when your mother hangs up on you when the house is too quiet when the poets you know become poets who feel words like genital mutilation and take time distracted to recover when empaths become more than an idea and become your literary intimate:: when you fall asleep to thrillers and mysteries because their fact calms you into the normalcy of fear, the approaching terror just around the riverbend, living not a revised laugh track but a river full of grief and apprehension and time hauntings. by which I mean time doing the haunting. the Canal and the Babadook and always a murder hiding behind the walls or a pair of eyes lulling a little boy to suicide. do the films cheapen the idea or show us the money of what they’re worth, how it happens. grizzly state of this quiet bar. Henry’s and the painted woman’s face keeps me enclosed in Nostalgia. no terrestrial sense of time or day: i could be ordered around an L train. I could be a carrier of a new name for you, stranger, and the darker times we are in the more intense the fantasy. more intense the escape or giving up. the other afternoon poets talking about dead dream years and me sitting trying to remember a big goal era: feeling like I've been resigned to working odd jobs and doing love poetry on the side as a fate most people are aligned to. stroking myself into comparisons of Ginsberg or Di Prima. because of all of us at one point sitting in cafes or bars speaking unexpectedly deeply on time and other selves and the nature of a trees consciousness: getting high without a substance besides coffee or sugared pastries or dried mango/dried figs. feelin unable to enjoy any act unless I can tell folks about it: feeling this as a consequence of socially infected media until I’m reading Machen and finding the paragraphs on forest walking and pipe smoking and friend communions the most enjoyable. finding it in myself that the ideas and the images I can create are little nooks for me to live in when shit gets too bad (by which I mean dull) - when the monotonous skepticism and sometimes science and always close minded predators try to remove the colors of a mystery so it’s back to a grey explanation and exploration of circumstance and statistics. also though the greys roll towards me in this bidding for unsettlement and unterresterialdom. letting the house of merciful dissolution soak in its own unanswered inquiry.
A mixture of darks & lights in a cold wash cycle. True stories and true stories posing as fiction. Hope they don't bleed together and then shrink.
Wednesday, April 22, 2015
april gloom ruminations
when your mother hangs up on you when the house is too quiet when the poets you know become poets who feel words like genital mutilation and take time distracted to recover when empaths become more than an idea and become your literary intimate:: when you fall asleep to thrillers and mysteries because their fact calms you into the normalcy of fear, the approaching terror just around the riverbend, living not a revised laugh track but a river full of grief and apprehension and time hauntings. by which I mean time doing the haunting. the Canal and the Babadook and always a murder hiding behind the walls or a pair of eyes lulling a little boy to suicide. do the films cheapen the idea or show us the money of what they’re worth, how it happens. grizzly state of this quiet bar. Henry’s and the painted woman’s face keeps me enclosed in Nostalgia. no terrestrial sense of time or day: i could be ordered around an L train. I could be a carrier of a new name for you, stranger, and the darker times we are in the more intense the fantasy. more intense the escape or giving up. the other afternoon poets talking about dead dream years and me sitting trying to remember a big goal era: feeling like I've been resigned to working odd jobs and doing love poetry on the side as a fate most people are aligned to. stroking myself into comparisons of Ginsberg or Di Prima. because of all of us at one point sitting in cafes or bars speaking unexpectedly deeply on time and other selves and the nature of a trees consciousness: getting high without a substance besides coffee or sugared pastries or dried mango/dried figs. feelin unable to enjoy any act unless I can tell folks about it: feeling this as a consequence of socially infected media until I’m reading Machen and finding the paragraphs on forest walking and pipe smoking and friend communions the most enjoyable. finding it in myself that the ideas and the images I can create are little nooks for me to live in when shit gets too bad (by which I mean dull) - when the monotonous skepticism and sometimes science and always close minded predators try to remove the colors of a mystery so it’s back to a grey explanation and exploration of circumstance and statistics. also though the greys roll towards me in this bidding for unsettlement and unterresterialdom. letting the house of merciful dissolution soak in its own unanswered inquiry.
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