May 23, 2005

Tonight I sit under the yellow light of a ceiling fan, my clothes scattered childishly ‘cross the floor, my burgundy blinds shutting out solar/lunar love affairs. I am blocking out the full moon on this May midnight. When I see it I feel love, shock and desire. It is a perfect symbol of unfettered inspiration, fever as life. I’'m in a time, place and body where I daily live an existence aimed at practicality and empty routine; a static existence that replaces feeling and excitement with servitude, fear and insecurity. This ideal full moon taunts me and tells me how I know too much of reality. The full moon reminds me that the nature of my realistic and maturing retardation encourages the ugliest attributes of a modern and aimless humanity to swell into my being. Strife/cheap reward. I try in this world to accept my placement; I’'m paid to smile at the soulless and soulful yet I smile not with sincerity, -I am not convincing enough in this world full of satisfied dead men. Lacking the proper enthusiasm I am left to dream on the full moon, of a glorified world filled with perfect symbols conceived by God, to fall in love with Wessexian heroines that have never breathed this physical air, and to relish artistic conceptions of stillborn art which will never see it's tactile facsimile. And when I am forced to open my eyes I feel degraded by this lone unsympathetic reality. Art and symbol are inspiration, conception, ideal, and pre-existence, they are perfection and perfection is truth. Rarely do I see truth in reality.

superior-pedal

at night without cars I ride my bike home
I pedal with blue fluidity
my knees calm,
legs benefit from
this gift of gentle patterns
upon mine joints and rickety limbs.
I concentrate down the task:
avoiding glass the piss and the glass,
gently, the super-smooth circle,
the perpendicular tibia,
acuminating fibula,
the application of perfect pedalling;
foot feet ankle shins
thigh thigh thigh thigh--
I navy slacks
the right foot
tuck into my new tube sock,
the ugly and practical trend.--
I ignore this crude break in illusion
‘'n try t'
superior-pedal again

Early Morning Epiphany

When you’re sober and quiet, riding your bike towards the pink of an early morning sky, you may become overwhelmed by the incredible scent of purplish apple-blossoms and the innocent song of an unrecognized bird, --- and from this you may come to understand that all metaphor and all comparison seem great injustices to the original articles which lie perfectly beyond the relative; always essential and existing beyond the powers of category and language.

Roxy’s Gist

When she walked, she walked wide in the knees, slow and unsteady.

Was it the explosive heat of foul disease in her scabrous loins? Was it the sordid nature of assorted fingernails and fat-headed cocks punching up that puffy-pouch-vagina? Was it a bit’o’crack delirium or her 60 proof antiseptic?

Says to the johns “Come on honey, let me suck that big dick of yours”, just like I would’ve imagined it. Smacking gum or chewing tongue on the way to his brown car.

Her eyes: black and lacquered. This weakened Blackfoot always meeting magenta latex. So very close to the white john with the dirty hair and wet moustache.

His strong arm on the back side of the next to nearest head-rest--looking up and then down with hot-breath open mouth. &Her mouth flexing and resting; her jaw cramped and muffling sucks and one-sided swallows, hmms and mmms, breathing extra from her twice-broken nose

cum hard and his scraggy jaw juts sideways; his throat and chest wheezing retarded sighs and voices. After the hasty cleaning he threw her the money she loved. &She was pleased because she made it… earned it and made it and made it.

Threatening and Heedful

I think about dying when my Dad died. I think about it all the time. He was forty-five when he went dead and so now I have the feeling it'’s going to go that way for me too. Since I was 14 and seriously bereaved, the idea has persistently occurred to me; dead at 45, or ‘'by'’— --- probably 'at' though.

I certainly don’'t like this sort of dangerous prophesy. “"You’'re not your father"”, "“don'’t be unreasonable”", “"you shouldn'’t think about it",” the advice goes. I know it. But it’'s a gut thing, not a rational thing I'’m trying to concentrate on (except perhaps at this very instance ---—writing). Usually it’'s a ghastly and sporadic feeling that just grows in me and after five minutes or so, that dread turns into actualization: "‘Oh yeah, I’'m gonna die when I’m forty-five’", and after this realization I can walk straight or whatever it is that I wish to do.

I’'m getting older and I often day-dream; sometimes even 'bout the "marriage" topic, not necessarily cuz I want to get married, more like, “"Wow, I’'m getting old, maybe I should get a dog and a house and shit the bed— --- a family."” But then I realize, wait a minute, marriage would be like signing the contract that says I will surely die at 45. I follow my father’s footsteps too closely already as it is (merciless genetics) but to follow it in any other facet would be tentatively scheduling a middle-aged cancer-suicide.

Sometimes I think my father died because he was unhappy, unhappy because he had such a shit life, and the majority of it is directly related to his striving to put up with family demands, whether they'’re financial or parental or romantic; especially at times when his heart told him to fuck everything, stop everything, and find that selfish happiness that is only a heartbreak away. But long ago he signed that matrimonial sheet which rendered his own concerns null and void ---and so he lived, everyday, the way he had to, trying harder some days to please what he could please, and other times feeling more apathetic or aggressive and making mistakes, miserable mistakes. Most of this frustration internalized by and exuding from my Father was from a man who felt trapped and undermined by what he was told must be. Me.

So I can’t help but feel that if I make any sort of contractual agreement that tethers my life to a momentarily compassionate instant(lovey-dovey cock-hard proposal) then I'’ll essentially be agreeing to death at 45 (Not saying that that threatening and heedful agreement is forever out of the question).