"Aren't you afraid of living, y'know, on and on and on?"
"Forever, you mean?"
"No no. Well, sure. But even... say, twenty."
"You're afraid of living for twenty more years?"
"Seems like quite a haul, doesn't it?"
"Eh. I don't mind."
"What am I supposed to do, for twenty years? I mean it can't be just, this, and more this, and so on and so forth until..."
"Mm. No?"
"Until what! Exactly, what? More? Or, "Something else," you might insist, which is really just another way of saying more! Until what, then, exactly! What?"
"Die I guess?"
"Right. And then where are we?"
"You're getting a bit metaphysical on m-"
"No no. I mean, it ends up. Being this, and nothing else. Just this."
"You aren't afraid then. Of life."
"Lacking foresight, they said."
"Foresight, eh?"
"Formidable absence, they said. My most exceptional qualities begin where I go missing."

Lately I've been over conscious of scent. This place always smells like paint, even after these months even after trying garlic domination and candles and flowers and fresh laundry and not so fresh laundry- that paint smell comes back and I wonder what I'm breathing, what's seeping skinwise and curling round cellular. The sun is still mean, petulant, ignoring us, imploring us to notice- distance. Pool hall smells of basement and beer. Is a basement... Work, new paper and desperation in equal volume and varying density. The Kitchen downstairs changing from coffee to lunchmeat, from new fired furnace to fried food as clock ticks out of sync with sun dial- each insisting truth.
You are just models, I say.
Just, they ask:

I modeled once, at the behest of two persuasive Young Artists- hardly proud of my physical form but compelled to prove that I was like them, a Free Spirit(

"When one is young, one venerates and despises without that art of nuances which constitutes the best gain of life, and it is only fair that one has to pay dearly for having assaulted men and things in this manner with Yes and No."

"Later, when the young soul, tortured by all kinds of disappointments, finally turns suspiciously against itself, still hot and wild, even in its suspicion and pangs of conscience- how wroth it is with itself now! how it tears itself to pieces, impatiently! how it takes revenge for its long self-delusion, just as if it had been a deliberate blindness!"

Beyond Good and Evil, Part Two: The Free Spirit
F. Nietzsche

), shameless and not bound so tightly by sex politics, mores, those stressors us enlightened few can't be bothered by... I could only fake it, of course, of course, my neutrality a product of opposing panics- antlers locked in motionless strain.

Are we such delicate machines then, am I so fragile? Or does balance trump material, and do I prove stronger through willingness to yield in all the right places and never in the wrong ones? Can I be spear, net, and caster, can I be the aurochs and autochthon, the whip and the cyclone, the ballast, the sea foam, the paper cut and high brow, the gallery opening, the moray entourage all jellied and mashed, snapshots of hard bodies like liquor bottles begging for lips and secret-promising numb limbed futures, immunity to sharp edges, skin shucked and bone white futures, reed whistling storm watched futures- silhouetted cliffside, curled round the last tree, round the final moon, a pair of us wrapped round each other, round all the World. Us, hemispheres and horizons- mirrorless reflections, each perfected by the others regard, each honed sleek and worn supple round the other's hip, thigh, neck, purse to part to gape to gasp and there!

there, there I have your truth you penitents of the Unclean Sun, you Worldly Men, you whores, masters, sycophants, you half-saints and candy devils, there I have what you profess exclusive rights to springing from my hands in daft symphonic bounty. Put away your gleaming fingerprinted windows, remove your corsets, combat boots, and decorative nooses- join me in the Cave tonight. Let me show you a little fire. Let me remind you-
The storms have no legs
You know, I saw this in a drunken wandering, in a vision. Beneath sweat lodge sheets. Between debauchery and dogma, between gnosis and Maya. Me, playing amanuensis to silent spaces. Me, mumbling in the cold about signs and portents, rolling my eyes wildly at passersby and sundry et ceteras, stopping at street corners for long minutes staring at ice and retreating shadow waiting to see how sunlight might begin to subtly change snow texture- even before obvious melting- some indication of impending phase change.
Watching that terminator slow crawl across the World- nothing more banal, really, than unpunctuated inevitability! You know. Sisyphus had it bad but at least there was some structure for fucks sake at least that rock provided some drama.
But, hey, listen, here we are skipping stones and they just keep going. Ten, twenty, a hundred times skimming that surface tension before fading over horizon. Because
The World is curved away from you in all directions, hiding its vast majority in snake oil. Using shark toothed cold readers like bloody sock puppets to manufacture consent: to sew the arc between lust and complicity, between doubt and sublimity. To make us all recorders of silence and witnesses to nothing.

The World doesn't want you to know that silence lies.
The World doesn't want you to know that you can fill the empty spaces.
The World doesn't want you to know that it is as vulnerable as you are and twice the coward.

I howled into those silences. Frantic, incanting exegesis, eager and clumsy. I heard a reply. I walked through a door.
Fire brained in mason jar and all seams on the outside and all mirrors inside signal ricochet bullet trails regress(regress(regress(regress))) to mist to lungs to blood brain barrier to projector hands, flashlight mouth, death ray stare(schwarzschild eyes: I'm pinned and imploded, worn like a six dimensional parka before the World's torrential hunger) all coy and deviant, all lust and mortar all your thousand fingers like a wetsuit: now writhing, now plucking at lips, now massaging gums, tongue, cheek insides, now wrinkling and white from moisture-

I excel at the slog. The others glance at me sidelong as I glance at them sidelong and they spurn notice as I spurn notice: Aren't we great friends, us strangers, us partners of anonymity. Married to the vastness in between things and so to each other: absently, in ignorance-

Wake up in disbelief. Always in disbelief. This can't be, I think to myself. The curtains and this body, this body... Certainly, there's been a mistake, I say to the mirror. Certainly, we can come to some arrangement, I mumble at my nutritional supplements. But, here I am, doing things, undeniable- as time passes, probabilities grow, and I suppose one must rely on memory to decide these facts, these little pins holding together the cork-board soul-


And I'm holding, this, tightly. Not, too... but just. And I'm unable to word, or find my descriptions inadequate- or maybe I am just that greedy, and I cradle you like a secret from the World.

Me, the delinquent rosary:
there are strangers in the house
nonbelievers, doubt merchants,
impersonating Odysseus,
losing at poker
drinking their own sweat under
unclean suns
Often in conversation with conspiracy theorists I find myself pondering gross incompetence. We are such clumsy creatures. How can this grand plan of world domination, madly twirl plot fingers, ever come to fruition in light of humanity's ineffable blind spots?

So wet. Street slick metronome a-and dialed just dialed to the wind. So hungry so just orange with lust say, say, over and over to every camera recorded, to each winesour flower and half devoured palimpsest, to the spinning tops left in wake, to micro-psychoses and hip hugging dreams. Dreams. Dreams like night truncheons. Like blood and sawdust. Like a shot of liquid sandpaper.

Remind me. Remind me why we dig. Remind me that we are only pretending to be hedonists in service to some higher calling, that truly, truly we are nobler than this Gorgon Masque-


You travel to some distant future and find only endless fields of statues. An entire globe covered, bristled by stone figures in various poses, modes of dress and undress, in mid rant, coitus, convulsion or torpor. All of them. Wearing your face like a bauble, like the latest fad religion diet outrage.
It makes you wonder.
Maybe you're wearing yours the same way. And maybe
that's why you stand so rooted to the World, among your tragic brothers, and maybe that's why you feign to cry and threaten to wish change upon the World but not on yourself.
We learn to despise our dependencies not for the fact of bondage but for the banality of their shortcomings.

Answer certainty with poetry.

Don't answer poetry, it's not for answering unless you're a technoreptile- backpack mounted semantic blenders, turgid eyerolls and slender anxious tongues heat seeking, titanium coated toenails through wet sand. Words fed through whining blades and separated, letters broken and dismayed at their own disorder. An enzyme isolated from a rare psychoactive plant used by a handful of surviving shaman, secret ingredient sprinkled as benediction. Spice in meaning soup. Blades spin again but rhythm locked to sunspot data and angles derived from hexagrams. Forty two, augmenting. Fifty three, infiltrating. Twenty three, stripping. Twenty three, splitting apart. Twenty three, flaying.

"Six in the fourth place means:
The bed is split up to the skin.

She reached through the sky with arms like the last dawn. Grabbed my face and shattered mountains with a whisper:
"My love," I quake and squirm in her grasp, washed in terror and adoration, "all hate is self hate."
Our creation now carouses through cornfields and bordellos, through canyons and chimneys. Into churches, union gatherings, into our highest offices and most respected boardrooms, in our bedrooms and showers, behind our lovers' eyes and lurking invisibly in our own.

Do we not scream in fear upon beholding it? Or fall to our knees, in love, in adoration, in servitude, like monks, like harlots, like dogs before a holy treat- slavering- openly or guarded behind sharp smiles.

Do we not storm the castle when we're assailed, torch picked orange and frothing, gifted by our creation with righteousness and lust? Do we not lie to our children? Do we not lie to them knowing that those lies will be found out, offering weak consolations to the mirror- "Of course, life is filled with betrayal, better that they find out piecemeal through myth."

Do we not beg for it to return when it abandons us? Do we not pine? Dressing the walls in gaudy models cast from its form. Beating drums stretched with the skin of its siblings. Pressing red stained hands. Writhing in revelation, pressing wet against cool stone, eyes clenched, teeth clenched, lifted by the unseen and pulled away. Open, roar eyes wide at the mark and out at the night and back at the fire in homage to an ancient trinity.

We are still there. All of us, all the time, around that fire. Nothing has changed except the costumes and the the shape of our hands.
society brings madness to every one. It is madness. This is why some of us walk away. Hell, is the other. We burn each other and call it passion. All the wells are poisoned, all the forests black.

But all the houses shine. All the eyes glow. Polish, polish everywhere and nary a shoe to shine. Screens reflected outward. Selves scattered and swimming rich soups of identity and elated remorse. To never be alone again, oh the horror!

I wish Marlon were here. I think he'd understand.
Always on the outside. Observer's eyelids amputated, splayed vitruvian, mystified and vaguely amused.

You wake up and discover that your tongue has been replaced. A tubular beige worm with splayed red cilia encircling a small mouth at the tip darts from molar to soft palate, from bottom lip to salivary gland, exploring its new cage. You gasp and clap hands to lips, bouncing from bed and across hallway to your tidy bathroom. Hunched over the sink you shove fingers into your mouth and quickly snatch them back out with a cry, blood dripping from a small crater in your index fingertip, neatly excised by tiny razor teeth. The worm defends its home viciously. 

At breakfast you sit before a steaming bowl of oatmeal. A pinch of salt, a touch of maple syrup, some fresh blueberries and strawberries. Your stomach rumbles. The worm twitches in anticipation. In one fluid motion you scoop a spoonful towards your mouth, aiming for the back of your throat, trying to guide it past the worm and its swollen, eager appendages. The worm knows your tricks, it coils and writhes, slithers behind molars, caresses uvula, and slurps your oatmeal down its own gullet. Pulsing and rhythmic efforts of pre-digestion move a bulge along your cheek. A soft, wet pop as your swallowing reflex is engaged and you feel something slide down your esophagus.

You're still hungry.
You finish your oatmeal.
You wonder if the worm likes scotch.


Apr. 29th, 2013 09:19 pm
A sour injustice, this, this refined currency of desire. A peach here, lips parted. Some family values, there, ha, and Herr Doktor laughs! I concede, I pay. When did getting what we want begin to lessen us? Wasn't it supposed to be grand, my tigerlily! Weren't we gonna show them. A lusty swollen earlobe, some sin cerae interruptus. 

And so what if we failed. And so what if we suffer and die. And so what if we are judged? Let them revel in their fields of unreachable carrots, let us pretend to be different. Let us deceive ourselves. Let our demon mummers sacrifice us on the altars of the pure, to frantic whispers forever repeating

"Just kidding... Just kidding-ing-ing-ing..."

I would take your hand there, in the temple of the unclean sun, and smudge warm clay in your palm to remind you of roots and how they must sometimes be pulled up mercilessly, leaving no particle or fragment, no mote to betray what was. This, this is why the earth is filled with holes. This is why we break ourselves on each other's shores. This is why I pine for you like breath, and beginnings, and forgetfulness.
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