Wednesday, July 23, 2008

you can live in the harlots house where the dead dance with each other under a midnight sky both alive and asleep, or you drag it along your faithful indelible anchor and die willingly.

Friday, July 18, 2008

On Georgia and Sequential Rotations of Spring

i am sad to think that piling stones means many things, both high and wide. for i have been collecting them in every place and pocketing the ones i like. and then i think, where are my hands to go but to my eyes? i have come to know the still images, mutual, in our minds are not the same. then we shared only time. for piling stones means many things both flat and tall. for i have been moving up as you have been long. and then i think which is better to know or watch or be blind and behold? for the place from which we came was nearly the same mold. then we ration time and are architects who will never see eye to eye though the desk was still the same. but, we all live in an anyhow town with up so many going as many falling down. then it is just a matter of how one did arrange. their piling stones of many things.
2 am is when i crawl from the cutaneous coverings im in. where i go ill never know. etherized on a cotton spread you cannot invent, invent, invent. there is a congregation of threads that wind and weave many things each one civil and alive in pulped wood and ink and strings or the confines of a greater design. but the drum goes on, on, on and demands synthesis from circumstance or happiness from desert lands. the metaphors kill me i insist. from the microscopes to telescopes, stethoscopes, and periscopes simply, it makes sense. but we are man, and complicate, complicate, complicate we must. make mountains, make molehills, make mending walls, make magic, make, to make. and heavy iron eye lids close every day the same.

loud noise

loud noise. is white. and black.
it is aged 11 years from 28 minus 2.
it is iron cast into a mold that knows it will hold many things.
it is the shadow of that same building.

it is looking down a fault line into the belly of a familiar beast.

it is that disturbance like cicadas with their many wings and voices whining in june. this year it was late. it still comes every evening.

it is a cooked frown.

and

a capricious weather front.

it is everything cliche about a rose. even red.

it is an end.
it
is
a
stumble
also.

it has but one eye.

it is the heart of darkness.
and a venetian blind.








it is number nine broken.

it is a swell of belittling laughter.

and a back growing farther away with time.
well welcome fellow ferried soul, i cannot describe to you the small subtle happenings of 3 months gone to rot. they are all a blur anyway, but it was then i stood atop some small pinnacle of self-invented conceit and spoke the ever indelible words "i will". for the ambivalent delight in saying such things is, whatever promise and concrete connotations the phrase holds audibly, it somehow looses its brazen prowess when it echoes inside ones head. and the more and more it pummels inside, between the clockwork--making and breaking allegiances with consequence and the inner compulsion to do anything you find your self backtracking through the confusion and logically postponing everything or discounting it all together. so is the way of man. or at least this one (though i will always think of my self still in my formidable years, we always are learning i believe, but perhaps knowing everything that is another classification that of A. God or B. an old man, neither of which i am, so rather i am then a younger man.)so i heard someone say "maybe we're made to be hollow, to get up and grow" that doesn't side step convincing oneself otherwise. yet, i believe an cold shower shock, rash method works best--just do it, the world wasnt and isnt ever changed by thinkers, rather those who think then do. this is not to be mistaken with those who hold the philosophy of do then think, i think the entire world knows who i mean, especially the congregation of souls in a sandbox.

Monday, July 7, 2008

slouching

slouching

Hello there morning, my long awaited love

the meadow is shining with the moon’s tears and autumns frost

the willows weeping held nesting doves

as the wind crept in between the branches whispering forget me not

the subtly inviting--this stumbling on

but the discourse of night will take us further from where we’ve come

I prayed for forgiveness with my every breath

for conversion poverty, discovery, a purpose

I’ll build you a home with the sand that has been weighing me down I said

but

I leave

with

the

tide

,


goodnight.


Thursday, July 3, 2008

i am forever amused by the hungry mouths of those sad sorry souls with transposable faces. when do the worlds you lift out of attraction toward something genuine become your own?

remember 11/15/07

Remember 11/15/07.

I am beside myself—a far cry from that curable valley where all hope and serenity shine with the faintest light at the bottom of a glass bottle. Its been five years. Five years since I could say, “hello ground, these are my feet, and there is the end of the sidewalk; I am glad to have met you, but ambitions wasted on frivolous inconsistencies of success are better left un-tread, for I have a future to attend to.” I suppose it was a purpose, some slight self contained bliss I was foolishly ignorant of. It gave me reason, it also gave me death. I have become a whisper in the branches now, she was such a subtlety dearly missed. I've grown old. Old like the land—a wasted harlot, furrowed, tired, gray. Older then the willow that weeps for itself, older then the wind that batters my home, older then snails that see such simple things, things I could have lived without but are all that matter now. The last time I saw it was in the shiver of a mirror. That grotesque sneer, a pirouette of misfortune that hummed its own sad song, a serenade bent of some vile infectious night, that lay twisting and turning, spilling over me, a wicked and contemptuous greed that ran its course through my veins and poisoned me with all the aesthetics of a false joy. And now I am forever sad. For people I once called friends. For people in my family. For the girl I could have loved. For the people I harmed. For the depraved communion of man. And most shameful of all for myself. I have become who I am, and who I am is not who I am. Nobody knows. They say, many things most are lies. For everything is above and below.

I should commit myself to the utmost certainly of pervasiveness—the laughable cabal of yay sayers deluded by the very philosophy which I proposed—that of lemmings and spiders. Frankly I already have, we all have. I am utterly bemused why man must interact with itself. For any logical individual would recognize the invasive exploitation of his own race and be repulsed. Which ever ends justify what ever means serves as a illogical compulsion to hone any apprehensiveness to the finer points of man, where the blissful “good neighbor” visage serves more justice than the honest wife beater. Man is insatiably greedy. However much I divulge upon this it serves no end and grants me nothing other then the artificial light to endow my transitory happiness. The truth belongs to God. So won't you catch for us the foxes.

living as an akward clown...

I am so inclined to laugh at…nothing and everything, for everything is a parade of amusement—a modern circus of sorts. There was a little man who lived in a box, he thought it was the world, until the top came off, and he did not even notice. Instead he live a shameless shriveled miser of an all but emaciated world, a fabricated microcosm of the most delightful irony. And I laughed. There was a man who walked on pavement stones to a home that was not his, so he tried again, and again, and again. And I laughed. There was girl who was hanging damp clothes on a white wire in the back yard. The wind and sun dried them, she took them down and put more up. And I laughed. There was a picture that hung on the wall. It held the sun, the stars, the moon,, a book, a pen, a mouse, a window, an empty chair, an open door, a candle, a shadow, a sparrow, a willow tree, rain, a glass half full, two black eyes, a subtle smile, an oval face, a quill, an ink well, and a desk. And I laughed, but I cried too.

I was walking, then I stopped, bent down, and knelt on the sidewalk to…

1. tie my shoe

2. pray to God

3. pick up a penny facing heads up

4. propose to a love I have yet to meet

5. crawl

6. play with a child

7. pick my self up

I sat as the shore line crept up to my toes with the rising moon. It was by the rocks where the ghost crabs would hide in the day, wedged deep between the cracks of an open sore. I looked down. The moon was only half full this time—it was still bright though. I could see the shadowy outline of my head and shoulders against the dancing light like natures quiet cameo. I threw myself in.

I sat in a mangrove tree two or three feet above the water although it felt like I was swimming. You could drink the water from the air, no matter where I moved the water clung to my clothing and skin—wanting like me to escape. I moved slowly. I saw such beauty. The sun on the leaves. Small crabs perched on mangrove roots. Iguanas green and blue like the leaves, sleeping absorbing the sun. Little fish harbored by the forest of roots and broken branches. It kept them safe from the ocean. They would have to leave some day or get caught and die in the roots. It smelt of decaying sea creatures and iguana shit, but I liked to sit there sometimes. I hoped to see a manatee. One time I did.

I sat in a room lighted by two desk lamps. Fingers sick with fever, tired, sore, but they still danced across the keys. Singing a sad song, of a young man who did not know himself, but he laughed at everything. He wasted too much. I still laugh.

opening paragraph to novel

There are several ironies that are blatantly murdering all sensibility and purpose of my life. Ironies that are brutal and unforgiving like some scenic atrocity a partial birth crimson address on the white tomb stone steps of out government—disheartening, crude, and a calamity. i'm atypically inclined to a sloth and slow boil of a disease like misfortune, festering and growing off an apathetic love and uncertainty—these both plague anything I come across or attempt. Thoughts pummeling over like some gritty homeless drunk—dancing and tripping allover everything, much like a fluid casket drowning the whimper of life from anything only to be repulsed with a vulgar conviction. They all flail the same, precariously holding on to consciousness with spider-woven precision, an ethereal line of what is necessary and proper and just what plugs the gaping arterial cavities in me and fills my lungs with enough poison to keep me alive. I think my recent self-realization that I’ll amount to a mere mole hill in life has suddenly grasped my throat and has been choking me, adding flame to the already blazing inferno of stress and self doubt. I've whispered it to my self a thousand times, knowing I’d spit it back out as some useless adivice I could never count on: slow down!, I never listen. I'm twenty-five, well I guess twenty-six—I forgot this past April added another year to my life—ever since I can remember I've been sick.

coming up roses of another kind

“do you do heroin”

“what? No, no, never I've never done any drugs, I learned about them in school. They mess your life up, a lot, so does alcohol, I guess you must have missed health class a lot or something.”

“oh, well, you have good veins for heroin”

“oh, well thanks, I guess, I think, thanks?’

“its ok, you can think I'm weird, I am, I know it,

I can see the blue beneath your skin, its just like you, twisting like a mountain stream, cold, quiet and loud, and a hellish blue--God, I’v never seen anything like it, something so beautiful, captures you, presses you into the period at the end of a sentence, sucks you into despair, into nothingness”

“oh, does it.”

“yeah it does, what are you doing later?”



------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I think its safe to say the first encounter I have ever had with a drunk/high college girl was most likely the most informative encounter I have had with anyone. Ever. Such raw, repugnant, poetry driven out in a mist of vodka and back-washed beer, shook the marrow of all 206 bones within my body. it is indeed, a modern circus.

i remembered a dream

Its sort of a spidery thread. that whisper that touches you in barely audible and tactile strokes. It is a phantom type of game--remembering that is. i was born everyday to meet this evening. hello fellow ferried soul they say. hello familiar face i say. its the same face a blank listless melting sheet of skin--i know all of them by now. its been 20 years--only 3 since i forgot how to respire in my clothing. i climbed out of my skin and walked down fdr to the 22nd house built to withstand a hurricane. I'll never know if it can for the clouds rained and rained and the winds blew and blew and we forgot what was alive outside our home. the windows certaintly cannot, despite the sublte ruse the venetian blinds provided it was nonetheless vulnerable. we lived in a kiln-- a cement block. i remember the roofs had foam sprayed on them than they covered it in laytex and painted it white or gray. everyone's home was the same less the color--the colors were an eyesore, cliche, poorly imitated, absolutely revolting--in every assortment of peptobismol pink and aquamarine blue--i would imagine it looked like easter does on lsd.( i hear the colors are rather bright.). but they were all 1960's imitation cement block homes all the same less the colors and the different sizes. We had a larger home. 1800 sq ft. for 7 and then 8 people when my brother was born. i suppose it would be 9 if you consider my dog. My little brother now regards our lastes dog as his unofficial thrid brother--the incompacitated one with hair all over him but we love him nonetheless. Due to the lawlessness of the island's contracted waste service our dog was made a sport of and severed in two right across the 6th lumbar verterbrae by dandered garbage men--agry at their life i suppose--they ran him over. i was at school. my mother said there was a lot of blood. "he was trying to hold on best he could, grabbing hold of the life he could between the wheezes of foamed saliva and blood coming out his mouth. He tried to crawl away--he didnt know, he didnt know his legs were gone" i heard the men were laughing. i cried later--not when they first told me--i just wanted to forget about it, so i ran away, but since it was the dry season the blood stain in the middle of the street in front of our house remained there for a couple of weeks. i felt sick when i looked at it. somehow i still picture drunk brown skined black haired men bedecked in jeans worn tennis shoes and a lime reflective mesh vest laughing and pointing out my dog as they try to hit him. houses were all the same. our neighbors had a smaller one, i think it must have been 1200 sq ft. it was ok, they just had 3 kids. one was off at college at duke i think. they had two more sons one younger than me and one older. they were corrupt sons of bitches. the older one had lots of porn magizines and was an alchoholic. He would stay up late playing play station 2 or nintendo 64 while drinking vodka and probably masturbating. he was sick. he announced to me he burnt the face off a gi-joe with a magnifying glass one time. his brother laughed, i felt sorry. to be honest i was sad he wasted the gi-joe. i collected them back then. i would now but my youngest brother has dismembered them all--personally rendering them all casualties of war. i suppose he over hears me listening to npr too much. but the kid was sick. i think he just wanted friends. i remember he tried to be my friend. he gave me a porn magazine. i told him i didnt want it and i never talked to him again. last i heard his acholoism consumed him and he put vodka in a gatorade bottle and took it on a whale watching trip. noone noticed until he almost fell over board and started vomiting on the side of the boat. i suppose he got expelled. but their house was smaller just like our friends who lived on 48 fdr drive had a house twice our size. ther built our house on top of each other. the husband was a higher rank. they also had a cliffside view of the ocean. i think that house would have cost near 2 million dollars to buy now a days. i used to rock climb on cliff their house sat on trying to catch iguanas or any other type of reptile and tarantulas. the climbing was easy, it was mostly just ledges and tumbled rocks. what made it hard was the meticulious pace you had to maintain to keep your life in your hands as opposed to mother natures. that and it was hot. the amber rocks absorbed heat from the sun and reflected it back on your face and front as you took a beating from the sun on your back. it was still worth it to catch something though. but the houses were the same size less the color, the size, and the people.