18 February 2006

I Paraphrase Only in Elucidation

We all do what we can
So we can do just one more thing
We can all be free
Maybe not in words
Maybe not with a look
But with your mind

There is a portion that yearns to unlearn, ravel away as the other builds up with the bricks and dirt of this firmament, wants to crash over the wailing veils that stream over the blacker waters and harder clay. When I'm drunk I look a little like Bukowski, red wine stained teeth and an out of vintage bottling shirt hugging tightly to my corpuscles. And I am disengaged and disingenuous, made failure and fallible by the sting in the look of griping grief shredding through the ears thrumming on the last verberation of a subtle oh. Maybe not in words, maybe not in television, the grey waves crackling on the blue fuzzed carpet where the cat slinks in a tawny vibration of light landing sideways so that we can do just one more thing. Old times on the nine listening to wood planks rippling from stem to stern and rolling, just going our way. It's all in our palindromes we recite on our bedsides, shuffling our thoughts in the small, old drawers we once kept all the children's dreams in, and those were the keys, the turning hasps like shutters squealing in the golden dawn-break storm of light-- that's how we all came out. Five kisses and a dollar bill go fluttering out the window like the stripes waving in the camisole, busy hands worrying stones away trying to comfort the burned-in nature of minds missing ideals. I've had time to weigh the judgments, to weigh the lightness of this thing called love and find it all folly, all folly. Entirely folly. I know that despite the contrast, despite being the dark other I am still governed by the child of light, this gestating firmament that burs the horizontal. I walk the stairs and try to remember the logic, tried to dispense with the polarity, but it is flux. I am completely adjective to it all. Pine and peal, there is no more to matter other than the pattern of indicative, the positive fragment of unhealth and sovereign reign I represent in foetal passing. Perhaps it’s inescapable that no one will see the footfalls or smoke-driven cascade of underestimates I've been privy to. Even now, I know the thoughts escape me, the myriad of knowing this. Knowing you. Not on paper. Not on any template, and I am grieved that I have lost it in two seconds time. I ask to some god that that Borges's own work asked, that but I had a year to form the coherent, the justification...
Not of myself this once. But of you all. I knew it then. That eternity in time while the clove was waiting to burn at my hair, that passable existenz I confused for a reality before the shot and lead and primer explosion that has carved my soul into cohesion beyond any portent you'd been wonting.
Forgiveness is more than futile, but you would never have known.

9 February 2006

An Errable Rotation of Crap Circles

"There's no poetry between us"
Said the paper to the pen
"And I get nothing for my trouble
But the ink beneath my skin"
If your clothes are getting weary
And your soul's gone out of style
Blame the miracle mile
And the bottom of the ladder

My Pomeranian is a fruit-loop, ten bowls and a spoon full of Splenda that the FDA never got around to approving. It's insidious in a whisper but laughable at night when the open mouths all chatter and clouds lift their heels and let the heat out the way. She wore a cornerstone around her waste and a keystone she never bothered to shave except on the weekends after sex and salt had made their way to the beach and dried up on the lichen and leaches, and that’s not all bad if it weren’t for the bus fare and the long drive back at 2 A.M. That's right, pause and rinse, spit a few kazoo castanets before you role down the window, otherwise the landlady might scream about the overdue novel or orgasm or exceptional circumstances of the life you left upstairs and two doors off to the left. Completely plausible though it may be, the orange wedges do not come buttered prior to the 22nd century, not before our crags and nose slopes taper off and the skull fragments of the frog you once held in the osh kosh pocket are scooped up and thought wrongly for the next pop album Wham decides to release. I only say wham because hatred is worth putting two in the hat and waltzing my fair lady in a derby gown and Worcestershire tainted cheddar, only because I am completely mad and the rest of the world has an anger management issue to resolve before little Timmy Connors is allowed to play tricycle with it again.
Clever. Not so much as Cleaver, June, or Ward, they were the same, no? Like mounds and almond joy switching dire for drag and a dope nose habit squirming tissues through the plexus caudal to the dream, they weren't so innocent or bequeathed of any special certainty leftover from the fear generated an era before Jackie Gleason managed to name the characters sent off to the moon 30 years on. 30 years from now. 30 years today. It's an open book jacket, the dust covered plastic bound in masking tape and a folly of a narrative that even Hemingway thought more of a joke than Gertrude Stein, a sallow cheeky fellow in rain gear and a quarter to call home, but no one told of the long distance charge associated with extraterrestrial Etcha-Sketches, tuna sammiches, peanut butter, or the 0[o]zone. That's why we as kids ate Elmer (the DRA was way too high, you see) and needed no enthusiastic mammaries to tell us that white mustaches were better than Dirty Sanchez in Cleveland where the steamers were rolling over Detroit.
Oh, she played on words, too, you know, a grand game called Su Doku [soodookoh] that the window lickers liked to chew on because the Quaker fellow's hat seemed a bit too brimmed for the brisk, baby. The rug-munchers [rats] in kindergarten wonder why their pallantine sinus aches from the ice cream, so they gave em all ferrets and told them that they'd cocoon and pupate and rebirth to puppies at Christmas, but only if you leave them in a sealed egg carton underground. Fuckers. The problem with lying and laying is the lack of stimulation for creativity, like a perfect team its been beating on itself since time immemoriam [hippie days, for the layme people], so much so that the horses caught wind and fought off Hitler single handed just to get a go at that leggy Eva Braun fellow. Parturition was the last straw for dad-dums, what with his post apocalyptic cubist phase, something about the paint fumes I'm sure. Had anyone been astute enough to throw salve on the bee-sting in-between her heroin tracks, they might've seen that tiniest of tattoos, the Mona Lisa of life's artful bookmarks, but sadly the dress was already around her waste and the fingers clenching elsewhere. And in all the mad madness bereaving, like Xavier, life is elsewhere. Life is elsewhere.

1 February 2006

Deviant Circuitry in the Mammalian Machine

I know I dreamed you a sin and a lie
I have my freedom but I don’t have much time
Faith has been broken, tears must be cried
Let’s do some living after we die

She smelled of old tomes bound in finest leather, sweat from heat and passion strained, dew of the frosted mornings clinging dryly to slim-veined leaves like her own lithe limbs, a tender and lined, pale beauty that echoed the wolf's sun in soft radiance speaking in the umber-brown tones of silt and mud-earth. This drama wracked her marble tension in a veil of alabaster and silver feigned emotions, a concoction of struggle and reprieve set upon a stiff and vaulted mind looming in shadow and barely visible light, a haunting aging phantom worrying away at the statuesque ivory giving and giving of its idyllic frame. This is chafing, she would say, a gladly taking of the slim ideascape incorporated into the slants and curves of the light as it was bent into her skin and back out once more, a blue lamp of inhibition networking along the corded muscle, tone and taught, all caught up, in a blending of madness and seduction. On cannot cope with the abscension, the emptying of a soul, the silt and sand slowing quaking into the watery ellipsis boiling over with transduction and raining out the amalgamated bolt down a length of wire so thin as one of us. She was glass beads brimming from her tongue the jewels of life and laughter falling at a rhythm, a cadence and contractual hoom of her pulse dipping the frail chords in ecstasy only to shake it free in the tackling, tossing monomeric fumbling for words that consumes in the din of flooded love and consummation. This beauty corrupts us wholly, entreating the wandering of souls to blacken with yellow-sick sin while profanity is stark truth, a lovely bold reflection of vulgar row and conquering contagion in search, constantly warred and palely raging fingers deep through he skull. Suck in, drain in, expedite the delirium feeling only the rudimentary shear of a palsy shift in personality. She held tight this time in the gale force careen, the mauve-wrinkled twilight perfusing the last collapsed vessel as she hemorrhaged out her own Canterbury tales, blindly seeding the fallen mess of own pearls and parcels sloughing off the hips. Green glass shoals breaking the meagre number within the elder seas, casting what few tithings still flat off at the far end of sanity. Very well she may cross the line or swim to provide better ballast, a greater keel to the vicious, hurried wind she presses to others ears.