september 18, 2010 11:00 pm - september 19, 2010 4:40 am (or, hugging at 186,000 miles per second)

white noise and a salt and pepper television set screen
a guitar god plays a single incendiary guitar lick
over and over
overandover

it has begun

i am fetal and prone and smiling, now.

now, i am stretched out, taut, extremities aching
your body is holdin mine
but
for oneone millionth of a second and then
and then out
and then back
and then out
my toes are splayed in wait
for the next one millionth of a second
where i will know



this is a completely flaccid orgasm
this memory
the almost rupturing leg muscles, the medial collateral, posterior cruciate, anterior cruciate ligaments, my quivering achilles waiting anticipating yearning feeling a feeling of a memory of a feeling
its a little bit like
its a little bit like
its a little bit like
no its everything like
a time i thought would be all the time and now is just a time that no longer is except when i call it up from the grave with seances held in dark basements with lou reed intoning: shiny shiny boots of leather shiny shiny shiny boots of leather i am tired i am weary i could sleep for a thousand years a thousand dreams that would awake me
my body shakes as the taut line slackens and nico who is really you and you interject and ask me to please put down my hands because you see me
my heart's arms are vigorously composing the rhythm and melody
of yours arms wrapped tightly around my own arms wrapped tightly around your own arms wrapped tightly wrapped tightly

i am completely lucid when i say i am absolutely out of my gourd
i feel such polarity
my beings fabric stretches the impasse
so
i bounce up and down upon it
like a class of children at recess
i am completely lucid when i say i am absolutely out of my gourd
each cigarette is ballast to keep feet and ground in commune
i dont want to ever stop remembering how it was to hold you for even a millionth of a second
and my big toes reach over and press down on their neighbors doorbell as you return
and are gone
return
and are gone
return
and are gone
return
and are gone

i am laying on the couch listening to holly miranda and yoko
taut as a bed sheet stretching the equator to antarctica
aching from round upon round of millionth of a second hugs
this millionth of a second is the entire blanket i am wrapped in
looped and on repeat my index finger on repeat hitting the button
it has become inextricable with the fabric of my being
and now its gone again

i have to get up and walk around.

(but alas
the world out there
away from your millionth of a second hugs
is filled with you sidling up
is filled with you saddling up
but its only a waking quaking dream
with undertow for days
my smiling face swirling down
my arms clawing skywards, landwards, out


god, i'm so frightened.
god, i'm very very frightening.
i've overdone it
i hope some people like burnt toast)

have you seen
these people that must crane to identify
these people that place heads at waists
these people
boring ocular drones at your books cover

they are interesting people, no doubt.
we could call them 'readers', surely,
if our thing is putting caps on heads
if our thing is lining books on shelves
if we wanna get strung out
without

i dont want to finish.

these people
so northsoutheastwest eager
who are they
these people
that will look at you
if you hide your cover

why:  why wont you turn

just a little, 

towards me

dancing with 'bilar'

the air gets hot and sticky
in september running barefoot
i cant forget the summers smell
i can hear your voice in those speakers
soft and humble, weary and yearning
:42 tumble dried, spry
tumble dried, spry
tumble dried, spry
tumble dried, spry
tumble dried, spry
tumble dried, spry
tumble dried, spry
tumble dried, spry
tumble dried, spry
tumble dried, spry
tumble dried, spry
tumble dried, spry
~1:30
i can walk
i can walk
i can walk
i can walk
i can walk
i can walk
to the drive thru
or i can walk
to the beach
or i can walk
to your dentist's or
i can ride my bike
and you can ride on my pegs
2:15

2:45 i can run up and down your stairs leading to floors that dont exist to floors that do exist and are fitted in ikea to floors that dont exist except only in your mind which is kind of existence in the same way exiting the womb is kind of existence to floors that do exist and are flush with friendly ghosts and bleeding then breathing then smiling then laughing humans to floors with no busts of god to floors with halls filled with paintings of our valiant, courageous defeats and euphoric victories to floors that to floors that to floors that to floors that to floors that to floors to floors that to floors to floors that floors that



tumble dried, spry
tumble dried spry
tumble dried, spry
tumble dried, spry
tumble dried, spry
tumble dried, spry
tumble dried, spry
tumble dried, spry
tumble dried, spry
tumble dried, spry
tumble dried, spry
tumble dried, spry
tumble dried, spry
soft and humble, weary and yearning
i can hear your voice in those speakers
i cant forget the summers smell
in september running barefoot
the air got hot and sticky
the moon winked at the sun
and said dont fret
we'll play again soon
we'll play again soon
we'll play again soon
we'll play again soon
:08

from whence, or whom, this came...i know not

each day
i convince myself not to believe
cuz i cant remember what
i wrote first
when and where and what we stepped in
was all i had or needed or wanted
then


then
was all i had or needed or wanted
when and where and what we stepped in
i wrote first
cuz i cant remember what
i convince myself not to believe
each day

Arcade Fire - Keep The Car Running (at Reading Festival 2010) | Part 2 o...

20100830 : watch the narcissist try to empathize and only narcissize more on his way to eventually empathizing and transcending his meager boarded-up ego

today is my parents thirty-fifth wedding anniversary.
i/we/no one knows when the last anniversary will come.
my mother has stage four advanced, recurrent, metastatic, and inoperable triple-negative breast cancer.
i am twenty-six years old and sitting in my parents basement.
i am not wearing a shirt, and i am sitting in the pitch black except for a muted 35-inch, so-archaic-that-i-cant-remember-the-name-for-non-flat-screen-television-sets, television-set flickering images in my peripheral vision.
my ears have headphones in them, but i have not selected any music to play and no music is playing.
my laptop is on my lap.
my lap is composed of a blanket over boxers from my kindergarten through fifth grade grammar school.

the elastic waist of my grammar school boxers has long been broken.

when i stand up, the grammar school boxers fall to the ground.

so when i stand up i hold on to the inelastic waist.

i think i started writing to feel less alone, but now i think i feel more alone than when i started or when i woke up 'which is saying something' (since i 'always' feel most alone right when i wake up in the morning).

i dont think its healthy for me to write anymore right now.

i try to do whatever is most healthy for me in the moment, but some/often times that which is most healthy in the moment is not the most healthy 25 or 900 moments from now.

i think i want to open gmail chat or facebook to feel less alone, but i am remembering from 30 minutes ago that i closed gmail chat and facebook because they made me feel more alone.

i think about all those vibrant green dots residing next to content names of acquaintances/girlfriends-friends-who-then-became-my-friends/teachers assistants/friends-from-law-school-i-havent-talked-to-in-three-years/friends-i-talk-to-weekly/friends-i-want-to-talk-to-more-but-feel-i-have-not-talked-to-them-in-too-long-and-that-this-is-my-fault/friends-that-save-my-life/my sister/my mom/current and past loves of my life.

i think that i am tragically wrong assuming they have happiness.

i think that i am more alone than everyone else because, mostly, i think that i am the only person who feels alone when this is quite obviously not reality and a natural effect from (thinking about) feeling lonely.

i re-read the second most recent sentence and feel nauseous: happiness is not a possession.

i think about erich fromm and his book 'to have or to be'.

i have only half-read 'to have or to be.'

i do not think happiness is a possession, but i think that my action depicts a philosophy that values happiness as a possession.

i wish i could stop thinking about you, but when we're not fucked is the only time i can accept the world being fucked (half the previous sentences contain invisible, oblique, parenthetical references to you).

i think if love is just acceptance of our own weakness and acceptance of an other as the antidote for this weakness, as the catalyst for the real-but-dormant-due-to-fear actualizing power we contain all the time.

i think inability to love is the insecurity and instability from holding our concept of ourselves as deities too close to our heart that our wombs become incinerators.

i think 'all this' (the above) is just a complex, convoluted way to come to terms with present loneliness caused by you, alternating, plugging me into the outlet to shine light in your room and then unplugging me from your wall prior to your exit (tho sometimes i think you will still stay in the room a few minutes after i have been unplugged, sitting in the dark, imagining my prongs sitting in the dark, blind to how close you are) and future loneliness caused by the premature, ghastly death of my mother, my best friend.

oldest dude at the fest

your cradle rocked when the new deal shocked
big business into a muzzle
your first wife wrote you dear john in korea
now we're shotgunning weed through your hol(e)y trachea
and talking paranoid john birch blues

you were the oldest dude at the fest
you don't care about losing your hearing
you were first row, miracle ear on full blast
and your cane never touched the ground
you were the oldest dude at the fest

the sun held us all too close
rays descending and hugging and burning
but your leather face smiled and reminded
awesome and awful share an 'aw'
all youth think their world is ending

we watched bands for hours and minutes
you were like beethoven, man's best friend
the greatest wingman of all time
with faded green betty boop and popeye
your overflow made the pacific a lake

you were the oldest dude at the fest
security guards stocked you with water
and your catheter hid in tow
but we always always got first row
you were the oldest dude at the fest

we crowd surfed to the front of sleigh bells
your skull cracked the steel bars hard
but you laughed and walked off
you said i know im old
but i dont care much for pavement

you were the oldest dude at the fest
there was no point to look east or west
you were the oldest dude at the fest
got your story but not your name
except you were the oldest dude at the fest

fest babe

Fest babe

I saw you sippin that lemo (nade)
Under the scorching hot sun
We were pigs on a spit
the earth on its usual tilt
headstrong, a diamond
You were a hipster mary magdalene and
I was carrying my cross and
I was on my cross
oh-oh-oh, fest babe, fest babe


Your aviators lay on your face
Two satellites on your eyes
I was spinning in from some inner space
Seared faced, salty lipped
Your dreads swayed
When annie said
your skin so fair (its not fair)
And i wiggled my toes
Oh-oh-oh, fest babe


(this previous part has slowed the tempo down considerably. At this point building back up again instrumental section. Building up with each )


(Medium/fast tempo)


And I walked away
And I walked away
And I walked away
Half a set of the back of your head
Thirty three percent of one eye (thirty three percent)
Thirty three and one half percent of your eye (and one ear)

(slow down to nothing else practically, or just sparseness. )

Fest babe
Surly asteroids sped fast, past
For the moment
The villagers of pompei sat and rested
When the lava ran cool

(ad lib)

words i only lived

I miss you like the

river misses shoreline as it r

uns away from mouth and into feet

walking where lips denounce



I miss you like the

Panda bear I never won

At the carnival I never went to

When the gate was too low


I miss you like the

Sad sappy poem this is

The sad sappy poems

We neurally write but never send



I miss you like the

Words lost to memory

Floating , detached, there

But always the tip and never soiled




I miss you like the

Sail misses warm wind

My ship sails well enough

But my people are freezing



I miss your startled eyes

I miss your eager ears

I miss your open mouth and mind

your hand covered laughing face

I can only let longing leave a trace

simulacratic happiness

black and
black and
black and
black and white

black and
black and
black and
white and black

crash land in the looney bin
run in corridors humming
we'll gladhand and red rover by the berm
i'll peak in the first thirty minutes of meeting you

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::


long hair down her back
it is now tied up tight
simulacra long since removed
from their unmoved mover their __________

i could deal with the world being fucked
if we werent
fucked
gutted
strewn

(breakdown)

spiritualized - ladies and gentlemen

beautiful rendition of a beautiful song.  cowardice washes away, courage surfaces in it's wake.

white sky
violent light
cracking thunder
dripping brick
and i miss you
tephra falls hard
old memory magma
still out runs me


head fills up bravely
your green boots
your open eyes
phone glaring me down
and - get to the basement
no, run to the sea
sail . . .
down . . .
round. . .
. . . OUT

this doesnt matter

the universe is cycling

even within lifetimes

we live hundred lives a decade

forget a hundred days an hour

remember three days a year:

does the universe cast a single shadow?

firmly stated

torn jeaned

 hungry tongued

and a blue black eye

matter is finite

energy is finite
our mother's ovaries are barren

(but) :

a batted ball lands lightly

sucked back to its home

is picked up

tossed in the air

swung at

and flies again

at Some Point In Time

(and again and again and again - repeat x ∞)

supposedly earnest meet n greets abound now.

lets share in good cheer:
please be sure to drink a beer
to forget the approaching fear
of the swiftly setting sun.

the swiftly setting sun does not
pour a glass and judge. Nor does it
run hair through fingers.
Also - it does not run.

_____________

word has it there's product-on the docks that's A-OK:

CheapAsDirtConcentratedLikeRimbaudandDrake;
this is That Richard Pryor Shit:

shit'll leave you charred and naked
won't even know you're fakin' it.

unwrap the package trancing
rewrap with a bow 'n ribbons
floated the chaser now
washing your hands crying
______________

scream and laugh of golden tickets and parachutes

sit and hope of pie and sidewalks

the curtain is open
the stage is empty
the lights are out
a packed house sits
with a child's rapture:

art runs away from c-sections and birthdays but-but-but-but
i cant find bees nests to shake
drip, drip lay me down in orange wool
under the sun's sink, strap me down
you've killed all the bees
we've killed all the bees
the bitter is bitterer -- we-we-we-we
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
michelin raincoats adorn the naked
fresh pale flesh lies dormant
the seedlings of humanity
green rusted soul gardeners dream
fingertipping the reaper
their heavy hoe weighs down
lusting for rain and sun in tune
shit eating veggies on mom's bread

athena's buffet's a dream and how
does a dream stop driving the hearse

Thom Yorke on "Street Spirit (Fade Out)

Street Spirit (Fade Out) - Glastonbury 2003

"'Street Spirit' is our purest song, but I didn't write it.... It wrote itself. We were just its messengers... Its biological catylysts. It's core is a complete mystery to me... and (pause) you know, I wouldn't ever try to write something that hopeless... All of our saddest songs have somewhere in them at least a glimmer of resolve... 'Street Spirit' has no resolve... It is the dark tunnel without the light at the end. It represents all tragic emotion that is so hurtful that the sound of that melody is its only definition. We all have a way of dealing with that song... It's called detachment... Especially me.. I detach my emotional radar from that song, or I couldn't play it... I'd crack. I'd break down on stage.. that's why its lyrics are just a bunch of mini-stories or visual images as opposed to a cohesive explanation of its meaning... I used images set to the music that I thought would convey the emotional entirety of the lyric and music working together... That's what's meant by 'all these things are one to swallow whole'.. I meant the emotional entirety, because I didn't have it in me to articulate the emotion... (pause) I'd crack.... Our fans are braver than I to let that song penetrate them, or maybe they don't realize what they're listening to.. They don't realize that 'Street Spirit' is about staring the fucking devil right in the eyes... and knowing, no matter what the hell you do, he'll get the last laugh...and it's real...and true. The devil really will get the last laugh in all cases without exception, and if I let myself think about that too long, I'd crack. I can't believe we have fans that can deal emotionally with that song... That's why I'm convinced that they don't know what it's about. It's why we play it towards the end of our sets. It drains me, and it shakes me, and hurts like hell everytime I play it, looking out at thousands of people cheering and smiling, oblivious to the tragedy of it's meaning, like when you're going to have your dog put down and it's wagging it's tail on the way there. That's what they all look like, and it breaks my heart.




I wish that song hadn't picked us as its catalysts, and so I don't claim it. It asks too much. (very long pause). I didn't write that song."

pleasantries with secretaries
on phones for mere seconds
are the sail and the wind
hope is for children and sailors

Persephone's Archaic Smile

the sun's shine bores you
and it's the rain that raps
on your window at night hangs
rope we'll climb down into
obliviating foxhole raves
glow in the dark people bring smiles

but the sun will come to outshine you
as your skin frays and falls
the tailor you knew once
has gone far far away to build
a castle whose motes have motes
can only scrawl and wave, tap and hope

with you under their shoulder
with you in the bottle
hands upon hands will hold you
they'll cross the gobi
theyll piss you out some morning after
when they're sandy, done and dying

:

oh persephone
taken in a field naked and alone
oh persephone
your stone smile isn't really laughing
oh persephone
fleeting and blurry is all we have here
oh persephone
come and rise again
oh persephone
run back, it's only dusk