W/ each gulp the shivers rack my body. Convulsively my skin raises & thumps.
My wife hates it...each...single...fucking Gulp.
The problem, you see, is this: as each epochal night glides criminally across a field of a thousand weeping eyes, as if in prayer, she holds wilting flowers against my bare chest, that once did not belong to her, & claims the sincerity of their odorous hope.
W/ sticky reservation, my wife snoring softly beside me, i slip out of bed, unable to shake the Night's dream from my head, & traverse the length of our shotty apartment to a main window that looks out over 9nth street.
It is superbly quiet. The dark, calming & soothing. So much so that i am not even sure if i am awake. Dreams...& Reality are like that sometimes...it's maddening.
How many times have i stood in this very spot wondering about the novels of our lives? i think to myself. How many times, on eternal nights such as these, have i concluded that the end is always worse then chapter one? & how many times am i to go on w/ questions w/ no intention of seeking answers? All this racing thru my weakened brain, as i laugh, chuckle, boar into myself & pour a liquid gold river into a pathetic plastic cup.
i can sense, in the mollified air, a shift, a change, a darkening of light, but what? i question myself.
"goddammit," i say aloud, because such questions are nothing but a useless song, & return to bed, awaiting the arrival of mourning, which, i suppose, is already here.
"i am nothing like a bug," i say to her closed lids, & rest my head against pillow. & begin to dream.
Friday, June 4, 2010
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Introduction
i could tell you that i like a spring breeze breathing thru my hair. Or that the laughter of children cascades over me as would a tropical waterfall. i could even tell you that the love of awakening upon a volcanic sunrise whilst entwined w/ a sleeping lover sends me aflutter upon crystal wings of rapture...but then i would be nothing more than a harbinger of lies, left to tongue my own sourness.
Henry Miller would be proud. For when i am not thinking of poetry, or abhorrence (i am incapable of divorcing the two), i am thinking about cock & cunt meeting one another.
i cannot go anywhere w/out a look of irritation, of derision,of the utmost suspicion, & i cannot figure out why.
Perhaps, tho, my better half tells me, is that the past shines thru much like a polished coin, more so then the acted self; that,perhaps, my better half goes on, the acted self is actually less translucent then that self believes.
i refuse to own mirrors, thus have never had a decent look at myself.
As a naked eye cracks a mystery sewn underneath waves of rippling flesh, a flash, a crack of doom or light, i find myself in needing to mouth the truth, to clink my teeth to the notes which have always criminaled away from me, & sing.
For who wants to be such a harbinger to a self who wants the sun but supposes in the moon's darkened fairy-tales?
But then again, who just wants to sing?
Henry Miller would be proud. For when i am not thinking of poetry, or abhorrence (i am incapable of divorcing the two), i am thinking about cock & cunt meeting one another.
i cannot go anywhere w/out a look of irritation, of derision,of the utmost suspicion, & i cannot figure out why.
Perhaps, tho, my better half tells me, is that the past shines thru much like a polished coin, more so then the acted self; that,perhaps, my better half goes on, the acted self is actually less translucent then that self believes.
i refuse to own mirrors, thus have never had a decent look at myself.
As a naked eye cracks a mystery sewn underneath waves of rippling flesh, a flash, a crack of doom or light, i find myself in needing to mouth the truth, to clink my teeth to the notes which have always criminaled away from me, & sing.
For who wants to be such a harbinger to a self who wants the sun but supposes in the moon's darkened fairy-tales?
But then again, who just wants to sing?
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