Wednesday, October 24, 2007
to something permanent
it kills like pink elephants. it rings like pill telephones. false or not at all. all sore, caught, and i'll waste my days away like this. i'll waste my ways. a day like this? call me a dumb waiter, all i have on my hands is time and signs. call-up—a scrum player—but i love her demands and diamond eyes and she hates my dying sighs. i'll read, i'll redial and speed-wile while speeding around in circles. i'll bleed in the ground she hurdles with such grace, lips, marchpane, a starch pace in this stark race. with pea-coat kisses and remote misses i'll touch faith in such places, lose face. i'm bruised, tasteless and from the landing banged up. please take my hand, don't hang up.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
from sleep
dear me: by the time you get this letter you'll be free, and i suppose it's for the better. you need sleep, but these dreams will never be clean, or, for that matter, stop getting wetter and believe me, you'll never get her sweet screams or even the measly pleasure of getting to bed her mean streets. drums beat to something permanent: the numb deeps or at least a burning end. come, steep in something permanent. unclean but at least you're born again. her gleam's peaks, her mean streaks. you teen freak, you weak fiend, you keen creep. you speak? please. get yourself back together. sincerely, your indebtor, real me.
Sunday, October 07, 2007
day three: redemption & exemptions
Character was drawing red exes all over the calendar. It was September 4th. He wasn't quite sure where, or why, all the time had gone. And even though it all went wrong, he though to himself, I'll stand before the lord of song with nothing on my tongue but hallelujah.
No. No. That was a lie. There were criticisms, too. He was justifiably bitter and cynical. He searched for a meaning, a reason. Was it Fall already? It wasn't, of course; not for another 17 days. But still. He never paid as much attention to equinoxes and solstices as he did to calendar pages. In his mind, his days were numbered, and every new month meant ripping away the dead husk of the old one, replete with arrow wounds where X had marked a spot of misery or misfortune — or maybe just misremembering.
Last night he had ended up on the phone with a girl he knew from high school. They talked until all the plumbers and magicians were at home, safe in bed from wracking self-doubt and dreams of career suicide. He could never quite figure what they saw in each other. He had started, as a way to escape a conversation he was too bored not to have, to write, blindly flying across a spare piece of lined paper that had been lying within reach. This had not let up overnight. He was writing everything, everywhere. By now the September page had been filled to bursting with his thoughts and his exes. He contemplated stutteringly turning the page to continue on with his work, but thought better of it. Time was inconstant enough, making a lunatic ass of himself whenever sanity sought to control him, without obnoxiously speeding through the remaining months of the year in a sad fit of excess. He wasn't even writing, he was dimly aware, anything worth reading. Just —
He gave up and went to answer the doorbell. He didn't recognize the face behind the peephole. It was solemn, unsmiling. He wasn't in the mood tonight. Tonight...
Tonight he was in the mood for dancing. For painting. For something. For anything. Tonight he was in the mood to transcend everything and go straight to fifth base. His birthday was in a few weeks. That was reason enough.
A fly buzzed furiously by. This one was alone, and smaller, than the ones that had visited during the summer. Like a death throe from the greater entity of flies, a desperado that refused to land. He laughed at himself for not really making sense. It was reason enough.
No. No. That was a lie. There were criticisms, too. He was justifiably bitter and cynical. He searched for a meaning, a reason. Was it Fall already? It wasn't, of course; not for another 17 days. But still. He never paid as much attention to equinoxes and solstices as he did to calendar pages. In his mind, his days were numbered, and every new month meant ripping away the dead husk of the old one, replete with arrow wounds where X had marked a spot of misery or misfortune — or maybe just misremembering.
Last night he had ended up on the phone with a girl he knew from high school. They talked until all the plumbers and magicians were at home, safe in bed from wracking self-doubt and dreams of career suicide. He could never quite figure what they saw in each other. He had started, as a way to escape a conversation he was too bored not to have, to write, blindly flying across a spare piece of lined paper that had been lying within reach. This had not let up overnight. He was writing everything, everywhere. By now the September page had been filled to bursting with his thoughts and his exes. He contemplated stutteringly turning the page to continue on with his work, but thought better of it. Time was inconstant enough, making a lunatic ass of himself whenever sanity sought to control him, without obnoxiously speeding through the remaining months of the year in a sad fit of excess. He wasn't even writing, he was dimly aware, anything worth reading. Just —
He gave up and went to answer the doorbell. He didn't recognize the face behind the peephole. It was solemn, unsmiling. He wasn't in the mood tonight. Tonight...
Tonight he was in the mood for dancing. For painting. For something. For anything. Tonight he was in the mood to transcend everything and go straight to fifth base. His birthday was in a few weeks. That was reason enough.
A fly buzzed furiously by. This one was alone, and smaller, than the ones that had visited during the summer. Like a death throe from the greater entity of flies, a desperado that refused to land. He laughed at himself for not really making sense. It was reason enough.
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