when the night suspends it chicanery like a curtain half hoisted on the moon
when silence sits with its gathered skirts shuttering the buds of the Dama de noche
when cats with ruby glint nuance the canvas of the ground with crisp claws
when the hard centaur of desire has knuckled my jaw
when the shoals are tinder against the tar of the feathered dark
when the warmth has culled my spine to a wanting arc
you are reminded to me
when the priests have declared the hour ripe
for our deistic sin to be laundered in milk and fire
when a chorus of cicadas commence their ritual chants
when my pyromania reveals its burgeoning demands
and I want to burn my lashes so sleep doesnt confiscate me
when I slip razors into my lesions so life doesnt sedate me
you are reminded to me
when the cataract has crested my eye
when my wrists break like a new Jim Beam
and my shadow smells of regret and rye
when i clutch my heavy burden and show you the door
when you collect your craving and ask no more
about what the morning will do to my mauve blush
when the shipment has been returned
when the lock has yielded and the key has turned
and the howls have emptied themselves in my stomach
when ardor is reduced to merely an act, to fuck
when the brackets within your ribs have curled
when the body has broken the bed into which its hurled
a slant of light climbs in through my window
and presses its lips against my temple
if i am linear and asymmetric as a struggling
junebug between cosy and kaput in the spider’s
fissured bedspread if i am bred as the moss gloved
vise of stones. if i am the sieve of ozone accruing sun
light as flicks of lambent hair hissing through
the scissors. if i am enameled as the butter
body of this stupefied fresco. if i am the kosher
intifada of the goddamned august revolver this
season of fat droplets and a grinning meniscus flung
abruptly where silver craves lightning . if i am the
djinned wind billowing moth green sighs in glass
jars awaiting orders and occult. if i am honest
as a curse but not unlike the cursory life . if i am
less than the sugar of your greed but more than
the succor of your need. still coarse as the brackish
fields of wrath, cultivated on a loose tongue
if i am not the incident but its aftermath.
if i am the slick syllable of this city’s chant
its mooring vowels and brick-walled consonants but
without the true vernacular speaking its heart. what
if. what. if i am a wait. dressed to the nines
cherry nails mint eyes occupying the gates
if i am the story you hid underneath the pillow
of your palms. if i am that forgotten fiction
the girl anachronism undone by the tide
resumes as the cahier of the night
as its chief nightmare
its tresspasser undenied
To what evil am I transferred? Whoever you are,
strict arbiter of shades who hands out new punishments
to the dead, if there is anything left to add
at which the prison-keeper himself would shudder,
that would frighten desolate Acheron, at which we too
would tremble for fear—find it. From my stock
now has sprung a crowd that would outdo its kindred
and make me look innocent, dare the undared.
So, I know my poisons and my diseases. I mess up ever so often. But I come back and I collect very carefully, all that I break. Sometimes the spirit transcends its situational ability to gather self together in a tight bundle of sticks. Its circumstance navigated with hesitation.
I seek transparency and my recent experiments with B&W haziness have only strengthened my resolve to find that absolute lucidity in images and people and places. Even as I juggle concepts and shadows and demarcations, I find a certain affinity for simplicity of kind and structure. I want the uncharted truth about You and I and all of Us.
The weather felt static but now it’s all flowing out.
I knew that I couldn’t count keeping my feet firmly planted. The ground beneath rattles and shakes till it makes you change your direction.
I still have days when I am deader than wet wood. Suddenly, the waters swell. The deserts scream. The mountains roar. There starts a pulsating, throbbing pain in the left side of my head and it only stops when I start to pack.
Nothing more resentful than walking the same boulevards, kissing the same mouths, bruising the same palms, paddling through the same conduits, running the same course, betting on the same odds. Nothing.
The Leica owning hermit treks to the gelid parts of the globe, even if just to indulge the jackleg, émigré experience.
The Mahayana cycle spins within me as I measure the possibility of extinction perched on Buddha’s giant toe in Leshan.
Tara’s green aura percolates through Angkor Wat’s roots tying down the sentience that combats serpentine desires nestled in a tiny syringe awaiting my body and more when I step out.
Casually flirting with epithets and epicurean delights even as I dangerously fall in love with a language and its glory. They keep saying Benvenuto! – Welcome to Bologna, Naples and it continues.
The not so gentle murmur of the Tiber hasn’t even faded in my ears and The Sea starts to make its symphony resonant. Archipelago as they would’ve called it. Atlas says –The Aegan Sea. Mother, mystic, moral compass. All of it. I rise so that I can get lost in the Dadia.
The busker pays homage to Rafayette Afro Rock Band and Bach, in equal measures. The world closes in on a touch, a toothless grin(at the mahjong tables), a soul song, a war cry in a “crassy” sport and swims in the swirls of Fino that washes down the day’s tiredness and bowls of paella.
The temperate night falls on an unsuspecting ground like the hammer of Thor. Cicadas hold their night court outside my window and the river commences its ritualistic whispering of tales, about the day’s boatmen and rowing competitions, to the rocks lining its path. Sleep’s seraphic eyes look down upon my closing ones.
As the body slips into the requisite comatose state for the next 6 hours, the soul dreams of joining the caravan on the otherside.
The doubts subside. You’ve been granted an anonymous frontier. Exult.
These pages are not my confession; they’re my definition.
from the student years of travel. when money was scant, drugs were cheap and the mind was a sharp instrument.
Well I feel too young to hold on
And i’m much too old to break free and run
Too deaf, dumb, and blind to see the damage i’ve done
Traveling Light
You hear eggs. You hear bacon. You hear perfection – fried and poached. You hear the serrated edges of a case knife travelling through a certain inchoate softness contouring the many little snake hills of a key lime pie. You smell anticipation spread like an eagle upon that kid’s sleep soaked face. You hear bread broken free. You see crumbs suspended in air like light. You hear the sea undressing the sands. You see it gentle and swimming. Approaching not encroaching. You’ve come to the kingdom of Cypress surge.
You sit on a quaking porch and count the rudrakshas with Jesus words flooding the bourbon.
You remind yourself why you can’t exhale and speak at the same time. Life comes out one word, one breath at a time.
Your soul, salted, ripe – something left behind by the waves.
A god doesnt busy herself with promises..
The chimneys afar leak smoke and chemicals. I am sitting in a war-town with a brick-red journal and a glass of Shiraz. I have broken away from the bog and this makes me somewhat happy In the interim, windows peer from walls. We are still remembering, the ins and outs of suffering. I arrest these images in my mind. I fight to restrain the scent of such minutes on my skin. Skin: a burnished camouflage. This is what will remind me of why it’s important to not puncture my veins when I can’t take anymore of the emotionally paralyzing communions I am tethered to. I am a swamp creature. Exactly that. Or a wasteland, without roots strangling my radius.
My name is Akhenaten / Tara in Shangri La
Salaams and raisins, falling off, in the sun.Cry shame. Cry harmony. Some of the times stay the same. Most of the times fly by quick. Tombs jut out like pins you’d use to stick memories and chores on refrigerator doors. Dust is fickle like us. I step out like a mole – blinking curious at the light that surrounds. Afraid of what the darkness could have hidden so well.
Monasteries hold hands in rows like punished children. Giant wheels rotate by hands of chestnut. Fate motions forward in unsteady steps. This is the colony of Sakya. Sutras are naked in Drapchi.
The truth – that could make a difference – is always heavy. Unrelenting. Unclean. Tortured.
Zipcodes like to change clothes. A Part Meant nothing in no parts. I am not willing to be measured by real estate’s price. My city simmers in metaphors, its boroughs breathe in similies. Home is a Hyperbole. Looking down on the Earth from here, the rest of it, it’s mundane prostrations, subterfuges, constraints and temperance. Photographs are Human. Fiction. Godless. Undone.
A Sequoia in the Sun
I want to fall like a tree. A Giant Sequoia breathing her last against a sorrel firmament, an impaired blank attests to this demise. Death comes as elegant silence. A determined army of beetles holds it’s march on my atrophied limbs. A museum of bodies won’t sculpt itself. Nothing will miss this death. Not one. This is the mien of loss. It’s guild. It’s face. I still dont know where my face was before I wore black, bathed in ice water, ate roots and deciphered another koan. Wood bridges water. Water spreads over earth. Ash disappears in winds. Waves muscle life into submission. I remain an island. Even if submerged.
Mea Culpa!
I strayed. I am delivered but delayed. I think I want something injected before something burned. When you write an elegy for me, I’d say don’t have me returned. I am the margin that is drawn to assemble exceptions. I want to be the choice you make not just the decision you take. I could break like an old rock against an agitated sea knowing the futility of anything else but destiny but I can’t live like a euphemism; a cloistered half truth is not me.
I didnt break your heart. You did.
I am always bare. When I am with you. There are no smokescreens, just smoke signals. You are an anthropologist. How is it that you don’t know of any tribal ways to heed a call?
All the roads I take have two tongues..always
Ruins are the greatest, most powerful vantage points. The journey to any reminder of a destroyed epoch will snatch you away from your desire to close that chapter. It will beg you to seek further. Discovery has no resonance in the finite. You discover in order to extend the process of “finding out”.
The flickering light wraps you up, like it says in the verse. Crimson Arcanum. Your fingers instantly pull at my hair to excite pain. You push my buttons so that I can unhinge yours. Now, your spine’s curving into an intense wanting. Bent. Not broken. Yet. You are strong in a moment and then weak and then strong again.
Sex is liberation. Love is acceptance.
Cancer Rising
Elysian dreams. Mind’s muse. Perfection without restraint. Aphrodite descending. Lips and eyes of a million tales from the gorge’s heart. Movement and beauty. Beauty and desire woven to grow like a tender vine. With expression. Without masquerades. Undulating ardor caressing the ocean’s lonesome heart.
The Yehudi Friend said “life can’t conquer it all…”
The Yehudi Friend died; shot in the back at the Holy Land.
Far away from where I am right now : the brochure blueness of Santorini. Salt cleaves the caesura of fatelines within my palms. Salty are the lines of fate, the Yehudi Friend would have declared..if…he hadn’t been shot in the back at the Holy Land.
Kalinychta.
I will not attend funerals anymore. In any case, I have an attention deficit disorder.
Raider of the Lost Dark
That I had made people into phases. That I wasn’t anyone, not even me. I was not just wielding the camera, I had, in fact, become one myself. I was now a process or a machine, not a person.
Somewhere along the journey, I discovered that I was a cipher at my worst and a medium at my best.
Something leaps out from the deep and swallows the sun. Eats the earth. Without blinking. Shadows never did learn to speak.
Afrika
I want a sharp wakefulness in the arms of this herculean geography. The humid air here, like Khartoum’s (city) oppressive heat left behind, provides little room for a normalized breathing pattern. Here, in the open, it hasn’t changed much except with the long night comes the discreet counsel to submit physical boundaries to topographical ones. I am not a wanderer if I were to respect the sheer inviolability of that word. It forms its own circles of holy smoke. I am asthmatic. I like to lose myself on purpose. I do not seek anything and in that, I seek everything. The very act of disappearance is a calculated one, that I am going off their collective radars, that I am going to spend days, weeks, months crawling through border towns in the shadows of AK-47s and rocket launchers in the back of pickup trucks – killers and criminals, chickens and pigs, dazed Europeans and weary Africans for company. I am miserable when I am on the road. But, I am more miserable when am off it. It’s a sense of balance restored.
It’s lonelier than you’d think. Further than you’d go. Longer than you’d want. Colder than you’d feel. Stranger than you’d believe. Faster than you’d run. And it’s always calling out.
“Your music. Your night. Except You, everything else is right (here).”
Stop writing to me, will you please. I am incapable of belonging.
I heard you were here, then you disappeared..
Minarets festoon a ruthless desert. Brilliant gems of persistence and toil upon its humming sands. Their weight holds this earth in its rightful place. This is the very starting point of any truth about me or my selves. Glass, rivers, regret reflected on surfaces as varied is still the same wrath-heavy animal. Elevators, bars drinks down the gorge. Body of Me, Blood of me.
More from an online journal maintained to stoke my own narcissistic fires and create a log of my fall and my fall..
Bar Talk
I almost always know that all of this has something to do with You and your inevitability- I am done with that. There are no reasonable doubts here, you and your defenses might as well secede right now than wait for an hour’s worth of horsetalk about how much this means to me. Or, how much You mean to me. Cut that out and we won’t have to over-indulge your heightened senses. Just organize your thoughts for a baser form of communiqué. Talk with your body. Be honest.
Places other than these..
So, go lightly this ominous way. It will threaten and often challenge into extinction every corpuscle of faith in anything Higher Above, many times over. So you sit back and try to breathe. Really hard and then really slow, all at the same time and think about Your World and if its really that far away. This is how the other half lives and dies.
You are capable of infinite evasion and eloquent whines. And mostly they compliment each other. Then you sulk with liquer and russet and Dharma Bums, for company. Solace isn’t with Kerouac, cause you are unable to employ your pessimissim effectively.
Your alibi is failing you. Refrain from making not-so subtle attempts of persona-extortion.
Dance Jelly Bean!
Corvette at the the East Coast Soulavaki tonight and we know that the troubadour/beat-master is legendary. He rests behind a fiery console lined by antediluvian skulls. Its all arranged for selective percussion. Rhythm is the original rebel.
Class Argumentasis
For all this and more I retain the soul of a structuralist and it’s a symbolic curse. In between chapters I am. Sometimes, I detour, seek yarudah’s blood, maybe a few jazz interludes. Maybe some bakhtai soup but fettered intellect and dismantled feelings…but they refuse to shoulder the blame.
I borrow from all things proscribed. I labor for that station of self-destructive antagonism. I am driven by the most dissolute desires and I don’t see the point of stopping. The issue is not as labyrinthine as I ‘d like for it to be, its as unforced as the precision that separates living from existing or light from dark.
What else is the truth?
I must finish my paper before I sleep. If I ever sleep ..
Nomadic Traits
That Home is no more. That I feel as nomadic as I ever could have. That I feel a pungent mixture of cheap soy sauce, rebellion and guilt making its way down my throat everytime I scamper for food on this shoestring strip. All these attempts to let my soul unsown of this cloaked contentment. A ragged afternoon breaks the day into two whole pieces. The Home you know, the Life you love sit on one side and an airplane ride to a hemorrhaging terrain on the other. Pick, choose, decide. The Latter wins. I Leave. Before leaving, I write to You because Ak says disappearing is not an act of magic people like.
That I will love You and want You safe wherever I might drag myself to be. That I will disappear from life, a Perfect Stranger. I like that we don’t have to swallow the bitterness of vengeance or that crippling vendetta of all our yesterdays. That we are not as great futilists as we might have liked to arbitrate; instead we have learned to acknowledge our suction into these whirlpools of passion and detachment with a little bit of charm and a little care. And an infinity or none, you are my companion for life and one beyond it. This love was born naked, undecided and premature. Its not a gift, its kicked and slithered its way to survival. It is strong, it values its beating heart. Whether I am here or not.
Overdosed is a four lettered walk to the cemetery
I remember how it unfolds. In time for daybreak, I stopped from a complete descent. I reached the pinnacle of my consumption, yet I didn’t feel intrepid like I always do, I felt laden and the walls seemed to be closing in on me. I wanted something intravenous so bad and then it found me. I wanted to skin myself of this unasked for emotional sterility so bad. In my moments of self loathing, I felt like a bottle of angry dictive reflections. I could almost get away with this, I could disengage with minimal pain and little hurt. God! A winter grave in New York City and a never ending eulogy. That’s what it’d end in. I thought long and I thought hard of all the seaside burials I had been privy to. I felt that I needed estrangement because I always killed what I coveted (eventually). I didn’t want that for her. I never did. If only she held the same view of me as did the world: that I never happened to her, to anyone, this final chapter could’ve been easier to write. The body is ever so willing to lose all signs of life. This just might be the longest flight. This just might be the farthest I’ ve gone.
Become who you were meant to be
I know I change all that I encounter, in my wake. I still know that the way home will never be found. But I write about this wandering as a palliative addiction for the survivor.
Leclair ‘s “primary narcissistic representation” – incarnation of the infans.
I am sure its lurking somewhere in the back of both our heads. The provenance of perfection; She will be different from either of us. That she will choose her battles more carefully and that she will never walk waterweed oceans on her own. Its unrealistic. Its strongly desirable as well.
All my responses henceforth will be triggered by the need to protect even though the act of protection will cause conflicts. Razors will become swords.
Major Minor Chords
They see these spaces, that facilitate breakdowns, as their own homes for the time being. They are easily deceived. Set beyond precincts of lexis and free from its excoriation. Ensnared by a vicarious flaunt, they create diversions for pragmatism and prudence and promise something more waiting Inside. I can commit to myself right now that even in the next 5 years my chief conflict will be Lacan. I am inclined towards neurocog (no majors declared) but have finally made peace with my inner Jungian. This space in which we are right now assures an instantaneous release from the automatism of everyone’s pithy life. There is nothing radically singular or brilliant bout the Inside. Its as trite as the life circling you or your circling of that Life. I argue Jacques very well am told. They arrive in numbers to repair themselves. Only if they knew what was broken it would’ve been much easier for me to fix them.
The tragic comic release of human emotions and subsequent desire to relate that as a story of ultimate survival is incredibly wretched. You are fucking the universe and its fucking you back. Everyone is getting their money’s worth. You enter the room because you are a presumptuous quiche, because you project your desires and needs on the blackness that pervades its blanks. Don’t think, just assume that you are. Thinking on its own is a cumulative, assumption is derivative and thereby easier to perform. The irony of the situation is that hereafter you’ll probably be screaming hoarse when he doesn’t respond to your conjectures. See you stepped in Alone; without him. Your condition is of your own making not of his creation. This is not magica negra. He just opens doors, to your mind, and exposes your cracked equator. Tells you that you’ve forgotten things you were meant to remember.
He doesn’t reside in the dark rooms , he merely directs you to them.
I know that L and I will never be in agreement. I am proselytizing nomore.
You’re the empty city streets ..You’re the night that never sleeps..
I retun to self only after the chain of events has run its due course and my strength is depleted and my mind has numbed itself.
Then God or Gibral..
Old Birds
He reviews his expedition with great torment and confusion. He finds the last 2 decades an exacting waste. He wants my life. I didn’t ever think of it as gift-worthy.
Quiet spreads thin and willing, like an unspoken prayer in a graveyard. Silence as skeletal as the moment in which its revealed and internalized.
Would this exchange of lives be the elixir that’s needed to save them?
He looks happy. Age provides the illusion of competency and ability. It feigns control. It is structured chaos. It is compartments of woe. It’s as though an ignorant and disinterested you just rearranged your mother’s kitchen cabinets. The outside is neat; the inside is cluttered.
I thought this cluttered space was of my own making. J’s dilemma proves otherwise. His platinum card bought education, his carefulness, his 9-2-5 expositions, not withstanding. He concurs that I disturb a lot in nature and humanity on a daily basis. He has chosen to correct even as I have chosen to question.
We are equally lost in this instant.
I am not a Lacanian even now. He laughs and asks me to wait. Waiting waits for me now, son!
We have penned our books separately. Mine, a celebration of the non-written or the unwrittenable, quick, slapdash grammar-devoid notes on fragile paper towels, in between meals and sex (interchangeable), juxtaposed with Leica crimes of unheard dimensions. His, a crisp, well modulated and accurately examined discourse. Yet, our chapters echo in unison and our stories often fuse along plateaus of loss and loathing. Intense and splitting.
I probably will never see him again. He doesn’t know this yet.
You know where you dart
With speeding trains of cafeine and cocaine crossing through the heart..
Every cliché must once have been someone’s brand new discovery.
Listening to Buckley’s last. I think I can finally agree with T that I can’t choose between prose and poetry. I suck at both.
5:15 pm right now. Lozenge’s rainbow. Splattered fucking pills. Ink flung high.You’ve spiked my dreams. Racing on MDMA.
Grime sticks like the stanch particles of a dying relationship. What is it about the aftermath of the playboy bodies in rancid Romanian towns?
Press Escape. Abort. Retry. Ok. Blink.
‘We are perfect. You and I “
Yes we are. Like Valium and Vodka.
Before you become one with the fish. Dive. Belle. Dive.
…….
This is not from the intention of conducting a post mortem but trying to understand where it all comes from..
Give me two hands I can hold
I’ll tell you things I’ve never told
If you move on me..
I have been given to writing diaries since my 8th birthday. This July was my 27th. These are journeys made of small moments.
Day 1
Much power is conferred upon such tacit daybreaks. The physical condition leaves immense scope for desperation. The first quarter of the day’s showdown, the Corpus and I often wake up to such intimate and obligatory fights. A non-existent itinerary prevails, causes more pain than the bones that went break. My omitted muse, offer me something tangible. Offer me something beyond the realms of this ill-stationed quietude. Even if a slow, chary requiem that visors Astoria’s dissonance coupled with mine. Decree that infidelity is just a state of mind. That I always carry with me all that I have ever tried to leave behind. A crazed night collapses over the Brooklyn Bridge, allayed, if at all, by a deadpan dawn. I am staring at the inert city. You mirror me. We both miss movement, displacement, and the ability to leave our current lives aside. Walking means to lose the way. Into the untamed heart of a mad town. To be gnawed a little by its feral tendencies, to revel in its own nihilist tableau. To watch crowds throng to places of new worship, a leitmotif from a jazz bar or a wicked scat club. Amidst failing sounds and resounding lights, opaque walls shelter a notorious shrine, the Studio of Sin. The clearinghouse of peccadilloes. Invocations surmount. In fact, I ‘d resort to any imprudence to escape such incredible torpor. Such option-less status.
Day 2
A deftly lingering irritation. Few hummable strands of musiqa. Distances get closer and I resume the unorthodox routine of filling self with words or words with self. I haven’t heard from or about him in a long time. I think of him every conscious moment and every thought creates spirals of boundless and monstrous energy to do something. However, something is not defined or even finite nor a possiblity in time. I am fairly well chained to a persevering wall in the hall of impeccable fucking silence. A helot to emotional drudgery. To work on self is a mammoth task.
Day 3
In the stillness of a ricepaper town’s fantasy. Let go. In the webbed microcosm of a download destination. Let go. Amidst the redundant sequence of foreplay and decay. Let go. Atop all of summer’s secret mounds and drunken sounds. Let go. Between baptisma and ekphora. Let go. In the feverish downpour that threatens to break all physical and emotional dams. Let Go. On spring mattresses from that historic night that moaned and then mourned. You must let go.
Because, it won’t come back to haunt you later if you do. That you couldn’t see me the way I wanted you to see me. That you could keep me by letting me go. That guilt will make your veins split. I know that guilt. I live that guilt. Of not knowing myself, the way I wanted to, when I really wanted to. To know that I can cure me in less than 12 steps just to find out I got 24 more to go.
Day 4
A cerebral discrepancy is more often than not a constructive element of a creator’s constitution. But then there are fears of what may come to be if every stage of life should indeed become a battle for sanity. I have been away, literally and virtually. I have intent and the will to assemble pieces.. but there is no easy linearity of thoughts: a concurrent stipulation that my pen will never be scorching as long as long my camera is on fire. The Muse is always a mind, a book, a piece of unforgettable music, the whole Universe. Always in that order. The semblance proposed by a daily planner and a stern guide of a chaperone is often destroyed by tiny but fierce eruptions of mood swings, often set into motion by the Muses. If you look closely, every street of this city promises a brilliant Nadja. But Breton, I am not. In many ways each level of experience is created to abandon the previous one or atleast superimpose upon it. At times the whole gamut seems a sheer waste of drastic kinetic force. I mean, what can I take home from all of this? The gradient value of time is a myth anyway. But we know better. He knows he lives harder than others and often considers himself dead solely for this very virtue. Every once in a while I find my expression, only to conveniently loose it in a rhythmic bar or a derelict apartment; with or without the choice to re-gain it.
What have I settled for now?
Giacometti fever. Kierkegaard’s Postscripts. Schelling’s “Letters on Dogamatism” and tubful of ice to heal the ached out body. And of course..Absinthe.
I am becoming the dust of space.
Day 5
I had issues. I wrote because You asked me to. A risqué flirtation , staring at a blank document that holds an unambiguous and abiding promise of words that might change lives. The author must learn to love vacuity because in nothingness, everything becomes excruciatingly clear. After well studied departures to and from New York City , to and away from Bombay. After incessant searching of spaces for families and mixing bloodlines, the concept of Home becomes an obscure mirage.
Every blank page heralds truth about the inexorable life, the truth about love and laughter, the truth about death and disaster, the truth about hoping and wanting, the truth about living and waiting to live. Truth that may never find the accurate expression in uppity annoyingness of words.
Truth is a phoenix too frequent..
Day 6
The slightest taste of blood in my mouth, the thinnest cloud of smoke over my head. The blood callings, the entrapments, the machete-wielding ghosts of improbable angst are exorcized. Insomnia has worsened since arrival. Beware. Sometimes, I sense a cutting fear of defeat making its way to the furthest recesses of my mind. All said and done I am not ok with being maneuvered by this seemingly omnipotent foreboding. Raw and random. Imbalanced and desirous. Pressing forward despite indications that the oeuvre might collapse right behind you. I know my limits. I have tested them skin and sinew, inside out and I have escaped not entirely unscathed. This I believe is living – a constant renewal of my faith in life. And so I have lived. I am driving this machine now and forever.
Day 7
The fact that I am forced to provide them guidance fills me up with unsightly wrath. Amidst incessant cursing I feel too fucked up by this sudden clinical detour that Life has taken. I packed my shit into two large bags. Its time to perpetuate the rigmarole.
Things have been unusually usual. The domestication of a rabid dog. In perfectly coordinated phases/sequences. It’s not my thing. I hate the feeling that comes over you when you look at impending hours of a day and realize that you know their culmination and ways to reshape them but won’t bother. I have been feeling accepted lately. It kills me in bits.
Day 8
..an article from my Past that appears in my Future. My recurrent haunting, fills deeper voids within. If your Blues didn’t haunt me ..what would I have come to be?
Battered barricades of rage. A frantic breath of life creeping out, a bird caught in a storm.
.55 for long shot: violent poetry.
I would be the End of everything I am.
Day 9
My pain for you – my reliquary – is much like my love.
About solitude and camaraderie. Each without long-winded routes.
Warm bodies that don’t pose threat or questions. Nothing, just a calm refuge.
About all the “east Omaha highways” and their perspicuous dirt.
And also the dragon that guides my back and separates my yins from my yangs.
Show us your face or reveal what you’re made of.
In my burnt mind, I carry a kirilian frame.
Voltages shooting through a somnolent body, leaving in ink an uncommon name. Mine.
Day 10
A static timepiece.
As the Village floats around in bird masks, Fellini’s spirit walks through these bulwarks.
Fever, fetish and desire for some more Grazi. A craving like no other I‘d known.
But eventually it’s a truncated trade of desires, ashort service of opening and closing paths to perverse internal tunnels of sensations. Murder is a thought, no more it could be. Maybe.
You know more than I do.
Fact changes with season, every season. With an eye in the sky and a barbed fence around the afflicted psyche, pick up the neatest of all choices. To kill- could I have offered a better compliment?
Lead you by the hand and take you somewhere better. Febrile and unarmed against the vile of You. This vial of You.
My bastard thoughts. I must sleep on them.
When you shut tight your eyes in a noise filled room , I am the mind you are trying so hard to read.
In other news, I cut my birthday cake atop a fog licked mountain with such terrific visibility that you couldn’t see beyond the third reflector.
I almost lost two fingers or rather half my hand in an accident.
27 feels OLD.
Two poems in the making. One short story. Expect it when the hand heals.
