Saturday, September 5, 2009
there is a certain perverse beauty within the slow strangling desiccation that ever accompanies the whistling rhythms arranging and rearranging themselves so resolutely inside midnight's blinking posture. just beyond the frigid air forcing itself upon the starlight, there is warmth. it is beneath my corduroy blankets. i will meet you there.
Monday, August 31, 2009
don't listen too loud. there aren't many safe sounds around here. you're clearly a person of great distinction. i wouldn't want you to wind up in a situation you couldn't read according to familiar maps. things here are not what you used to be used to. it will take some adjusting. now the first thing is, you have to focus, concentrate real hard, you have to remember dying. you have to remember your own death. otherwise you won't believe. see we've all done it. but it's such a shock that most of us don't remember it. memory loss is known to accompany severe trauma. until you remember you won't be able to see the way the sky looks like a marching band. you won't get to hear the way the flowers sing like lounge singers. you won't be able to feel the riotous orgasm that lives inside music. the thing about death that nobody realizes while they are still alive, the thing about death is, it is the railroad to god. and i don't mean god as the living have conceived of god, i mean god as god actually is, ineffable, indefinable, the very limit, boundary, end of any language's ability to know, to articulate, to encompass. see, you wind up here, and once you are dead, there is no need to talk, because understanding, knowing, pervades everything. you have endless time to explore the intricacies of the world you never even glimpsed while you were living in it. i have spent years just watching dust settle. a century watching a sleeping woman breathe. ten thousand years inside the wind. do you understand how many different faces there are to a single leaf, a single blade of grass, a single drop of water? no, of course you don't. but you will.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
The rhythming of my lungs bellowing a slow motion projection on the inside of my chest, the tracings of silver on the edges of my heart, my arteries weeping helpless and lost. We are stuck here. Stuck between living and dying. With no instructions, and no test to tell which voices to listen to. The city an orgy of tangibles in an ocean of invisible. Our prayers find themselves caught in the brambles of each other's anger. We wade through floods of cash, useless, an absurd facade, liquid power. The burning cities are the last kiss between two people who are not special, who have no clear future, who are strung out on their own ambitions, who dream in black and white, and never question the ways in which this cultural violence is carried out. It is a mutual suicide. A lack of imagination. It is death by neglect. Dead flowers. It is done.
tell your dreams to me. i want to know the way sleep enfolds you. i can see you sleep-eyed and slurring beneath the summer sheets, your smile a blessing in some unfamiliar language, your body a dream the flowers have forgotten. i would like a bouquet of you to decorate my rooms, that all my days might hold beauty.