Sunday, May 29, 2005

Longer harder better prettier love... the phone call.

We were draining planters punch with ice
chipped from the permafrost freezer as the phone rang
he checked the caller ID his girlfriend asking if he
was going to be home needed a ride somewhere
you said you might take me
yea but ...
So he’s stuck, you see...
Because if he leaves to drive her
because she’s too afraid to drive herself
he’ll resent it, and she’ll resent it, knowing ‘
he’s left his life to serve her, severing the moments
which make him himself. However, it’s the romantic thing to do
and he’s not taking the bait of built in bullying or guilt,
so she resents him, because if he really loved her, he’d want to drop
whatever he’s doing, and safely ferry her somewhere she’s
too irrationally afraid to
take her self.
He’s in the unfortunate position
of letting her down no matter what he does
so he tells her that and lets her down, by not staying
silent about the messy aspects of relationships she’s rather
didn’t portray themselves to poignancy
in their love nest.
He hangs up the phone
Shit! No wonder I’m so fucked up!
I lump his back with my fist ... heckling the mess.
Ook/I’m with you. They pass it on to the kids; our mothers gave it to us,
and we’ll in turn ... [Welcome to the insidious circles fathers play to the
misogyny which bred the deeper disillusionments you’re fresh from.]
Yea. It’s a bummer man. Makes me want to go live in a cave.
She sets herself up for failure reading ads
in brazenly glossy magazines
and then blames me.
I don’t know. She’s blaming herself too
for not being ‘perfect’. You’re just taking the subsidiary heat
of her internal war. What girl doesn’t want to look like the models
be a super partner parent you name it
know a lot, and be an angel?
You’re the towel of her frustration
a perspiration mop
for a flawed world.
That’s just great
he exclaimed.
It makes me want to drink more.

He made me reflect on the process of being understood. When the primary desire to couple is met, the subculture of problems within, which may have spurred it, are gremlins looking for strings to pull. The buttons they push lack descriptive focus, and attach themselves to happiness or sorrow. I consider how fleeting contentment and quietude can be; we struggle for global templates of what is newly amiss, then shift allegiance to their banners. No longer is going together enough; now we need to be married. Next we’ll need kids. That car lacks power. I need a V-8. I need headers. I need ... the faster computer. The ski boat. The blond. The stoniest bud. All along, underneath, sprites and gremlins toss our insecurities around; the vertigo which ensures poses problems we’ll grasp to, to Soviet Union ourselves into comrades slogans can stick to, to pass on.

I have to decide if it’s worth it
to tell her things ... when I know the processing of them
will take entire days. Misery and wasted time result
from highlighting her insecurities.
I wallow in the excursions from the present
which seem to be a direct result of honesty.
I hear you.
She’s mad she’s dependent on you
and has to ask. She wants you to know
she needs a ride, and show your need to
take care of her, which makes her made of something
less than she is, which she’s highly dedicated to hiding
but likewise resents, and of all people, she doesn’t want you to think
she’s weak or incapable, yet, who else would she show her insecurity
and fragile times to ... in fact, she demands her space to do
just that. How can she be with a man who won’t
let her cry to the subtle tune
of no reason?
she hates the fact she’s dependent
yet she loves it. If she transported herself
she would seek another edge to bleed on.
Without fights, free of tension;
[the gremlins emerge
to call her out
of her cave.]
Can’t have

Saturday, May 28, 2005

40 love-lost knights

Your relationship with the fact
piranhas are cowardly and freakish alone, stressed to the point their skin changes color, highlights the fat of the businessperson, showing their narcissistic insecurity through power derived from others. Ceilings are floors; parades are funerary processions; pillars of community are thieves and criminals illuminating tokens, and owners of SUVs are flocking to illegal horns which deafen pedestrians. Who cares, with a noise-canceling interior? Ego drives the road we struggle to navigate, aware we’re technically nothing. I wish I believed the universe existed for us to conquer, mine, and destroy. It would be much easier to murder those who blundered into the rifle sight of that particular aim. I’d like to duct tape the offending owners’ heads against their high priced sirens luring the best part of themselves, from their higher purpose on earth. Gangs protect those who are lost, add nationalism in the face of world terror to the scene of Catholics burning witches alive, afeard of the power a single person could muster, if they strayed from the herd banding together for sanity. Excuse me for taking a saint’s name in vain, but Jesus Christ! When will the hollow men in power fall to the people’s shine for reason, and truth? We magnify deceit, by converting to it, in-between a few sad rallies for virtue. I tell myself not to be terrorized by my imminent failure in whatever I passionately undertake, but increasing our faith is hard,
without books to tell us how-to,
or what not to do.

He was
a latent honorary homosexual,
unfulfilled by the ususal fantasies most half-ways inhabit. His friends courted their internal dramas like prospectors scratching Nevada mountains for precious metals, setting up shop with (surgically altered) hermaphrodite dykes, and waiting for the meteor to hit, or the ground to rend, crawling charred and smoking to the next (human) disaster zone. We guarded the ‘perfect drunk’ as my borrowed brother called it, without formal apology whenever these wrecking balls came around, whining their little worlds to entire universes. A rampant, chomping cigar-fest of (utterly) bohemian types ferried us on an Arabian carpet of incense smoke to

Running from
the earthly marathon lends itself
to stumbling across its course, and completing it unwinningly. The greater undermine becomes the surface sinkhole in time, filling with rain and stagnating. Finer examples of change are unseen or heard, for being so subtly present observing the holes, from the ravage of gravity,
or the explosives they sought
to contain.

About This Posting ... Please read.

To the curious...
Feel Free to use these bits of nervous novels to be ... they are completely off the curriculum, non sequential, unedited, unreadthrough, spur of the typewriter and potently poorly stepped with mainstream society. They exist as small bites of barely expressed reality, and are completely based in true events, personal experiences, people, times, joys and catastrophes. Eventually, I read and rewire what you see here into avante garde whatevers to depo them at the site : which is brimming with abstruse and nearly incomprehensible works, but Finnigans Wake and all, what the hell. Draw from there too.
You may reassemble what you discover in any way you wish, make a novel yourself, a chapbook, a slam, add illustrations, etc. but credit me as the distance and send your precognition to so I can enjoy your take on infinity.
After all, co-conspiracy is more fun.