20101027 11:15 p.m. (probably)

his arms grabbed her shoulders with both hands, squaring her eyes to his eyes

" . . . "

her arms grabbed his shoulders with both hands, squaring his iris to her iris

" . . . "

her left index finger closed his right eyelid

his right index finger closed her left eyelid

her right index finger closed his left eyelid

his left index finger closed her right eyelid

they stood with eyes closed, hand upon shoulder, did not speak, did not move for twelve minutes when a little boy in corduroy passed between their legs.

he opened his right eyelid
with his right index finger

and opened her right eyelid 

with his right index finger

 i always thought i was a slight, more frail, john candy lovable loser type until i met you

i am thinking about different methodologies that might drive your google searches
i am thinking about what you are after in your most private moments
i am thinking that i want to google your name and lord your existence over every other chandra cohen google can trap and reduce



aporia
even the poor can stretch out their muscles, feel
-- keep wondering when bleak will turn/
black, hearing 400% sirens. or,
when i will stop writing poems in google search
and when fingers will run through passing branches
flower, berry, thorn, and all
aporia

wednesday, october 13, 2010

love fell more swiftly than it ascended
when Love was never ever the shovel
what is the rhythm and melody at the heart of heart
where two plus two delivers empty set and fingerprints play leap frog

'excerpts from the journal of a has-been, ex-fourth grade spelling champion'; or, 'the sun is an equal opportunity arsonist'; or, 'another alligator dies in the sewer'; or, Preface to a Philosophy of Art

doing something 'good' or 'worthwhile' or maybe being 'happy' or 'content' on 2000 milligrams of hydrocodone and some unknown quantity of marijuana-via-pipe resin (approximately five to seven 'decent rips') is a lot like bowling three hundred with bumpers.

to reach me at this state you must be a true child of charon capable of descending to the depths like that hook they used in braveheart to rip out william wallace's internal organs.

simultaneous to the artificial happiness of 2000 milligrams of hydrocodone and some unknown quantity of marijuana-via-resin (approximately five to seven 'decent rips'), i feel my internal beams quaver. accounting has audited and paper is flying everywhere. ledgers newsies  
fraud fraud fraud read all about it



i turn on the song 'mr. november' and then listen to the first six tracks from 'boxer.' 
matt berninger saves my life daily.
when i connect with no one in real life, i turn on the national so that i can feel something even if that something is just someone else feeling bleak, confused, devoid.
i feel slightly better in this trying misery than the great but easy narcoticism.
this is very confusing since they both exist concurrently.
i feel like i exist in an islamic parable depicting the inability of fresh water and saltwater to mix.


i am back in the basement from an hour of 'dexter.'  i like dexter because he is hiding but he is trying to assimilate as his cover. dexter is a serial killer who only kills other serial killers. dexter assimilates by mimicking emotion in order to appear 'normal.' dexter does not feel emotion and wants to assimilate by feeling emotion. i feel too much emotion and i try to assimilate by displaying less emotion than i feel. i try not to hide in plain sight in everyone else's overcoat, but i do hide so that i can better assimilate and play red rover and be valued for my strong hands and red brick arms.  dexter also hides to better assimilate.  sufjan steven's 'john wayne gacy' is not about hiding to assimilate.  sufjan steven's 'john wayne gacy, jr.' is about the serial killer john wayne gacy and the first person narrator's admission "that 'in my best behavior, i am really just like him.  look beneath the floorboards for the secrets i have hid."  approximately two seconds later, he sort of subtly releases a gasp couplet.  it's believable and moving. 
i dont think it is calculated.


i scan the thirteen open firefox tabs .  i have probably scanned tabs ten to twelve times today.  i have probably checked the google mail tab fifteen times this hour.  sometimes, i hit refresh because i do not trust my computer's ability to automatically refresh and show me a newly received incoming message in real-time.  this strikes me as quite possibly the number one example of my present loneliness.  it is the most present example of my present loneliness.

i think okkervil river will 'do me some good right now.'  i turn on 'a stone.' LINK  it is not a very happy song.  i inhale two above average marijuana resin rips, letting smoke fill the bowl for approximately six seconds. i exhale two above average marjuana resin rips after holding each in my lungs for an average of ten seconds . marjijuana smoke's length of residency in the lungs directly translates to how high one will get, and in some social situations is an indicative of waste and an 'unjust' treatment towards the herb. i have been told this by numerous marijuana users throughout my marijuana career (~ two years of biweekly/weekly usage and ~ eight years of daily usage)

black noise? what is white noise?

is the future of my writing pretty bleak given my continued and exponential descent into solipsism?
is the future of my writing pretty bleak given my continued, exponential, and willed descent into solipsism?
is the future of my writing pretty bleak given my continued, exponential, and willed descent into solipsism under the guise of an extreme subjectivist philosophy of art?

how else - exactly - would you go about creating, then?

how else - exactly - do you escape the (very likely) fact that - You I Them - how do you escape the (now, even likelier) fact that we all can only, can only possibly, know the effect of some of the car crashes on highways, the platoons stuck in heavily mosquito'd leeched swamps, the impotent cloudy children's eyes on tattered old colored pages?

months ago (but still now)

The days  of yore
                Crumpled up, thrown down
                                    Post-op mona lisas
                                   
Lie amongst artifacts        toenail clippings and    
                       
                                    And empty wrappers


Their physical location is their only truth.

No, their physical location to one another from a certain angle at a certain time through the lens of a particular human being under self-induced or environmentally-induced pressure to value a certain metaphorical and allegorical schema is their only truth.


The days of yore are shredded mozzarella cheese on tacos we eat and never remember they used to be cheddar on cheeseburgers.  The finely shredded cheese used to be parmesan on pasta.  This very same brie on toasted cracker used to be asiago in a bagel.  The days of yore never existed in any particular way and neither does cheese.  Consistency is an optical illusion.  Like color.  (is a benign illusion merely an effect til it kills?) 

The days of yore hire very expensive lawyers.  The days of yore’s lawyers have very large penis’ to fill whatever huge void the vaginas of Today and Tomorrow (and So On and So Forth) may find.  The days of yore’s vaginas are tween tight and can please (and be pleased by) the tiniest Today and Tomorrow (and So On and So Forth) penis.  The days of yore file motions and bend over and get bent over.  The days of yore fuck the prosecutor.  The days of yore fuck the fore(wo)man. The days of yore fuck the judge.  There is no difference between the days of yore and any of these people (things).

The days of yore don’t exist.

The days of yore don’t exist.

The days of yore are only The Days of Yore, proper noun.

And The Days of Yore are only whittled away at days, or selectively demo’d and added on to, days.

The Days of Yore are jagged barbs, fears, or, worse yet, dreams revamping reality in their image like a jealous tyrant raining down. 

The Days of Yore are bastards.  Asexually produced too.

The Days of Yore need to hang themselves by their intestinal lining and find themselves and follow suit.  Each fear, each dream, dying, leaving only the previously wagging dog tail.