
smelling happiness from warm pockets of summer clothes
You were happy then, but it was busy and complicated, tired
guilty and fast, at times false, bitter, great,
wrong, obnoxious, childish, ecstatic, forbidden
at times real and at times made up
The finish line unfolded old truths kept communally hidden
and bitterness suppressed by comfort and pleasure
simplified a primal hate, a primal love (”tenderness is
a much more primal and powerful force than seduction.
That is why it is so hard to give up hope.”)
He
March 6, 2008 – 2:54 amAh, but he is less than he thought he was,
much less, the refrigerator is empty
and the only words that come to mind are someone else’s
and there is nothing to do on this day or another,
as he scuffles at those who wait impatiently
for the events on their calendars to arrive, there are
no hands
to hold hands with
and the down and down of mornings and evenings
and the down and down of the things he expects to be up
and the down and down of buses and people
and the down and down of smells in his bed
even his words and thoughts gain an unlikely cheapness
the perfect person had failed him
and he is down and dirty and smelling of boredom
and the exit is tight in his chest
and maybe but maybe
one day or another (she never left his head)
to lie in bed and not leave under any circumstance
not even thirst
a noble suicide
Old Lady On Boardwalk
February 12, 2008 – 12:18 am
Birds off Belt
February 11, 2008 – 12:53 am
Circles
February 8, 2008 – 12:57 am
Leopards
February 6, 2008 – 1:17 am
Deidre
January 27, 2008 – 1:21 amAnd the grandfathers said you shall be wed to this man
And you went to the river and said how much I love this man
And the time he touched you seemed well yea
And all the right things happen to him but not to you
And the garden is sprawling with beautiful things
And you end up in the same places
And the grandfathers said you shall be wed to this man
And they went and wrote it down in the book that no black is to appear on these walls
And that all shall be as it was and as it shall be
And that you shall be wed to this man
And they imagined the love you would make his cock and your tits
And they nodded at each other over cigars ashed to the fingertips
And you went to the river and thought
And you saw his face on the face of the river
And you thought of the time you touched him
And seemed well yea
And they nodded and thought of your tits and his cock
And thought and said you shall be wedded
And you went to the river and you thought
And you touched the face of the water with your bare foot
And you thought of the granfathers in their rocking chairs
And his cock and your tits
And you looked at the moon and thought unromatic things
And you looked at the rocks and touched them with your eyes
And it seemed unromantic romantic
Better a place known
The Photograph
January 4, 2008 – 12:42 amWhen Galina Mikhaylovna found the glossy but book-worn photo of a young girl in a swimming suit, reclining playfully on a sofa, she thought it odd that it looked so old. The photo was on top of some branches next to a sixteen floor highrise. The highrise was a stamp project built in the eighties, you can find these in Moscow just as well as any other city. The complexes inherited an indearing name of a particularly sour forest berry.
Masha knew quite before she knew love that she would only love once. She thought it must be a peculiar thing that happens to a few people. She was fourteen, then fifteen, then sixteen, but Pavel, who came only to pick up her older brother for volleyball games and one holiday celebration or another, was that guy. Pavel had curly hair and seemed kind and funny even when he tried very hard to detract her from staring aimlessly at him. She knew he thought she was too young.
They met as equals when she was eighteen. Though many guys tried hard to convince her that she was the most beautiful girl in Moscow, she preferred to think that she was pretty, and that it was the lightness of her soul that so inspired everyone. Pavel’s face showed discomfort rather than surprise — he knew that she was pretty and he has seen her for many years, drifting through various early stages of female grace. It was discomfort because he now understood that she has the mind to comprehend his line of though at the moment, that she was beautiful, that sex filled the space between their eyes when they met. Masha was a bit ahead of him in this, for she had years to think of ways to affect him.
They drank vodka at her brother’s apartment, Pavel roomed with him. It was Pavel’s twenty fourth birthday. They drank and the night moved faster as more vodka vaporized through their pores. Masha left with her friend at four and Pavel slept almost peacefully till midday. It was two weeks before New Year’s.
Lana’s occupation was always work and seriousness. Pavel met her through a friend of his. She invited them for New Year’s. There were plans for New Year’s with Masha too, but over a moment of serious thinking Pavel decided to go into unknown company and celebrate with Lana.
The moment at which the photo of Masha was taken was when she was seventeen. She and her friend goofed around the house with an old camera. The photo was the only one that developed well from the whole roll. Galina Mikhaylovna took the photo into the smelly lobby of the building and placed it on top of the free newspapers, in case someone had dropped it from a balcony.
Needless to say Pavel married Lana. Fourteen years later Masha had won the Beauty of Russia contest three years in a row, and had been divorced for four. Pavel lived in Switzerland and owned a hectic but profitable business. But fourteen years later, this time in the summer, when Pavel had returned to Moscow after ten years and was walking to a subway station, he felt someone looking at him. He knew it was her and she was striking, tall, slender, looking ten years younger then she was. This time it was a surprise on his face, but again not at her beauty — she came at him with tears in her eyes, and the honesty of it stroke him almost to tears too. “Is it you?” she asked. And he said yes.
What followed was a bottle of champaign and chocolate at her apartment, which despite her mature lifestyle still looked and smelled quite girlish. When it was late enough to part, he, spirited by her beauty and the stories of time past, asked for a photo from a time that he knew her last. The photo that he was too reluctant to rip as he dropped it from the balcony as the sun was about to rise. It was a good farewell, but having returned to the newspaper stack downstairs, this time with his wife and daughter along, it was a kind of past that creeps up, so he took it up with a newspaper and ripped it quite angrily in the bathroom.
The Sokolovs
December 14, 2007 – 11:40 amThe Sokolovs always seemed to me like the toughest family. The grandfather was a colonel, but I never saw him. Akeksandr, my cousin, always resorted to fists when I’d out-talk him in one kid arguement or another. His dad was tough and always chased us around with his gaze and voice alone. For years I’ve thought that they were an angry and bitter bunch. But when I heard the story about Sasha, the dad’s brother, I couldn’t quite figure them out anymore.
Sasha fell in love with Lena, a beautiful girl that kids from all the neighboring villages knew about and worshipped. There was no fights because she just fell for him and the summer that followed was wild by many accounts, but his brother knew more about it than anyone did. They were consumed with each other and they would do it anywhere - underwater in the river, in his house with the parents sleeping in the same room, when they kissed windows broke and that was everywhere they went. They were so filled up with each other’s want, passion, when they parted and walked toward their villages you could see too long streaks of red through the grass, tied up at the place they last touched. He left for army duty on September 1st, when she had her first day in 11th grade.
Given his inability to put feelings to words his first two letters were short after which he stopped sending them whatsoever. She wrote often and told him how she yearned for every part of him. After two years she only wrote to reply to his short notes and when he came back in 1954 only his brother showed up at the airport to meet him.
It was late fall and, though not visible, the grass took on a frosty hardness. He ate at home with his parents and the relatives, drank vodka in moderation and when the music started playing and voices started to get louder he left the house to stand outside. He looked through the trees at the direction of where her house would be, 18 kilometers through the thin forest, smoked, and started walking. He walked for three hours as the dusk outlined the shapes of trees. Their wet bark made them stand out and the last of the smells of life and summer was concentrated on the dying leaves. He saw her house from a distance, it was alone on the far end of Nekrasovo. The lights from the windows casted strange long beams of light on the grass and bushes. He felt his chest tighten as he went to the door and couldn’t knock. When he looked in the window he saw her playing with another man.
Sasha took the three hour walk back to his home, took the colonel’s rifle, and started to walk back to Lena’s house. It was dead dark and almost morning by then, but he could smell his way to the house and the moonlight showed brighter through the leafless trees. Somewhere halfway it started to rain. He stopped and turned back, stopped again, took a deep breath, stuck the barrel in his mouth, and shot himself.
Lena followed him soon after - jumped into the river a day before it froze.
The arguement
December 12, 2007 – 12:43 pmThe indiscriminate is a parapost and a way of memory capacity to inscrease proportionaly with the decrease of size, nonetheless AJ remembers everything, though usually trivival things on the news, but some wish they hadn’t the memories, usually because all of them form with emotional attachment, a thing of macroscopic preference for scale mechanisms of subhuman action, given the emotional quotient, they are to answer questions which the researchers assure have no link to morality or rational behavior trends of society in question or any society parallel to assigned situation, this is mostly bogus, yet smarter contenders usually score higher regardless, the ability to remember thus is with the few that can think and feel never with the specialized genius, the insect, the bug, can not survive in either supersocial or isolated conditions, true for algorythms and for humans, weird thing, but we concoct everything in our image, or as the blind say his image, habeas matrix, i am the center of everything, and the disambiguation of faith is that a coward runs from the possibility of self as the denomenator, the vandal asserts the true essence, something even superpowers can not, this is mine and you shall look at it, bug - Quentin turned the corner and wend toward the couch outside - the weakness of creating is that it is not taking, but a weakness some prefer, the driverhead itching one by one, but millions per second bits it has no power by itself to turn to strings, arguments, the interlacings of an image, but it has purpose, but then how is this different - he slid his hands in his pockets and came up with cigarettes and some bills - the fall of all that’s inside this place is that you can’t control by creating, and the point is control, the user, and the conquest, the user, the point is that the derivative and simple human being or feeble creature which commands the network, has the reigns of something above and beyond in complexity above it, yet it takes circuitry, blood and guts and history and ancestry to assume the domineering prerequisite - cars skidded out of control on the highway ahead of him and took slowly to air, the passengers climbed out and held hands midair preventing scratches in a weightless handshake - there will be time, he blinked, there will be time.
Jim
December 10, 2007 – 5:05 pmAnd eleven the most dreadful hour.
We have been out in the snowed in part of the woods for over three hours, walking by moonlight, pushing forward with out weight, crossing our elbows to break the icecap. It’s four miles to the house. We expected the long walk from the library, and hoped the snowfall would give out. She is dressed warm, a thick red scarf over her face. She has the few books in a backpack. Jimmy is behind me his gloved hands holding on to my belt. He lets go every now and then and runs back to retrace our steps and catch up again.
this is the tea cup and this is the teacup, i say. she is smoking a cigarette in the corridor. i am poking the last of the wood into the oven for the night. jimmy has all the books out on the floor opened to page one. the heat cracks through the house and she is back
We are out for our first fishing of the year. Jimmy has all the rods and I am behind with the feedbag, baitcans, rodstands, and chairs. She stayed at home. Jimmy stops at the mudroad to look at the streaks of red clouds where the sun is coming up. When I catch up we go down toward the lake. The ice had started breaking several weeks ago and Jimmy had been running feed into our spot since then. We had burned the thick dry brush out during the winter. By the time we have the feed out in the water and the chairs set in, she comes with the three thermoses and the sandwiches. We eat as the feed soaks as snowflakes down into the water.
and all the suns sands and seas, she says. i forgot which one that is from, wish i hadnt thrown it all out. bite jimmy bite! oh its red, he says. get the hook out, i say. oh my god, she says, laughing
“I remember he starts it: “riverrun.” I always thought of it as a long poem,” I say.
She says, “We never finished it but we wanted to read it together.”
I say, “We should read it the three of us together. Should be fun.”
and the moocow the moocow the moocow. so gut, innocence. he is a knife in the stomach, yes. oh jimmy what shalt thou be. the world has no boundary for you, and i would kill him that obscurest thou
We have the guns out to shoot the crows after planting. Jimmy is puttting the lead bits I smelted into the old pneumatic and I have the newer one from up in the city. They perch on the fence, far off across the farm and I can’t make them out too good even with the glasses on. Jimmy has a firmer stance then me, a firmer stance then any kid or anyone I’ve seen. He is light with the rifle, takes three or four out in a minute, his small hands and palms liquid on the barrel. I get one shot off and look sulky at the fence. They’re dropping like notes. Hams is already down and out of the doghouse and tracing the fence toward them.
and we had been at the washhouse and never clean. no airplane too far from this. sometimes i feel it crawl up on me at night, buildings and cars and trains at night. it is an overwhelming figure, the city, the shadow. and we ran. or, really, went back in time, replicated the actions of the ancestors, creating the universe again, like salmon that swim up to the fresh water from the seas, laying the seeds of their young in the harshest of places so it may grow again through the hardship of the eternal
There are headlights on the front porch after midnight. She went to sleep early because she stayed up last night. Jimmy brushed his teeth and went to sleep a half hour ago. I go out to the porch with the cigarette and the aluminum cup of tea and rock the door open with the free shoulder. Noone is out of the car yet and I lean on the entrance beam and look at the rain soaking the grape garden down the path. They shut off the headlights and turn the light on inside.
“A little girl been killed. Found yonder in the river.”
“Sure feel like I excpected that.”
“She been out there since yesterday. You seen anyone around?”
“Not a soul. I been telling you to let me burn those old houses. Did you check them?”
“We been by the ones by the road, but not around the lake and your old house.”
“Going there?”
“We planned to tonight but thought we ask you first, Quen-”
“Let me tell them first. I’ll get my coat.”
and back in the city wrote one time about a childhood terror-fantasy. she hated it. i was afraid of it. the things that the animal brings us. i was to do it with a rock, when i was six, and drag her down to the lake and kiss her everywhere. this is my fear, to wake up uncoscious and do all these things. or to have done them and remain unaware
In the kitchen I look at the mirror over the sink. I nudge her awake she is soft and warm under the sheets. I come out with the rifle and they shoot me in the stomach and shoulder. I fall down onto the porch and see Hams’ paws scatter ahead to protect me. There is a moment when I think that I am going to faint but I hear her steps through the anteroom and the kitchen, her nightrobe still warm and her hair already soaking with the rain (like back in the grid, the past, when she would come out of her building just taken a shower rain or shine hot or cold careless, pneumonia a peremtory meaningless scare, and her shirt would soak in the back as the shampoo smelling drops would make it down her long dark hair.) There is a moment again that I think I am going to faint but I see her naked heels go out on the concrete walk and pull Hams back and stare at them. I couldn’t see what they were doing, but I saw the rage seep out of her calfs as she couldn’t move to slap and scratch them or scream. She was rooted there, the rain coming down on her from the grapeleaves. Then I hear Jimmy’s steps in the anteroom and the kitchen. He stops though, right as he crosses the threshhold to the kitchen. I realize he is squatting to see whats going on and hear his steps back toward the bedroom. I squirm, “Mattie-” to tell her he is going for the rifle. She looks back at me and there is a flash from the window. They both fall, only one shot I think, his steps coming around from the bedroom and toward the porch. One of them gets up and goes to the window and Jimmy steps over me and flashes another one in the back of his head. Jimmy’s heels look cold blue.
and he a kid of ten. on the road again until no gas. we see the mountains in the distance. my stomach heals as the bullet went through, but the pus from my shoulder makes the whole car smell. thank god the heat isnt here yet. we stop off at an empty sanatorium half hour into the mountainrange. i lead them both down the rockpath to the mountainriver and lie down in its cold. remember the day with the twins when they went in as though there was no river. its running stronger now then before. where we built a fire years ago there are salmon swimming. i can see them through forty, fifty feet of water. i remember the blonde kid saying one dip in the river give you a year of life. my shoulder washes out to a blue color and i rub it with a rough rock to take off the dead and rotting skin
We leave the car off on the road and go for some houses I remember scaterred in the valley. We stop at times to build a fire and Jimmy goes off to shoot a thing or two. It takes him a long time. After three days he gets better. I showed her where to break off salt rocks on the washout and she gets a few. We season the extra birds and leave them out in the sun when we stop over. We hit the river again. Jimmy and her go to wash the birds and reseason them. I watch them go toward the water and feel what I have been for a while, the lack of the will to leave. I am afraid that I was the one that did it, that the unchallenged purity of the life I have lived has stripped and integrated my uncoscious undertorrents into the actuated being and that I have gone off done something I could only have before feared to have even thought. I no longer know whether I was a whole person or not and I no longer know whether I should be ashamed.
Condos Starting at 1 Million
December 3, 2007 – 10:21 pm
It seems the depravity of this condo ad sprawled straight onto the billboard, thanks to a tree strategically placed in the building’s mammoth lobby.
Bell
December 2, 2007 – 8:23 pmThey’ve told him to go and move the bell into the shed. It was past midnight and the snow had started falling in large moonlit flakes. It got colder as he moved away from the streetlights toward the field. The bell stood by two posts behind the shed, its skirt under a foot of snow. He dug out the bottom and tried to lift it. The bell’s frost stuck to his fingers. It was dark. He could only see his breath’s vapor lit up by the moon and the snow and the darkness that was the bell. He lifted up one side and felt a vast colder emptiness expand from the bell’s underside. In the distance tall trees could be heard slapping against each other in the high winds. He knocked the bell to its side and rolled it to the shed. Following his footsteps in the snow backwards he stopped by the window of their house and looked at the light rectangle it cast on the snow. He punched at the glass and broke it.
Gloves and Leaves
November 23, 2007 – 6:36 pm
Metrograd hums
November 21, 2007 – 12:32 pmA common compositing misconception: that a user style elements is a somber link to religion (i.e. banana breakfast) a claim rapidly refuted by common cluster logic, the point being that the soul, given user understanding that this represents only a software approach, that is, nothing in the realm of graspable, the point being that the soul is not neccesarily a root charge of a given process, or, reasonably speaking, a calculation (i.e. banana breakfast) that regardless of visual, already hardware, environment proceeds to obfuscate a terminal setting: to sit on a chair, that is, to press buttocks through cloth onto modeled wood, or styrofoam - regardless of process, a thought examining the possible variation is not given, that is, neither a hardware or a software representation of an anguished user - sweat that is, say on fingers, on to keys, is neither software nor hardware, for the keys are only what a chair is to the “model of chair”, “structure of chair”, “ideal of chair”, while the sweat of the butt only a durable environment catastrophe unengageable by common algorythm - the point being that the soul (i.e. banana breakfast), considerably a stable terminal belief and the somber link - wait, Quentin said, there is a bit missing here, say the figure is on the table, white sheet, spot lights, etc., but the cameraman, the subject in question is beyond recording capacity - it’s okay Quentin, just finish it - will you have something to say then - yes, just shoot it - to be Quentin then and there, well, to be Foreman too, all the same, that is, they would tell each other the same story in a different way, Quentin with the camera (the religion) and Foreman with the interpretation (the kernel), the point being that system resources are unambiguous to the viewer regardless of system pressure. “Looking at her again,” Quentin said, when Foreman asked him where he has been, knowing already that he had gone to the edge again to look at that tree, but quite conscious of his own desire to know what Quentin’s mad knowledge may be this time, the hours he took to walk out of the city and to the abandoned tracks, to see a tree that, well, we know who, planted a hundred years ago, wondering, did he keep his coat on, did he look thoughtful and interesting, and, well, how did he cope with the freedom, to just, you know, pick up and go like that, Foreman thought when I saw him stalk off past the coffee shop in the morning, when Foreman thought, don’t forget to ask him where he went, even though he already knew he was going out to that tree again, the point being, “looking at her again,” was completely expected, as well as the rest of the day that has presently passed, so wondering then, at the dusty screen of the window, Foreman had already looped to the answer, the question being so interesting, that is, “I had gone in the cold and I took the jacket too” along with “she still curves right along the sun if you stand in the right spot” and “I fell asleep along the tracks” no longer a perpetual nagging for a reversal of time but a humble reproach for the non-algorythmic inconvinience of movement by the second now, and by century every day before yesterday. “In his childhood poems, remember, every tree was train” was the institutional analysis, yet Quentin manages still to cope with the incogruities of reality given his condition. And Foreman? More like a cat that waits for him by the window, unsure of his own gender. Was he a female that was spayed or a male sterilized. When all you do is poop and eat and do want you want to do and sex hasn’t been a drive for a century, what gender are you? The inconvinience of pasttimes is that they pass. A day of wondering for Foreman and a day of wandering for Quentin and sometimes together on the night: “You are so corny, Foreman.” Quentin, with a light fibre flick to a dying cigarette. Turning, an exaggerated sound. Swirve up the stairs, drunk, fall back. “The moon’s light Foreman, and this is not me saying it, some norwegian got it right one hundred years ago, the moon’s light is a counterfeit, a stolen praise of sun. It is by this virtue that it is cold.” A forced left in the dark. Trees get in the way. “Turn on that GPS Foreman, where you taking me man. Where you taking me?” Light from another street. Three horses pass. “Wery nice saddles, yes?” A crowd, talking soberly, girl laughs from the forests. “You are NLO yes? UFS? Not identifiable large biomass, motherfucker Foreman, it’s so purple here man. Let me just stay here I will fall asleep at the table.” The churning of Motorgrad underneath and electricity close overhead.
Trash
November 17, 2007 – 1:41 am
Secondhand
November 15, 2007 – 5:59 pmWhat is it hums the static
A white wall, a shadow, lines of gray
What, and with a stomach pain, what
Is it that hums the static
The seasons come with the precision of the secondhand
The mornings tick and be
The night falls slowly, but I know
That in 13 the cool will blow down from the roof
Everyone asks you
What they should do to be happy
Or what will make them happy
Nothing
But you let them know that it is an important question
They’ve let absinthe back in the kingdom
And you think of spending a week’s pay on a bottle
To drink and pretend that you dance with the greats
Things come with the precision of the secondhand
Stopping in random places to look at the passerbys
Does not impede the momentum of minute history
Separate and disinterested down the dirty steps to the metro
You wish you had sunglasses
So you could sit in public places
And stare at the faces of strangers
And a month later you find out that even that has been done and recorded
You fill yourself with food and with time spent doing what you want
And you ask yourself the important questions over a cup of tea
But when you cry at simple stories
You realize the structural inconsistencies of the reality pyramid
The violence in your dreams escalates
And the presence of water everywhere is incapacitating
But forgotten dreams shouldn’t bother anyone
There are always cigarettes and tea on cold staircases
The classroom
November 13, 2007 – 4:03 pmThe building inverts itself and fills with water. The eye floats through staircases and corridors to the laundry room. Chaykovsky shoves Sam into the washing machine. He closes the door and turns it on. At first it’s silent. Chaykovsky opens a little window and yells: “Are you in there? Huh? Can you hear me?” And then the yells begin. The eye travels out to make a phone call. The bodies of the dead reach out. Most of them are missing fingers.