June 2010: Not less, but more of something else.
Hey you far-off cylinder of gray speed! Why you cut thru the blue/white sky & leave us here below the haze? If we had wings, we’d fly; instead we crawl with aspirations.
Not less, but more of something else.
‘My eyeballs are floating,’ the little boy said as his mother dragged him behind her to the laundromat.
“If the feeling of nostalgia is just an illusion of memory, what are we really longing for?”
So he nibbled at her ear to whisper, ‘Come now darling, let’s go back to my place, turn on the TV, & watch a good episode of nothing in particular.’
This 13-year-old kid on a motorbike hit a dog, got thrown off, and died. I checked his myspace to try to find out some more about him. “Last login: 6/9/2010.” Yes, that’s definitely his last login.
The real fallacy is that there’s something more to look for.
I reserve the right to be inconsistent.
Ah well, all love is excessive.
At first I blushed, but then found my footing.
- I heard a right-wing talk radio fellow laugh at the idea that The Hague was as much the center of the free world as the White House. He had a good time of it, but reading a book, I’ reminded again the Netherlands predate the U.S. by more than a hundred years, and as for freedom, I’d like to see you walk down the street of most anywhere in America smoking a joint & calling the police bloody cunts.
- Mmm, an expansive undertaking to make my gums bleed & teeth fall out. (My tongue splits & drips like an open sore of running pus.)
- No, I mean too much! All my funds are in arrears but I cant bear to put more away. (In her fawning, she’s a deer, but I havent the doe to keep her.) I’m in a rut & want no more than to be near other folks’ rutting.
The masochist begged the sadists to hurt him, so they broke all his fingers, cracked half his ribs & kicked in his teeth for him swallow. The hedonist utilitarian stood by & approved because pleasure was maximized for the majority, and for the same reason he partook in the gangrape.
[@MadDrunkGenius] is lost & rudderless in Marfa, hoping to drift into a some kind of story, or at least close enough to tangle it in my journalistic net.
I flicked the fly, and it fell down but recovered quickly & again took off. (I never caught the stop-motion one that moved during second-ticks as wondering I watched.)
- The red buzz-cut drunk lady in wife-beater & jeans shouts, ‘Son of a bitch!’ & stumbles around outside before going in & slamming her door then repeating it all again. It’s a nice day for it.
- ‘You whupped my ass & made me think I had to take it.’ SLAM. ‘You made me think I deserved it. Godamn it.’ SLAM. ‘You a cowad. You a cowad. FUCK.’ And then the gurgled sobs of teary vomit. (It may rain tonite.)
Ho ho, but the warm liquid of inspiration will massage my innards until they can’t hold no more no more.
The whole trouble with joy is that it’s almost always temporary, but the memory is permanent.
Even brite rainbows fade & darken. (It’s the prism that scatters but our eyes collect.)
I can’t think of a thing to say.