an open letter to jean-luis lebris,
was it grey who taught you to dream so monochromatically, or had you always been chasing down the west wall with unicorn skulls in hand? kafka had his beetles and you had your sea, for that i admire both city and town. maybe we'll all be mad to live and mad to burn across stars in a blue burst and fading web, just mad men with mad streaming eyes.
We are all on our own. Whether repub or demolition, child daughter or prodigal son of Aristophones, we have yet to be a part of anything so long as we reject that we are a part, a massive stake in, a tremendous mistake in, everything we have created out of our perception. But that's just me being weird at 5:40 in the evening on an empty stomach as it grumbles the hour at every tick of a clock I've obviously yet to buy. Did you suddenly grow a pair of bosoms? Did your penis suddenly recede into a cunt to make you my mother? I wonder, is she really all my mother, or just a fragment like we all are of ourselves. That's what wondering
So I write in illiterate states and shout through megaphones at the shackled deaf, because what better way to free them than by swimming in their sewage. All those unused words, neither spoken nor written, do they ever die? Is there a shelf life for the things we've yet to say? Or have we got unperishable goods of our goodly selves only spoiled by a rotten nature of the better halves that know what is to know for sure? Maybe there was more to Kerouac, but maybe he let it all go out with the Sunday paper and that quart of milk still sitting in the sun.
just maybe once or twice,
maybe the word molts. Like a crustacean tired of a shell, maybe they become better or worse. And maybe
just maybe tonight
that's what we were for all along. Consequently, have we ever then traveled the full length of a sentence? Or always been stuck on the one misplaced modifier that someone left out of the greatest novel written?