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Strange eyes, blue clocks without hands
two lives lived in distant lands
little blue mysteries
what did they see in me
Strange eyes, early Picassos
call me even when you don't
if only from pictures
it having been three years
The follow me in all my dreams
Oh God I'm still in love with you
Strange eyes, to little star charts
plunges knives into my poor heart
As lovely as a tree they endlessly recede
Strange eyes, two little whirlpools
made by God to destroy fools
two pearls of inf'nite cost
two paradises lost
They swallow me in all my dreams
Oh God I'm still in love with you
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Monday, February 21st, 2005
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ROUGHTDRAFTS ROUGHDRAFTS ROUGHDRAFTS ROUGHDRAFTS ROUGHDRAFTS ROUGHDRAFTS ROUGHDRAFTS ROUGHDRAFTS
the 21st century hoax - this generic emotional programming - editing this censoring - say it - says something - understated anything - somehow says nothing - it does - does it nothing - not doing everything - to try - does not - do it - does nothing - stop - have we really gone too far? unintentional insignificantly - soulscarring - indulgence of the exercise of this brilliance tuned in dull - the trivia that pens only know - im writing down this made for hollywood version - just to piss off those with real hearts - so they can curse the mainstream of yet another genuine feeling - the vague expense of something real the faithful that ends up just its own pop culture - unlearn the meaning - of this of everything - apart of your daily nutritious breakfasts - behind the true study of things - a cosmic disfiguring - summing up the rationale - alone is a place i know a place im going back to soon - this is a genius that has surrendered to the stupid of damage - the downs - make me a mess - make me my own again - nameless at the surface of anything - just to be at the skim again - we are delicate and unfragile - deliverance and celebrity - im uncertain and accurate - precise and invulnerable - im the best that this make could have been - an obscene grace of the penetration - the mind perverted to reason - this is just another text holocaust for me - a turned page for all of you - excommunications rough drafted last words first born inheritance - the second comings - reasons consent to deny themselves - perfected senseless to mortality - contradiction what it is and what it is not - non with standing last man left - distinguishing the faceless details with an art that impresses the misery into all things - what i used to know and what is known by you now - the difference is amazing - reflex's malfunctioned response - ruined impulse - curse of the imperfect - one and only - nervous system - beautiful and mocking - mate for life - for life - considered it done - only deliberate - the mistakes among the misconceived - accidents - makeup the make belief - suspended animation and the miscarried minds of so many - and the walking wounded - - an obsolete indifference - unconditioned nurtured fear of fear - baby boy - natal mutiny - revenge - ill have revenge for being left to be born - deathbed side by side - crib side - lost infants - survival syndrome - stillborns afterbirth existenceless - i have no reason at all - weve all gone to far - its not your fault - we all have come too far for now - before our time - earlier - earlier - a year out of time - out of time - killing seasons - left long - in the tooth - into statelessness - left measurements - making no sense in a context - dehumanized the inanimate - anesthesia to an antithesis - the absolute rejection - either or all or nothing - ending - finis.
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the divine tabloid lifecycle - the tolerable dishonest obscenety - the designated the power exchanges - the economy cowboys and the ego market - the parade of the submission campaigns - the selfless assembly - the church of the egosystem - the new lifestyle tourism - for all ages - its terminal : offer for a limited time only - the funny papers bible study - sunday's critical mass - our paperbag romance - public indecency - this gaming commision - a licensed lovestory - lifesupport for the aftermath of the sudden death of love letters -
i picked you out - of a crowd to talk to you - said i liked your shoes - you said thanks - can i follow you? so its up the stairs - and out of view - no prying eyes - i poured some wine - i asked your name - you asked the time - well its two oclock - the club is closed - were up the block - your hands on me - pressing hard against your jeans - your tongue in my mouth trying to keep the words from coming out - you didnt care to know - who else may have been here before - i want a lover i don't have to love i want a girl whos too sad to give a fuck - wheres the kid with the chemicals? i thought he said hed meet us here but im not sure - i got the money if you got the time - he said it feels good - i said ill give it a try - then my mind went dark we both forgot where your car was parked - lets just take the train - ill meet up with the band in the morning - bad actors with bad habits - some sad singers - they just play tragic - now the phones ringing and the bands leaving lets just keep touching lets just keep keep singing - i want a lover i dont have to love - i want a boy whos so drunk he doesnt talk - wheres the kid with the chemicals - i got a hunger and i can't seem to get full - i need some meaning i can memorize - the kind i have always seems to slip my mind - but you but you - you write such pretty words - but lifes no story book - loves an excuse to get hurt - and to hurt . . .
do you like to hurt? i do i do
. . . then hurt me.
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Thursday, February 17th, 2005
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Wednesday, February 9th, 2005
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Wednesday, February 2nd, 2005
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it was the time that he was born that he slipped away. out of the circle into the shapes of hands. belly grazed by inches with strange sorts of blades and edges, angles and variants that sliced away the chords that once sustained him. his dependence. they held him up for display announcing him byname. that was when they offered out cigars. the cigars were not cheap knockoffs but rather like the ones that still carry their first offered frosts, the crispness of the illicit. the doctors dived into their thick sweetness. curdling the emptiness in their mouths with something to laugh at. the smoke in the vacuum. the oxygen deprivation turned all their heads inside out as they were sent trespassing into dreams of that they had left sometime before they had decided to autographed scars into those that survived the fame of being under their sharp sharp behavior. occupied by some sort of celebration, this self congratulations, they forgot themselves. they had come to, in immediacy, ignore him completely... that they let him to slip out of their blood and plasma soaked hands into the isolation of some nurses arms. he cried so violently that at once all the attention again refocused and was again all on him. his parents faces turned in on themselves but the doctors stuck cigars - one in the hand of his mother and also the sweaty shaking unreliable hands of his father. there was a showdown of silence. but his parents, after some uncomfortable laughter, all resumed the doctor’s in their celebration. his first party. went on without him. so he sat there surprised. he had his own black holes to contend with. he had just been born now, hadn’t he?
this was the third time. ive lived through another overdose. this time came closer than the last. i had held my breath so long they thought i was a dead man for sure. but its an irrelevant fact. do i owe life mine now? am i supposed to take another stab at living if its been decided to let me keep what ive had? am i supposed to turn around everything and make something out of myself? or do i deserve this completely? its mine anyway? for keeps. is this a gift or am i entitled to waste away? you see : its out of my hands. this life. i could never kill myself – and . . . i don’t want to die. the parody is that i’ve lived dangerously enough to take the decisive strategy out of the engine of my suicide. it was always an act of living. i planned to take my own life. see : ive given it back to myself. taken the birthright from my parents for myself. i am my own son. my own child of tomorrow. 21st century john doe. and tonight was the last time ill ever let anything beat me. there is no getting the better of me. i am the best. i am an eternal text.
and i can outlive all my bad habits. the word is all of us.
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there are reasons why i could write you a fiction posed and perfect, a counterfeit attempt to reconcile our distances, a false doctrine meant to pacify the contempt for my infrequent hauntings of this crippled media were using to connect, antagonized by the deep breath of vacuum from my side of things. but i cant.
so, this is real. everything that underscores that last paragraph is only sincere. there is a purity to what i am trying to say here and i cant help but wonder if my poetic traumatic stress will ruin the manner in which its read once it reaches you. i dont trust my hands anymore. the ouiga board of the keys uses dead voices to speak for me sometimes. writing is mostly a séance for me now, these days, when the fever takes over me, creeping into the heart of things, invading our privacies, and finally, after ive been possessed by a surreal fury, its there sculpting expressions into a vocabulary that is only good for writing that belongs in this novel that im close to finishing but not just yet, ive got a little bit more to choke out, that many chapter broadband script that puts the dead of the last two years to a respected and gentle but very final end. to rest. so, its hard for me to try writing free of the romance of the text im dedicated to honoring. its been hard for me to respond with this tinker toy interface of words. after every day that has become mine as it passes – with every day that becomes my past with your trademark flutter and your name at the top of the credits as they roll at the end of every day, as every second emerges - ive hidden my head, ducking from the full awareness of it all - wishing you were somehow simpler that i could squeeze your hand instead of struggling to force my mind to dislocate its occupation with fixing the mess were always in.
your touch is so obscure and i wonder if you do that deliberately. youve got some part of me – why dont you just finish it? win me over. no : completely. maybe only then, you can somewhat - understand - me. that, at least. you send me sos’s in broken bottles : so the ink runs and i cant read what youre saying. you expect me to know it by heart anyway. the bible of your distresses. your reasons - they have a miracle significance to my everydays existence. appropriate. your messages seem to fit into my mind like theyve already belonged there and just didnt have the insight to admit that there could be someone who wrote like they were already intimate with distances. with out laws and legal pads, in laws and poverty flats. bad checks and loose pennies.
theres dirt under my fingernails, stained the soft skin there, from digging outside enough to get this written down. there are liquor bottles in the kitchen. the heat has risen, ninety degrees and i still feel like im at absolute zero. the speakers are drowning out the sounds of my typing. concealing this letter im sending to you today. i cant let my primitive brain discover this marriage were having. it will see it as cheating. the only text im allowed to write is text that belongs on a page between the novel’s eventual hardcovers.
i interact better. i really do.
how long do we have to try at the poetry before we can succeed at saying hello and at least meaning that? is there a traditional amount of time we need to spend at first, where we only entertain a connection before we can interact?
what is this becoming?
am i too late?
we were for her.
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Wednesday, January 26th, 2005
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Tuesday, January 25th, 2005
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its like youre finally to the point youre going to scream - and i mean scream like its the sound you were born to make - die trying - a sound so raw its undeniable - an opera cut of your madness - sadist soprano - pitch tone the tenor in the background is the compressed air coming out between the seams of the tourniquet around your bleeding heart - a sound so pure you break all the glass that surrounds us now - shatter us all from the bones to the burdens - from the upside to the down - you want it all finally - it could be over - so simply - sudden - ease - it happens in an instant - a tea kettle instant - you get up from youre desk and walking across a room full of your co-workers, strutting across the floor, faster after each step as this pressure starts swelling inside you - youre almost running - you hope you make it out of the building before you burst and youre about to belt it out - youre being so compromised inside - your self is so angry upset fouled up by the rest of you its ready to let it out - getready - allset - and then - you restrain yourself. a hesitation stops it all. somehow you pull yourself back from the brink - seconds away from Dresden - moments away from trinity - from actually saying the only thing you could say and mean right now. and it ebbs it tides it settles - dust beneath the debris of your skin and contours - the rush and the angles - the kind cruelty of appropriate behavior - how could something you needed so bad - so honest- so true - be gagged and bound and taken away - gone - missing persons? if it was real at all - how did i have the power to suppress this one? this was the atomic bomb of emotions. this was the end all be all of this moment. this was my escape. this was all.
all i ever wanted. all i ever heard it could be.
but it wasnt. and ill go on pretending like this with all these other fakers i live and work and breathe around until i get another chance at this jailbreak. pardon. execution stayed.
commandments.
i pray. with one hand and the other behind my back, fingers crossed. i mouth the words. i dont say them out loud.
and i dont edit - i just submit first drafts - do you understand? its only rough drafts these days : im only writing. ive stopped being anything else a long time ago.
"and despite what i might say i measure pleasure by the pain. measure pleasure by the twisting of the metal in the vein. and it might be very hard; cant be more than what we are. cant be more till its over."
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Monday, January 24th, 2005
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suspended animation and im static again - sorted out of the shuffle - im dealt from under the deck again. im stuck observing and observing, catching myself possessing people one at a time from the folded space of the online where my index finger makes the distances hazy and the vanishing points a thing of the past. no long division equations its all additive. im right there right now and i sit in everybody's living rooms and watch their lives get strung out. im strung sideways im all inside out. customs harassments, passport expired, hot air balloons. hydrogen muscle relaxer, my mind numbs to the thoughts of all of you. im stalking by the sentences boys and girls. for me and for you. im digesting each and every one of you for the lack of me and mine. its hardest when its true my love. it harder every time.
a paragraph describes what i want to be where i want to be going so precisely. that deliberate escape artist, my heart, plays jailbreak and stabs at loveatfirst sight with a few of you at a time. the honest endearment in you and her, the heroworship i endure in a second. another person whose life reminds me of how much ive let die on the vine here next to me. envy envy envy. pathetics, by seth carus. abandonment, by self. im betraying myself for a piece of you. thats all i want, baby. all i want. feast or famine, i want for nothing else besides the exception.
i am trapped. there are more than four walls closing in. hyperspace and the added dimensions my prisons tesserae and im not qualified for more. i am schitzo-jargon jaw mouthed, i dont wish to give you more. im a bad person ive done bad things. and i cant say im sorry anymore. ive long since stopped meaning it.
i never said i loved anything else, did i. the syringe is full and the vein is crippled. im not getting direct like i wanted to.
this is static.
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Wednesday, October 20th, 2004
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incredible : i was awake late, past the hour that i should
have dozed off and into the deeper, carried away by the chemical
depression of opiate caravans - paradise traders wrapped in all that
glitters and soft fabrics - wagon wheels on sand, drawing an underline
through the footprints that preceded me - scattering evidence into
obscurity of landscapes from what had been identifying marks of
trespassers and thieves, orphans and runaways - previous versions of
me. i was composing in my head again - the text i would write you -
as i sat up too wide awake for my taste at that time of night. theres
a certainty to my anxiety : this is one of those triggers - when i am
not insured that i will easily drift into the compression of time that
happens when you sleep. when i think it will be a battle to convince
my mind to let go and leave this waking world alone. and this
anxiety, when it gets its grip on me, makes sure that the entire night
is lost to being awake all throughout it. its the curse of a fragile
peace of mind. its mine.
but thats not the point : i was up most of the night writing letters
in my head to you and excited to get here at work where i usually can
do my writing in a relative ease (unmolested by the distraction of the
laziness i submit to at home). habits die hard - and after having so
long lived shallow in the dark warm lure of tranquilizers there in my
room - its still what i tend to do there now even without the
narcotics in my veins.
i woke up without having remembered falling asleep - but my hand (or
just my thumb and the first two fingers) are mysteriously swollen in
an extreme manner. unsure of what brought this on - i am worried but
am so subdued and quietly. i cannot bend my forefinger past the
midrange - the ring on that finger its squeezing my finger so tightly
(the two snakes i guess have been revealed to be constrictors after
all) that its circumference is half of how much my fingers have
swelled to. my middle finger is not as bad off as the other two. but
the pain and the numbness at the same time is causing a schizo
paranoia to my nervous system : unsure of what to base its signals off
from, firing off shrugs and question marks to my brain.
three by three by three : the inescapable, a fusion, wastes of another
intersection of thought and bone. vibrations on the inside,
disturbing the rest of the sawdust outlining the contours of your
skull. you can hear that little voice, drilling conscience into
scientifics, mining for your self doubt your way out. a vein of
precious stone, the jade hardening along the stretch of backbone -
hasn't bent into shape in such a long time - the dwindling tempo of a
few more nights a few years behind between us. binding the twins by
the toes. streaks of pastel on the edge of your cells, the mainline
travelling up your arm - poisoned by the jade absorbed through the
pores. edens of green lazy stripes, safaris along your surface - one
way signs toward that highway of a heart. detours of death threats,
you let the jasmine cinder and the carbon burn : dates and facts and
figures goes straight for the kill - survive survive survive. you
cant remember for what. string yourself along for everyone else - for
the promise of maybe sharing some time later on - for ever - for the
sake of having something to excuse yourself on. take a bow with
applause like tears in their eyes. saddened eyes, melting candle
iris' - girls and boys with ears for open minds. sparks join a span
of distance. the sparks burn in little microuniverses of agonizing
futile bursts of pain. run away from the intense of it. dense heavy
stretches of time spent suffering. promises made, you cant see if you
mean half of what you say anymore. i have no intentions - only urges.
only basic needs and greedy needy wishes. cant spell it out : do i?
the biggest thing in my life is such a small wonder. such a minimal
factor of whats right and doesnt work anymore. but all of me is sucha
small part of it all now. im not the biggest thing to ever hit the
earth. do i accept that or still confine myself to hoping and
pursuing the ideals of that hero i worshipped when i was it?
i could have changed this world. now i cant even save myself. i curl
up in corners and count the people on my fingers that i want to come
rescue me from behind the locked and bolted heavy iron door that
belongs to this tall lonely stillborn tower. hide as long and as deep
as you can in songs that play on and on. where did the motion all go?
we used to move and move and move. push harder. push on. through.
i want you to hear me. im not even moving my lips. fact to fiction.
youre nothing more than an image arent you? text on paper a hoax a
trick. my mind is too prepared for this. i wish i had gone through
with it - i wish i had sold myself all the way to the hole.
i used to feel so alive. i was so connected. why couldnt i feel that
all the time?
we waste our time on such disappointing people. when are you going to
get wise to me, find out im not what you thought i was all along?
that pat of my proportions exist because you were there to see them.
by now - its hard to separate me from the person i fell in love with
that you loved thinking it was me. its settled, i owe a debt to a
makebelieve self - a son and daughter of the lowliest parts of myself
that i orphaned before i gave them their own lives to lose.
the stars burn closer to the hours. majestic lie, id never believe me
if i didnt know better than this.
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24th & mission | the train station here is backwards. the escalators only roll downwards, as if to suggest something about coming here. see, the ritual is an everyday one; walk the seven or ten blocks, the three really good stories you can tell people later to seem wise and observant to people you need to see you as wise and observant, the four requests for donations from the hobos im not far enough away economically to be asked for those kinds of favors, from my corner apartment. you get to the subway station at Powell. you wait the agonizing 2 to ten minutes. you ride the three stops to 24th street station, the fifteen minute slipstream not enough to lose yourself in and short enough to keep you still counting the moments from the minutes. you get off and you spend fifty cents on the pac bell jukebox, connect to the mobile the dealer's got, somewhere among the ten block radius around that heroin stained part of the world. you recite what used to be talking but became just the algorithm you enter to get the information you wish to gleam : you always say exactly the same thing : hey, its seth. where can i find you? if you took a look into my life at any of those moments on the phone after i get off the subway, stretching my legs away from me to make the steps instead of just walking - it would be a loop of the same words the same inflection - but id be wearing different clothes half the time, my hair in a different state of awkward. my eyes skewed into a squint to see through the pain. he tells me one of eleven or so different spots we meet at. i start walking up the stairs up the stairs up the stairs next to an escalator carrying people down to the depths of the platforms. i take the steps quickly as quickly as i can. im always in a rush, i am acutely made aware of this if im ever with anyone when i come on these hunts. theyre always getting left behind im always edging out ahead of them and have to slow it down restrain the steps restrain the steps. drag my heels across the floor. i walk up a hundred and ninety steps to get to the surface.
and i walk - sometimes close sometimes so fucking far - but the exchange goes on like a mixture of so many things i get sick if i think about it too much. hes paternal, always pats me on the back gives me that look like he hopes hell see me tomorrow. hes a dirty greedy bastard, quick to make the money disappear as soon as it fills in the empty long lines on his hands and leaving mine on empty. hes efficient and cruel and beautiful and i look to him like hes saving me. and he is. you know. ive got them in my mouth, ducked behind the caverns between my cheek and my molars or wrapped up in the seam of my jacket ive cut open to hide this sort of thing if i ever get caught. or i keep it wedged between my forefinger and my thumb so that im not caught if i seem to be arranging things about me, if im being watched.
by now ive gotten very comfortable with being paranoid so i dont freak out about the things that used to occur to me in that coldsweaty panic that scared me more than made me think of alternatives like it does now. ive become cruel and efficient and beautiful. to be kind to myself. to be kind. i head back this time im more aware of things on the way back to the station - always - im always filled with more stories when i get home of things that happened on the way back than the way to see him. this is why. theyre watching me so im watching for them. i know that if i catch them i have more of a chance than if i dont. im not sure what sense this makes but its the kind of sense that makes you do things you wouldnt usually do - like superstition or faith. its got a hold of me more than i have a hold on it : and its like most things in my life these days. im servant to it. nothing lets me forget it.
i get to the station. i wave away other dealers that sit on the street corners here. im good, i tell them. they scatter away from me like the physics written for the interaction were a dramatic dynamic sort of thing. off to get pollen from other flowers. seek out hives from other trees. i see other unknown people that are known to me pass me on their way at some other point of this storyline. maybe theyre just emerging from the tire of the station or the rush of legs stretching out one in front of the other on the street. either they have it or they dont - yet. theyre on their way somewhere. long lazy eye contact, we always watch each other out of the corner of our eyes. like were fascinated by the others like us. without any of them to keep. theres yelling, its coming out over the houses from a few blocks away. its muffled and degraded into sounds from the words it used to be. someone is going to hurt.
i duck into the escalator and let it carry me down. like those people i had been only a few minutes before, i see kids walking up stairs im being carried down and they curse me for it curse me hard. curse me hard. the other side in just moments. life and death, like young and old - a metaphor in the drug deal. i hate the poetry when you find it in these dirty places, it reminds you that youre never far from making the ugly into something that can be sold more and more. if you can make it all gorgeous then whats the point of the ugliness? and if it aint really ugly then why does it hurt so much? why is it killing me? why am i dying for it so easily?
i get to the platform and stuffy the way the gram feels inbetween the fingertips - evaluate the weight of it, the value by touch. im already starting to be given to the sickness. it always hits in a short innocent dose of my own medicine - right about now and then - here waiting for the subway at 24th station - waiting for the ride home. i start gritting my teeth wishing i had a place i could rely on down here where i could fix where i could hide and study my arms who've turned to hiding my veins from the obvious places on my skin now that ive abused sharpnesses and narcotics to dull all of them - and turn me from the insideout.
on the ride home i compose answering machine greetings i would use if i had an answering machine.
'hi. now you say something.' 'hi, i'm not home right now but my answering machine is, so you can talk to it instead. wait for the beep.' 'You know what I hate about answering machine messages? They go on and on, wasting your time. I mean, all they really need to say is, "We aren't in, leave a message." That's why I've decided to keep mine simple and short. I pledge to you, my caller, that you will never have to suffer through another long answering machine message when you call me...' 'hi! seth's answering machine is broken. this is his refrigerator. please speak very slowly, and ill stick your message to myself with one of these magnets.' 'hello. im home right now but cannot find the phone. please leave a message and i will call you up as soon as i find it.' 'i can't come to the phone now because i have amnesia and i feel stupid talking to people i don't remember. id appreciate it if you could help me out by leaving my name and telling me something about myself. thanks.''Hi. im probably home, im just avoiding someone i don't like. leave me a message, and if i don't call back, it's you.' 'we're sorry. you have reached an imaginary number. please rotate your phone 90 degrees and try again.' 'as the drugs take hold, you feel you are losing your grip on reality. you begin to hallucinate. you see a telephone... the telephone is next to an answering machine... you hear a faint click and a light flashes on the answering machine... you hear a beep...' 'you have reached 674-4331. why?' 'hi. do you ever feel, like, your head is full of sand, not your regular loose sand mind you, but compacted sand, and there were bugs or something jumping up and down on the compacted sand? well, sometimes i do. bye.'
my mind is swiss cheesing waiting for the train, moderated by a constant reiteration of how much time is left remaining by a passionless voice over the intercomm. everyone waiting for the train pretends to be unresponsive to everything. we all try to pretend were not all down here thinking the same thing, faking this obliviousness to one another. all standing around with a moderate temperament - one of tolerance - as if the co-existence with every other thing taxed our patience and yet we suffer this because we are filled with an endless supply of it. passive martyrs, tapping our feet and waiting for the light to come shining down the length of the tracks in twin streaks - bleaching the walls of the tunnel with a distorting brightness that decays at the details. the salvation in the next steps - moving. moving again. moving on. moving at all. motionless.
courtesy and rules of etiquette, dont get noticed just get by - play nice. you let people get on in front of you, just enough to not be glared at too heavily when you rush on in behind a few to grab a seat because thats the most important thing to you right now. its amazing how vital this is - how severely dire this has become for this moment in time - replacing all needs. something so petty and unnecessary. but - you fight without being obviously so desperate for it - but you fight nonetheless - jsut for a seat that lets you remain by yourself - one that no one else will be able to take the seat next to you at any cost. the clutter and the noise of all those around me fascinate me for five minutes at a time as i slip in and out of being where here in my body and floating away and off into the nothing of agony again for awhile. it will be another fifteen to twenty before i can get in my front door. and another five to ten if im lucky before i can chase the pain out from inside every cell of my body.
counting down prime numbers and square roots. evaluating the hairstyles and the posture of other passengers. making up stories out of the facial features of strangers. judging all of them harshly because im judging the pieces of myself i see in all of them. convinced im invisible paranoid that im too obvious. my hand is on the gram in its gladwrap plastics, fumbling the ball around between my fingers. sweating, im sweating madly - its in my eyes - theres a layer where the clothes dont stick they slide over the skin on my back. im getting sick. sicker and its going to get worse before i can make it better. im getting so hopeless and gentle - the pace of my anticipation is getting the better of me.
repetitive aggressive quotations ricocheting on the inside of my brain, you feel the dimples of those accusations pushing against the prison of etiquette, silent and heavy kept under lock and key, rattling metal on the rust of those iron bars. complain. complain. complain. the subway aches to a slow stop at Powell street station - the ticket is in my breast pocket and i get it out way ahead of time. sweat on my palms sweaty sweet psalms of petty release promising me from 15 minutes later. im in a rush and i hurry past bodies in motion but slower than enough to keep from adding to the clutter. im on the escalator and without fail theres someone standing to the left side where usually people know how to keep it clear, leaving an aisle for kids like me in a hurry toward something awful. excuse me's, glaring apologies - and quick patterns of footsteps. successions of feet and progression of miles.
the turnstile ritual goes down like stride. and im taking the steps to streetlevel like im being chased by the earth swallowing me up. the debate is always a few seconds early - do i wait for the bus (agonizing enough) or do i start the walk uphill to beat the few minute world of difference? its a toss up. spend a second standing in the middle of the street looking down the oncoming for a glimpse of something that will help me make up my mind for me. is the bus in the distance? is there something glittering there on the left side in the shadow of the chronicle clock tower? ticking loudly at me. i remember that one night when none of this existed - before i even knew there was anything like being hooked. like being emptied of everything like this. the moon had been so big. so so big.
ive spent three dollars so far and this bus will make it four and a quarter just to get from here to there and back again at my front door. im not a victim here. im so much better than im letting me be. the self disgust is constant - a companion close by my side - and eternally persistent. why did you bring me here? am i one of these people? was i always going to be? was it just that simple all along the while there in the nursery? manifest destiny. acne of the soul. what i wrote whats been written - nothings lost none forgiven.
lyrical waste products junk food rotting my head out from the outside crawling in. i enjoy the pleasures of feeling guilty when no one else is around - for the fuck of it - like i used to care.either way i slice it im just not who i used to be. and i believe that for the sake of not having to come to terms with the fact that i have control over all of this but im pretending im not. the truth is that i am the same person i was and could have been - and no one else turned their back on me - it was always and still is just a by product of my own criminality.
either i come around the corner from the bus stop or i mount the last hill, cresting the top with those chucks tied to my feet - ten steps closer and ill feel that momentary freeze - the free i fear ive lost and only heroin can still give me. i just want relief. thats all i want from this.
keys in hand, the door open sesames - im in. my wife's in the middle of the bed and shes usually got some media on full blast - the life in the apartment contrasts with the dull thud of my thoughts - and after a shy hello - im by and by - squatting by a table with a razor and silver spoons laid out nice and neat - good table manners. pencil in the time - clock out clock in. cottons and water and fill the syringe. tie off - put it to the pressure - and its not long now. i get all i ever wanted. and im over again.
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Wednesday, November 19th, 2003
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</p> N O T I C E . O F . I N T E N T : R E L O C A T I O N & R E H A B I L I T A T I O N
In an effort to initiate a more emphasized Reconciliation
with being alive all operations will no longer take place at this address but
instead : http://www.livejournal/users/the_Opaque.
Its acknowledged if not appreciated - and its all the same; were
moving on.
Thank you,
P O S T . S C R I P T, I N C. | A N T I . A L I A S
T O W A R D M A K I N G A F I N A L A M E N D S F O R W H A T W A
S W A S T E D O N B E I N G A S H A M E D O F M Y S E LF I N S T E A D O F A C
C E P T I N G T H E H O N O R O F M Y O W N G U I L T
</div>
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Tuesday, November 18th, 2003
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youre lonely, some discomfort with being by youreself, being uncomfortable with having only yourself to talk back, oh, the nonesense youll say, instinctive out reach, reach out, watch out, immaculate touch someone, grab, kidnap, gag, bound, tie, look for someone else, anyone, someone special, a significant swollen notion, any motion against keeping present company, anything but being stuck with the side of your mouth that speaks when it needs, apart from the public forums and the fashion of the norm, not for one moment longer, longer than its got to be, long enough to be stuck here, face to face with the cacophony of suppressed, undigested, breast pocket nested, overdue still deaths, sudden borns you’ve avoided so delicately. handsomely retarded, killer cromosome kink. The brink is all over your face, you ignore the tracings of last years man everytime you look, again sunk into the contours of the state this pace of postponing and distracting and public persona courtesy cloning has left your sorry face. agony, incomplete, you only stare at your feet, youre frustrated with the you that’s about to come through the door, sit down, say hello, long time no see, wats it going to be, are we still friends?
now, were going to talk. the puzzle pieces youre using wont complete the puzzle youre now trying to complete. pieces from the last set don’t fit the next picture in the set, whatever that is, don’t know it yet, although admist the mess you make theyre likely to look good enough to settle for the sloppy shrug a dirty job putting the new set all together, parody of your life, you become some hollow modern art. borrow from nothing. owe noone. stop caring about the style of your hair. self refrence, dangerous. don’t go off and miss this. this is what youre living. youre off visiting who you were last month two years before when you last liked your image. be there to answer the what what what. accept emptiness, entropy, nothing, lonliness. let go. there she blows. take it slow. okay, quicker now. fuck, where are you going. youre off again, taking the wrong runaround and you are in triple steps, walking, going. finding the false reflief of somebody, some gimick thing, some commodity.
decide. this one thing. the rest is easy come easy go over easy big easy easier it goes. it falls together here.
youre scared? what? that sensation of being hunted by the chance happenstance coincidence of falling prey to the perfect predatorial debut, sing a few notes, just a few cracking tinderbox vocal quotes of your neglect consciousness, another anecdote, misdirection, magic trick expands past the borders of the devotion to keeping yourself within the lines, undesigned, unresigned, undersigned, agreed, cheap, nickel and dime, sold! youre just a little cardboard filet mingnon in a popup tart book, scared of its own shadow, its winter secure for one month more, dead green muted screams stretching across the sacred ground, the disturbed soil covering the not so dead but theyre buried, waiting to be free. disturbingly. conquering the real again.
lonely. i.
listen to me.
i could tell you a story of consequences so demanding, your sympathy would, within these few moments of my retelling, capture the full grief my nostalgia, and upon the swelling, cellular tissue reacting to the deadlines im busy confessing, while youre bursting inside out, thirsting for fiction instead of the fact of my unbecoming, as you are suffering the exaggerated distortion of this moment that was once yours, that ive mutated, and is now ours to share, the shockwave, my doppler dialect, the conflict in frequency, the unavoidable manifest of your immediate - your apprehensive - your complete co-comprehension of anything would tempest, will capsize your heart, gone, volunteered to walk the plank, thrown overboard, sent dangling, head over heels, mangled and fascinating, sinking, a decaying orbit in your chest, off in the deep end, nine feet beneath the surface, splash down into the pit of your stomach, and as you begin digesting, you go cold, blood runs blue, iclicles hang over your eyes, cue you into a transition into a cryoinsomnia, a permainbetween, and just when the freeze burns through to your service system, docile, gradual, an absolute zero sort of take over, the inside of you hits bottom, hits hard, knockout, down for the count, dracula adrenaline rush responds in compliments loving this new attitude, the nitro blush has its way, bites back bite, drains you of what little reds and whites you have still up for a fight, and the second coming of the aftershock floods the corridors with draino cleanser, all the veins sing soprano, the blue blood is bullied out through the pores covering you with a blue frost, slushie flushie, itsy bitsy, white washed out, and then you are left sensitive enough to feel a tiny 'canyoufathom' bomb vaporize the instant of your center, knocks the wind out of the core of you, and the sudden howl of air, a relief of dry tears playing solitaire, conflicts with what had been a constant current deep sea scenery of your innerspatial stellar sphere, creating a flux of reason, opposing forces chasing the end of the other, another oroborus paradox, seperate but married, the contradiction itself, not in terms, but in the phenomenon, surrenders to a new abstraction, a creation from the impossibility of what is happening, and a whirlpool, this lazerous bowl, is sudden and perpetual, first appearing on the surface of your mind as a dimple, revolving, ripples like grooves on a vinyl recording, forming shyly, eventually defining a course, spiral downwards, upwards, a funnel right through the thick of your all time, sinking consciousness, pulling everything down to the bottom, drowning thought and instinct and premonition, disturbing the aligned enlightenment, the posture, the highs the lows, the prose of your manic epic static premeditated idealisms and the romantic ambitions motivated to counter self absorbed, reward, constructive criticism, building building all your walls sky high, the misplaced envy of other double trouble couples, the parables of past lives better forgotten by your present tense, using sense, all five of them, change tingling, ringing, the sound of going broke, broken hearted, broken lines on both your palms, scars for fantasy, reality, yeah, mercy, missing links in all that urgency, surging converging coming together pulling apart again again again again whose turn is it then and when when when doesn’t matter does it, precious soul? Youre taking water like youre taking in all the contextual details until your brain flatlines, inverted extroverted, the inside engine of your skeleton trap becomes a rendering of that famous old moebius strip, comic parable, anyday funnies, seriously neverending, its your turn again, my turn again, back and forth becomes a hum, were close enough to share the same blur, the sum of consentual calm, tweedle dee, tweedle come on come on, dum dum, letting go, fingers straighten, at ease behavior, all that latentcy reshapes into currency, fluidity, combination unlocks, dislocated clocks, time fails to make the mark, obscures into novelty, rabbit hare prophecy, quick quick slow slow slow quick, farewell farewell farewell and yes its all how it sounds its all how it sounds get it past our sound barrier part sound barrier part questionaire, its all how it sounds to be it is exactly how it sounds break apart our sound barrier break a new world record broken record broken record broken record . . . oh yeah, were live now.
the you is not you, anymore; it was me, you walked in on something else entirely. you are someone else. i am redesignated even capable of being with, and again able to be . . . me.
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it’s a kicker –living fearless in the tension of perhaps making that one false move that ruins everything – just like that - the fatal flaw and the ruin of the careful balance youre always acutely aware of in the recollection of youre life when youre looking from the bottom up and never quite as familiar at the time, in person. Ive got nothing to loose – its all one big disgrace and yet im more cozy with the enemy than before – nervous - scared to make mistakes – absurd – and the same story to touch on anything.
private LIFE | public IMAGE
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Original copy written in 1999. Unreleased
i have been my own frankensteins monster, built cell by cell in an old fable (oh, do tell) of a once upon a time in my life before this today, right now: i was stuck in envy severe of everything i believed that i was not – i could only live in my own shadow hoping id be the perfect reflection of what i might become, if i ached for it that id suffered enough that pain substitutes as earnings. always eventually. if only i came put right from the manufacturing like the other sculpturesofskin sometimes come – yeah - you know the ones, the same ones anyone could have seen - on silver screen or in technicolor day dreams – tricks of the light on the edge of the mirror frame – hope lights eternal – only to see your disappointment clearly into the explicit – the had it mades and the ones the world was made for – those that i had deified as what i was failing for not being in my mental conditioning - rinse repeating. bleached. naive.
i worked on it. built me over again – the original wasnt good enough for me. a restrained sort of pity and unacknowledged savage fury let me through into gods workshop. impossible things – i made myself in no image at all. god gave me his face and i made myself others. and so i built the ugly machine - the engine in me burning dirty.
i engineered the entire waste, mechanical composures – unhappy evolutionary steps. tuning myself into better – pretty faces, better poses, better methods - lookalike. this way that way and never down again. at all costs and whatever it could have taken, i took. anything for a second glance. to turn my own head. to keep me from looking away at the first tug at attention from all that resides around you. practice yourself to the point of acquiring style. defense mechanisms booby trap the personality to the point that you obtain your own personal technique, fat chances – lost causes. saving graces if you keep your heart safe through all this. just survive the circumstantial satisfactions – and i did - as long as it hurt, bedroom cash ins.
and
pills pills pills, wasting years, making meaning mean more with every successful kill – a trip up main street, eventually succeeding, deceiving everyone . . . i was alive! alive!
my own invention. ill write it down, finish a book, maybe.
( damnit, i was beat to it by shelly. )
when it all worked, all those pretty girls suddenly begging me for parts and pieces, dragging me into stumbling a few feet past the threshold of the wicked worlds that, by the way, werent as cruel as i was expecting – my own brutality had already built up my tolerance – my fix wasnt ever to come from the sweets or the junk food girlfriends id have – their world – the one i thought i was kept out of – it seemed so much bigger when i was on the outskirts of their border lands, staring at my hands wondering what it would have been like to touch their perfection in flaw for longer than a moment – and that one lost to distracted ambitions that were all mine and my fault for interrupting in the first place – this just left me feeling so left behind. back. back. back to the aftermath:
work – work – work - i hated them all the more for enjoying the redesign that i hated because it had taken so much effort to accomplish, what i gave to birth i despised it for its reception of attention and all the validating etiquette that serves the terminally ill social structure. built. my own nature versus nurture much more complex than before. constant state of crisis. decisive artifice: statelessness in a material world. and still, ignoring consequences, i began even more secretive and intense designs on details instead of the heavy metal - i began with ( while they ignored the soul of my endeavors ) the mental exercises that took place in place of being accepted into the steady stream. down stream. where future generations of fish die if they dont have it in them to make it against the current events and the dramatics – i was bored with being excited. i wasnt finished. i never left the poor kid alone.
but, i admit,
at the same time, i think i was addicted to the speculation of who i just pulled off – who i was being and was becoming to them, cause with the rot of hate i kept armed in every molecular hell that makes me up – the outrage i have for their sense of things and the fraud i suckered them in order for this inheritance of being popular, i still seemed obligated to a strange sort of responsibility – one to incorporate any changes that they seemed to fit – from now on. was i their project or were they mine? me better.
controlling the lines on my face to only exhibit what i thought they wanted.
what i had come to want myself. sometimes i seem to drive down to the limit of some dead end thinking process where it would feel so good to think of my own ruin – break the version that i created for their devastatingly decrepit art appreciation ethic of what in all essence was my miracle – and my first flirtation with the real - what it all is, and isnt in either of us. promises promises – still – id swear . . . ill leave welts under my eyes to
emphasize the bags that they never seem to see, cut black holes in my chest so dense that anyone could see the heart i no longer had and needed to keep to maintain synch with the politics of cult magics; the life support i needed from everyone. id leave ribbons as remnants of the monster they created. but i donated hands to build. if i had to id make them hurt at the sight of me just like i had come to hurt from having too much time to feel it so completely.
but i was beautiful enough for them so i never executed the plan.
and now i say
fuck them. (before they fuck you). i evolved past myself. an accident. dont tell – i had ascended past any expectation, brought the pretty inside to the surface tension on my face. practiced until it was truth more pure than the subjectivism that argue with pity and lie about the ugly and the untouchable. i became more than anyone had imagined, even my own imaginings hadnt the graciousness to conceive it could happen. was i any better for any of that?
i had been my worst enemy. their crimes were minimal. neglectful. playing into just being what they were. as they should be – and always should have been. they werent to blame: not them, whose lives revolve so far from other orbits, especially the one i hadnt yet chosen but i loved for many of the earlier years of my childhood – its in the wider outside arc of the return orbit in which the physics lets you lean a little louder than the measurements in your trigonometry book might have based its opinion on – a stretch but a good one - trying to get some sun i might have been
eclipsing by accident – keeping it from everyone with my place closer to the throne than the other ones that only comes from being one whose been eliminated as a threat and therefore excused from the strict diet from patience and goodwill towards men.. they dont care one way or the other, sister. really.
and i realized - i cant hate them now for having the same envy that i once suffered as precursor to the way i was now.
the envy that started the whole thing. you created a version of yourself in
everyone around you. i bet you.
anything. i named it. and now you suffer knowing the truth – that you yourself are more in love with the way you remade yourself – and this can only mean that you were truly born lacking the worthiness of being loved – you would have never received the love that surrounds you. and that you cant be angry at anyone – because while that still can be argued you know for a fact that you were the only one who always hated you. and still does.
i know what it means to forgive. but i dont know what it is that is myself. what do i say to ‘sorry’.
i dont know but i fell in love with what im made of that day – when i realized all of this. cause nothing short of the truly beautiful could have messed everything up as badly as my eloquence left to ruins.
i found what i was worth in the cracks between the perfected product. face value means everything to me – but it it bears no value to me whatsoever. put up or shut up.
walk tall . . . or dont walk at all. thats what the boss said.
( a manuscript. )
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security anxiety. - you break my heart you know, all of you - dont you know? dont you know?
oh, beth mana - what are we going to do now?
its all over now its begun . . . and all our fair weather friends – and a friendship long lost half continents behind us.
where was i when you needed me? what about if you ever need us? soft spoken voice in invisible ink. wish you had written in permanent record. red pen. correction.
…
spell breaker - i suckered myself - curse of the mummy - disturb the tomb – etc - i was all of them, at one moment - she was on top of me sharing the all of my life . . .
if i had been, i was. never again. i am – and im not going to arrange for my life to take a dive just so i can relive the accomplishment rather than live up to the rare quiet uncelebrated honor of being who i am. i just couldnt get enough of the details that suddenly are so obscured usually – instantly my senses soften and i awaken to the world around me – unlike anything else – being alive . . . so much so – people can make a career of reliving the elbow curve of a mile stretch to the entire infinite pavement laid ahead just to capture the all of it. and maybe loose a little of yourself to being captured by it – look at that – cant suffer being who we are past a few minutes after arrival before the schemes start hatching toward plans to get rid of it somehow before one moment longer than torturously necessary – to keep up appearances of course.
im a phony – but at least im a real phony.
. . .
you turn your wrist and thread through the first layers of your new cycle, binding the loose fibers of the future tense together into your past – absently – and absolutely undistorted and live present tense – moving through. gliding. threading into what is you and uncertain. into the fabric of what has been, the instant sequence of history becoming your intuition as you act out the one day eternal as every moment comes to it, as you become. and it is.
someone had an interesting way of looking at age. i dont know who – it might have been me, actually. fuck, lets just say it was one of you – whoever it was suggested that the number of the year that you adopt on your birthday is the number you earned having lived the year through at the expense of a year of your life. the numbers are good graces for the life you dedicate to what you make of your life. you are not the age of current number that you use to answer one of the formalities accustomed to the practice of becoming familiar with strangers. what ever age you go by is the number of years youve already lived – your current age is what has already occurred. so - whatever you made, the makeup, the composite of the events of your previous year of life, is what the number youve just become ends up symbolizing, what it means. all the events of your life during the year you were 22 is what being 23 means. so, by these basics, this year you are now living to define what 24 will mean for you. you are not living 23 right now. you already have, and by doing so, have designed your past into the icon of a digit, or series of digits.
the birthday you arrive at is what youve achieved. i want years with more than distance behind me and still the same exile waiting ahead of me as before.
no more.
beauty be above me. beauty be ahead of me. beauty be behind me. beauty be all around me. and then theres you.
and those people we know. forgive them for the moment it takes to say so. now we can return to our grudges as before.
from this point on you are living to design the geography of your 23.
be well. be you.
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guess what, i found a picture of you - a file that i had never downloaded, a picture and its been decorated with someones awful poetry - i love it - i am astonished, it looks just like you. imagine that.
"the composer has stepped into fire"
i don't really know what to say - the roses are dead, everywhere . . . this desk is a mess with roses and papers and books and your letters printed out for the novelty of hardcopy these days now that were past the turn of the century.
i have to leave soon, and buy cigarettes, i need to speak for my doctor - i need to bear the hospital, you know, i am in no mood to be going to be observed right now.
i need to go and know my reasons - why i shouldn't die, why i should continue living. i'm going to make a list, and have some good doctor decipher it like no body should – regardless of if they are able to or not - i want him to write down reasons for me, though. the last gentlemen i saw had the most wildly uncreative reasons behind his outbursts we let pass for his feedback from our sessions. such as, why waste all that you have inside of you? almost . . .
i am going to live with this, constricting disease of sorts . . . is it the mind or the brain, which do you think?
the mind, of course it is the mind, isn't it? it matters somehow. but i cant quite feel right about either or.
words, i love words, meaning so easily lost in their own abstraction. its the okay insanity – when the words stop meaning anything when repeated too often in such short blushes of time. so what kind of book will you dedicate to your time? are you tired of these kinds of love letters yet?
what about what you were saying last time? im sorry – i missed wanting you as badly as i do.
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im tempted to test your threat but my nerve just doesnt have the spark to try your temper.
a woman came to the door last night, she was my messenger, i think. she stole the length of my evening until i passed away into sleep. died and came to from the charity of cpr, she wasnt there, she wasnt ever there, anywhere. neverware. neverneverlove. before it was dawn i dreamt of you and you talked me through to waking up and opening today into curved light realism, renaissance, modernism.
i thought i talked to you. i absently taste your words in my mindmake; i missed you forever last night. i wished you were there with me, your hair across my pillow like a design of fire, stitches across the accidental incisions. before 11. after light disintegrates.
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Buckling Beams of your Hopes and Dreams: The golden anointment of sheer disappointment. Pocket-size butterfly wing clippers. Festering on the fringes of the mundane, clenched to the bursting point in the baked bean bubble bath. Red carpet rug burn. Retro-fitting for the unwitting. There's a gristle-clog in the ham juicer and a brownish splatter on all that matters. Glistening suction cups on the headboard of hatred. Inappropriate feelings toward the skin peelings. The wrinkled knees on your leotards of lethargy. Inner city rotten egg incubator. Plastic fruit for a starving nation on it's last wobbly legs of wonder. Enjoy gravity's pull when your cavity's full. The catsup bottle is in your wine rack. The barnacle-encrusted bilge pump on your sunken dreams makes the sound of a wet snap of an oiled strap. It's not just awful...it's god-awful. Somersault onto the asphalt. Droppings on your outcroppings from the massive otter spill at the oil refinery. Playing with your do-it-yourself lunchmeat slinky. Stick ponies for staff people, the antidote for pleasant moments. The staccato drone of spontaneous monotony. Knuckle-bone skid marks from a flat tire on your inner journey. Nine-foot-long outhouse ladle butter-side-down in the diaper bucket. Runaway thresher at the puppy farm. Buoyant flotsam in an ocean of hurt with it's telltale tickle of tape worms. Half-hearted sips from the sagging udder of boredom. Rusty corkscrew acupuncture. Pigeon pudding in your propeller and dirt-flavored mouthwash. A hearty slap on your mud-flap . . . what an industrial waste of time. Sweat beads on your inner needs, your skull smells funny. Frying bacon in the bedpan at the polyester slacks museum. Sucker punch in the gut bucket with a swift kick rib tickler. Sausages for hostages! Fifty megaton stink bomb. Squirming grubs in the dirt of destiny, face-down in the deep end.
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post_scripts's journal
enthralled.
indescribable.
predatory.
blank.
apathetic.
restless.
anxious.