.out for kill.'s Journal|
[Most Recent Entries]
Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in
.out for kill.'s LiveJournal:
[ << Previous 20 ]
[ << Previous 20 ]
|Monday, January 17th, 2011|
Naked again, tonight,
Alone with a typewriter
Balanced on the bathroom sink
Waiting for expectation
To meet acceptance.
|Monday, August 23rd, 2010|
She cries for me,
she who can cry no more
If in the Sunday weather I could see my eyes as I wrote, a few weeks after summer died…. And it doesn’t feel like a season anymore...Its too warm. But not warm. Its too cold. But not cold. What is the blanket here that covers me. I hear the shower faintly running in this hotel room. And I wonder what she looks like. I know what she looks like. Summer girl knows the winter is wrong. And in this morning the fruit of the moment is falling and its not meaning much more than swimming towards the end…we can choose but even in the choosing we have chosen.
I imagine how warm it is…soaked to the skin by summer light or autumn water. I’ll keep trying to find her. I’ll keep holding my flame over her, hands wrapped around shoulders arched and begging, bedside lamp, Lysol can. Half drank water bottle, empty stale scent, riding against truth, ancient paintings faded and cracked, bed soaked, speed and sound, frequency of smoke, warmth in the demonstration, and we fought for our lives at night, to fill the corners, to cast spells on the sheets, to touch and bite, razor bullet light ached from the cracks in the curtains, all the medicine to the head, all the promises burning within, the stories sold to self to knit the missionary of measured regret, making it work, making it quiet, making, making making, always more.
It’s the mystery in knowing better than desire. Getting the best of the other, which is the other getting the best of the other. The wasted light. The information, the judgment cast off of getting, the frequency of being fine. The promise. And all those positions, those carefully crafted lines saying, ‘I think it’ll be ok.’ Oh, forbearance…the decision was made long ago through the mist of knowing better.
It was like being born
in Paris without hope.
City of light.
A city of hills
forgotten & born.
My steel-less and steady spine.
The lady protests. That fucking park. That god forsaken water along the curb. That Pink Floyd graffiti on the corrugated aluminum stutter. If i could write. If I could only only write a story. The air is growing autumn. If i could only write a story. If i could…
Into all of it, Mel comes along. He's a drunk with a dim air and a long history of special education classes. It’s in his eyes and his growing confusion in a procession of shots. The fist time we met he hugged me twice, with in the first five minutes. He only knows how to tell stories with affectation and great intimacy. I could lie and say goodbye to him. But his sweet elephant smile is more welcoming to men than women. All pitiable, he doesn’t know his own neighborhood. A forgetfulness for possessiveness.
"Shut the fuck up!" He didn't ever quite know how to say hello.
He has a series of gestures and salutations he attempts, but he only communicated well with expletive laced exclamations. He is simple in his beauty.
There’s nothing I could have wanted more.
The day does protest. The park is a mess. Keys dangle on my hip.
"Shut my mouth Mel, I shut my mouth and salute you. I will stay away and pretend to sing but you wont hear me. It’s for the ladies"
He likes my roundabout ways of getting to some truths…although I don't think he ever quite understand when I speak. Nor tries to make it better when I decide not to.
He loves her, Kathy. His love…best-friend. He never admits it. She is short. And loud. And Long Island. So very so. She’s a reformed bartender offended by the violence that tequilla wants her to bring.
So tonight, tonight I’m quiet. Closer to them because it’s simple. They don’t bother, so when they remember to, I raise my glass, lower my head and say, “goodnight” and they laugh and go back to forgetting.
|Friday, January 1st, 2010|
|it's two years old
“There isn’t any gold left. There wasn’t much to start with…but there in the hills there’s plenty of dirt. Lord knows we’ve turned over every inch of it…the world is full of it…dirt and stone and dust…we’re out numbered you know…cleanliness is a common courtesy, but we’re never very far from being conquered, never very far from the filth. I should know, I spent my life in those hills…body beneath there, felt the earth slip between the cracks of my skin, course its way through my body, into the blood, to my heart. It’s in me now. And that’s ok, I has to be. But there’s no use going up there, young man, those hills are dead. As dead as they’ve ever been. Nothin’s brining them back. Not you, your hope, your shovel, your dreams. That’s what it is. It has been. I has to be. Investment or not, it’ll stay the way it was when you got here. Some things are, as they say, dead on arrival, oh sure you can try…but some things ain’t never comin’ back.”
He was weathered. He bent his head, with his hands deep in his pickets so his shoulders pinched together and slumped. He spit. “That about does it.” He looked at the young man, swung his leg, kicking a small clump of dirt, and walked away.
|Monday, November 17th, 2008|
“The colors seem too late this year. At this time of night it seems like everything should go sink into the cold and seep into the blank dim grey. But I’m not sure what …how to register this face in the mid-light. It’s cold but unofficial. It’s the symptom of power…and the hidden myth of moon…and the water in me. If only a reflection then it a mystery like me. Does any body love you? Because I could question everyone who says it of me. Need or tide. Some movement in me. I took a trip today up to hell gate…to see how the cyclones move and twist under the currents…how bodies meet and contours in numerous ways. Ripped apart or forced as one, I imagine the water is painfully cold this time of year. More horrible to drown in late autumn, or winter time…neither theory or fact…just an imposition on the daily schema. I could easily imagine the curve of the moon and my lifeless body alon the bottom bumping along by whim of a satellite.
“It’s true…I never thought of a woman or man as deserving more than a momentary splash…to carry on a theme…but now I imagine a passing glance to b too intimate for this time. we’re in the age of collapsed lovers…sheets as sails and drains filled with the remnants of regrets. All those fancy fresh faced lovers licked with liquors on Rivington…I hardly see them beore the enter the blur of aptitudes…of standardized mythos. Again that word. I could love everything…but I’m not a child and I’ve seen the willingness of a day or two, and how to forget. To perform things by halves on a daily basis…how to half the moon and be captain of the isles…painlessly merging our miseries with our lonely rders…and go on to the morning with lust or love or pages of madmen who’ve lived the graphic notions of the reed and the wind. All a life without love…ever more so. A dark little noticed. A day barely conscious. A nose barely filled. A stomach barely fed. A able barely visible. A scratch barely broken. An affliction barely fed. A bite hardly flicked. A cell once sheltered another exposed without detriment. An evening, m’dear, without the symptom and eternally so…a puzzle self aggrandized and reedy and windowless.”
A haze of traffic blurred the scene from the window….water gathered on the windows int e flower gowns of heavy conversation. The city a being in and of…no only war nor survivors. Everyone a soldier, everyone made of ash. Another Indian broke the night with a cauterized song. Pitched and ancient, as all things should, his song broke the fences and eh static. A peace offered to the only son, a drug, a song set sail.
|Monday, September 22nd, 2008|
If only a way to make himself feel something. In the shadow of a city awaiting its inevitable collapse, beauty was sacrificed for urgency…to live, to have nerves fire, to touch, to turn bodies together…but not to feel….there would be time for that later, if ever. On the edge of the precipice there is only the sense of the fall and the steps already traced.
|Sunday, July 27th, 2008|
“It’s those things we start and stop. It’s a sort of impossible task to complete…to push away every sense that says stop and feed from the breast of impulse. What a fantastic viewpoint….or maybe it’s the way the downfall begins, with a slick step on a sidewalk, hardly noticeable from the height of a human head, and yet fraught with danger. That head that cannot notice danger, cracks and splays on the imperceptible details of what’s beneath the foot. Maybe we’re all fools. Maybe we’re all genius.”
“Maybe we’re all blind.”
“Maybe…but it’s certainly easy that way.”
“I don’t reckon ignorance and ease. If Sisyphus doesn’t notice the complexity…the veritable impossibility of his task, does that make it easy?”
“Does it matter to you? Are you that invested in his suffering, or would you prefer to be the stone. The rock that seals his fate?”
“I believe it would be impossible for me to approach anything with such blatant disregard. Do you wish to be the one to turn the face to the darkness…to drown out the grimace and grunt with silly electric songs that cool the summer night with ungodly rhythms? Is that the way to build a saint?”
“There it is. I don’t want to be a saint! I’ve never met someone so diametrically opposed to God, yet so invested in Him. You don’t want to see him, or feel him, or give credit to him, yet you need so very much for him to be pulling the strings, or giving reason. Why must everything have a reason?”
“It seems to me that we’re all playing for a reason. Even if its just a path to death.”
“Reason, purpose…goodness. Who cares. It’s all malleable. We’re on the verge of collapse! Take it in. Take it in and breathe. We’re not great. We’re not brilliant…we’re barely even alive.”
Placing her hands upon the table and twisting towards the dance floor she bounced and swayed through the crowd with a smile so daringly wide that it seemed impossible that she had said anything at all, no less thought or cared about the words she said. Dorian couldn’t help but be impressed by the candor of the night…the way sweat mixed and bodies became one…without thought…perhaps even without purpose.
By three am we wrenched ourselves out of the haze and mystery of the Oil Pit Pub…our ears weakened and rubbed with the echo pulse of punishing music. The summer licked our backs and tore at our knees…that wild heat that doesn’t dissipate but bounces off every piece of pavement, even in the dead of night. Falling along the subway banisters we fell to the support of the beams in the station. He looked squarely at the feet of tussles…his poet drunkard said, “I’ve grown weary with everything indignant. Some simple truths are present on subway beams or side walk grates. I want to lay in the street and call out a name of a person that was a stranger that became endeared and then became again a stranger. Bodies are the order to the game. Some connections are odds and ends to this town…the moats and fire upon the castles of this shore…this island of shadow. It’s a tasty method of wasting away, a crime for the debts taken to hear nipped in the bud and taken to the end. Connecting the dots between the tops. This world where the dogs prey upon the bones and the murderers sweep through the wastebaskets looking for a victim to glorify and anoint with decisive death…a bone to the shining flesh pressed between each of us….a laugh out in the echoes of the avenue…To bring this place to heal….there are ways for cunning eyes and power to unite in the overheard plans of the pulse like that breath before the car arrives to station…before the warmth crushes lungs…sweaty beams for sweaty vertebrae…the blood for the helping …four breaths for fretting the loss of love. four breaths for fearing the loss of life. Four breaths for fearing life in and of itself. Four breaths for fear of the rain that feeds the flower.
“I want to hang dangerously above the glass sheets of air that separate me from the ground, the final place for all things….and I want to be you and I want you into the substance…and I want the structure of every cell to subcontract itself to the demon idiosyncrasy. I want to plummet with the shallowest of whores on the violin streets that hide along the rivers…trash filled oil lamp slick water. Chasing the rooms of beautiful women instead of seeing the star of a slip lip and happy teeth. If I get it wrong that’s because we tried to add numbers to things that deserved no such thing, the days or the weeks or the years or the lovers we’ve had or never had or the beauty marks that collected upon us like stars. All the bodies we’ve buried instead of praising. We could count and count and count and be amazed by the status of, always, ten fingers. Leaving behind the stratus of status we remain so very much impressed with heels firmly planted.”
In that heat the only response to a poet was a swifty, and orderly, “shut off.”
|Saturday, June 14th, 2008|
I am illegitimate in my engagement. I am faithful in demise. I am savage among the imbued. I am the undertow of doubt, facing off against the self for a last breath. One more cry unsatisfied, left peaceful and a child in the night under the messenger moon, a fire sweet in its want of air, enraptured with destiny…encased in the future ash. I am a pedigree apart, unfolded upon the door, open and closed and pathway...a love distributed among the smallest of seeds, miniscule with empiricism. I am the way every dance begins, cautious, unsure of where the song will lead the limbs. I am the center with drawn lines, amorphous and strong, a cardinal sin with ropes for the hanging. I am the way broadway stretches and crosses carelessly against heavy dense avenues. I possess. I contain the strangers of the city, the million massed mobs trudging carelessly – a simple anonymous scrape on the sidewalks…I know you…I know everything you are…to me they are all and I am they. I am that which separates us. I am the frozen frame. I am the auction block trampled by bloodflesh. I am a stage for the denial. I am the voice cynicism, disparate. I am the four points and I am the smooth edge. I am the carpenter and the saint. I am the God whose hand reaches across time. I am sinister and sexual. I am run through and I am blood. I am distance un-availed. I am with all things particle and complied. I am the lost strand of hair confused in the gasping air. I am the sleepless eyelid speeding quickly across the dim eye. I am the plaintive cry along the passages of great poetry. I am hours empty. I am the child of Cain. I am the rose of the lost city.
|Tuesday, May 20th, 2008|
|new story in the works. thus far...
Waters edge, 1924. He emasculated the steam, cursed it as it curled up from the buildings. Just as a stranger has no place, the city has no home. It is the paradise of vagrancy.
He mattered less then, than at any previous moment – imagined or real. He could always stay in the mist of a field, certain of his dreams. Certain of his uncertainty. But now…the city…the towers of Babel before him…the echoes of modernity stretched out above and below his feet, a boldness of human ingenuity…and he couldn’t help but imagine the immensity of decay…the future of dead light…the sleep after death. The running of tubes to the sea and the backward glance of immigrants swallowed by the tide…that was the miracle, the only miracle he could see, even in the bright hope of the metropolis.
“You’re a cynic and a rot mouth.” His sister said to him when he left home the last time. She said it with the absolute love that only a sister can have for her baby brother. “You run to the diamond and the rush. You run to the place that will hold you dearly…delicate…but cast you to the curb without a moment’s grace. I think it’s what you crave…what you need. At least, if it doesn’t kill you.”
He responded with kind gestures of reassurance Promises of common notes of greeting and updates. She didn’t dare imagine he’d follow through, he realized her realization. “you always found ways to be a thousand miles away even when sitting in the next room, it was as if you were a decade withdrawn and in another land. Don’t think you fool us with promise. Be well with yourself and take the care you need to find your breath everyday.”
Part of the miracle was arriving by boat. It was a castle land, the moats of renowned rivers, the limitless trapped by water, a fate controlled by the moon. Hard and curious, without love and divine. The hope of time and the convenience of being blind. He imagined himself a armor plated saint, corrupted by the wasteful years of failed crusades, eyeing a new home and the charlatans within. Through the walls he could send himself, and collapse and forget his wasted efforts and yet disdain the place further such. And he spit on the gravel and cast a penny to the Hudson. “No home beggar, no home”
Even then…feeling cast from the tides he felt revolted. He was. The idea of home an anathema. The scratching for dollars a fools cup….so onward and outward, across the island to settle his head in some hidden room. To sleep. To drink. To find work. To find anything.
“I told the story before. I’ll tell it again, never the same for my failings are ripe. So wind up the streets, collect the sidewalks. Attach yourself to something vital….a wind or circumstance” The old man could tell a yarn. They always began this way. No failures. No hopes. Just a masquerade for the lost.
“Entering the passion for style the night is your tailor, our hero, your most common accomplice, that is what it means here…it is an excuse and a savior. You can cast yourself beyond the walls, you can forget your name, you can taste blood or love. Welcome, son, welcome.”
The young man assumed him some kind of sage, some fearful holy medallion of a man, one that had seen decades pass, had realized the silence of he city before electricity, before the automobile began to carve up it streets. Down town, where he chose to live, in some cheap brothel, a nickel night bed suited him fine…he embraced the prospect of deprivation…filthy knees, hole worn elbows, knife point robberies on Grove…anything to confirm how he gave birth to the world.
“Boy…boy…stop drifting off…you should listen when a man of my stature addresses you. Who speaks from the dimness of the whore traps, you could be a gypsy here….you could be anything boy…but do I always with curiosity…and a drink.” The old man said in the dark hidden bar. “We’re living in Wilson’s shadow now, as if he was a gallant New Jersey hero…we’re lost son, all of us, we’ve gone missing, never to return like lost teeth. The cracks have been revealed, and now we’re patching them with bodies….with song…with silence. So go on…get to bed…this is a new world for you. It’s winter and there’s nothing in the early morning, no pigeon, no dove…just the dying darkness. So go, get to sleep, find judgement…but always one that pays, and we’ll meet again some other time soon…and you’ll buy me a drink. You’ll buy me a drink won’t you?”
“Buy. Me. A. Drink. Some other time.”
“Go, find the night and tilt your collar to the wind. Go.”
The young man put his hat on, pulled his collar up, and twisted through the crowded tables to the cold night.
He trampled home as the dim light began to spread along the east island.
|Monday, May 19th, 2008|
we cannot see disease…unplanned, indescribable, like drowning, but acquired…always acquired invisibly…unnoticed…unkempt and impossible to destroy completely. Across the country there are millions signing deeds, supplanting something for someone, a kiss to a stranger or a clasped hand stretched and draped along a back…so many ways. too many.
he never found a way to fall in love, only ways to dress it up…to hide…to mask…to enlighten…to divide…to introduce…to disclaim…to divide…and breathe.
I’m glad I found her in the mess…a mess herself. In the park, crying to herself in the summer spray of the fountain. Building a nation with her hands, slowly pushing away each tear, as each trained itself down the sidewinder patterns of her smiling face. It’s the way things work sometimes. The psychosis of simplicity and the naive complexity.
Under the glass there is no descriptive term for signing away the person you are, it’s a hand to the sinner, handed out for the given limping. Stand and say “I’ve been cut down, as well, artist or digger…why can anything be so bitter if we turn in the deepest hope or bitterness. Look…hear or feel at the virgin, and the welcoming legs. Into and grown out of the armor. So now we dissolve and so we become…and trade everything for desire or reservation.”
to turn from one to the other, to stare as deeply as the sea, looking only to the hear of the virgin… how the welcoming glances once tempted strangers, and women covered themselves in the armors of a generation .
why trade any image for desire or the happenings of a fool…trading eternity for the impassible…never again to hold someone so close, cutting down the love for the fostered mud extraneously, deeply resentful as the bark to the tree, she steeped herself in mystery as all virgins - real or masquerade – do.
|Friday, May 16th, 2008|
“far beyond that” I said, "you should realize this, if nothing else…I have no poetry left, I have no need for it. I've burned all the books and warmed my hands by the flame. It was more, then, than it had ever been before. Offerings to the flesh. I have no used for words that touch up, that dress, that tidy, that are channels of avoidance. All that dances around, are collapsible and deficient."
i shall grow to love in time. And thus forget the love i held for fruitless years. and when a woman becomes a rhyme or continuing theme, she ceases to be.
|Monday, May 5th, 2008|
|the treasure sought, is rarely the treasure found.
And what am I to you, a storm in the night. A face unlifted from tired pillows, cleansing the air unfurled, unknown…or perhaps a bother. It’s only me at your door. A white noise that falls on curtains, a thin razor air. A music, it might be mine, but I grew it in poison and shine and sometimes the flies gather for the blind. What a bother. What, me worry? If I disappear, close your eyes for the stars and the dark and see me more often in black and white…the colors strangely of night. An overlapping follower… Another fading black widower. Another symposium on light. It’s only a storm dear, rest your worried mind. It’s nothing…,the eves shelter your fears. Bury no arrows or knives….you may wait and see but all the while the ghosts humble their wails in the hurried hallways. They may make you a slim hand, a slight French boom…a blowing unknown soldier. To all your regrets and your wounds, I’ll meet the burdened by the lakeside….only to ask ‘where did you go before you died?’
Extracting loneliness. Tickle. Tickle. Union Square. She held my hand in the cold. Deep holding on. A film and a walk. Cold concrete. Folded hands. Leaning words. Reason and truth subjected. A dream of empty towers. Saluting city. Leave the song. Live foolish. Waiting for the drops, Pulling through cloud and collecting sideways. There’s always so much to write about her. Absent in a life. And if she were to say ‘climb this with me, it’s the hanging tree and it’s time to know something more of sleep,’ I couldn’t lean any more on her. Or on reason or truth. Leaving the demon. So many attempts to be foolish in pretension. And living unlearned.
We are in the galley. And labor, do we, under the knives of extremes. Ungood for everyone. There ain;t an edge to it. Only points scrapping. It cuts like a man. a bride or groom may cauterize a bad dream. Hollow halls.
and in any moment all I can do is anticipate my escape.
the windows stare… and yawn, ‘open up. open up.’
my silver bones jewelry unintentionally pure.
We wore our bedsides out. And that’s how it goes.
Hang the kills on the wall. They will drape and dry and gather, with us, all the dust of the passing eves of a life. How magnetic the prophetic may be. We see ourselves, proud brothers, in the reflections of our mastery…of those things we’ve conquered…and on the walls hang our maps…cartographers of simplicity. And we’ll be forgotten. Terms have gathered and been made to come…we accept our futility. Virgin tears move us not. They stain the pure lips. They dance on shinning cheeks. we nod, and make earth of it.
The streets were empty come that time of night. And we haunted them with close lips. And even though the light wasn’t right. I wasn’t calling to give her anything. not the wars I’d waged, nor the things I’d saved from sinking. And I wonder in the evening when the tide recedes what things I missed… knowing when the sea had capsized itself. And I wonder where she is sometimes. That promise keeper. That Novocain woman. The one that makes the years pass by with out sense or senseless. A laugh into the grave, a dance into the deeper nights. But in thinking there is only thinking, and thinking is only worth the result. And if the result is nothing, then I am laid out on the rocks with my liver prepared for the feast. and if the accident comes to me, by accident. I am explosion. I wonder if she even knows that she holds the treasure. It could be midnight and I could be full of lies upon the tongue. A vague memory of some flash as we pass on the streets. I could be there. Or I could be somewhere anywhere…holding with demons no solutions. To the songs I listen. To the words I engage. To the temples I pass. To the mountains I sit. To the lakes I imagine… the drowning anticipate.
|Tuesday, April 15th, 2008|
in the middle of the street there are no names...no shovels for gold or prayers for knees to beg. darlings left their posts. on the eves the halos dangle, for the saints and angels have found god. and the time’s taken place. along a long road.
|Tuesday, March 18th, 2008|
you wilderness self, you lost collections of stars!
|Monday, March 3rd, 2008|
|incomplete letter depot.
I consider it such a flaw, this push and pull…the question of being and purpose. I'm reminded of your home from time to time when I see the poster for A Tree Grows in Brooklyn…how the bridge aches for attention in the background…how it reminds me of myself…my home and the barricades. Steel and stone and compulsive wires – transmogrification – transnational possession. What will happen if you run away? To A*****? To your new Texas home… "wings for wheels' and the sainthood of the highway light. I wonder occasionally, what the purpose of salvation is…the point of escape because discomfort is so very often a previous comfort evolved from lassitude. How easily I've created monsters, my hunters…collective action demons willingly causing corrosion. I could trade it all for quicksand…for falling and know less or little more.
And I don't consider much anymore…perhaps my wonder, or amaze at exhaustion. I began this some time ago…and upon returning to it…I have nothing to say. I appreciate your new found purpose…your considerable joy. I find myself for that matter puzzled by my lack. I don't know anymore…devoid of water for so long the desert forgets elf in the world. If I could do anything but feel I would live in letters – retelling my confessions, pouring down stories for vague interest…and question…question…question…always the persisting beating question.
Always more…I have this boy in my class…clean cut, effectual, effete, beautiful, gleaming…and out of place. He is a homosexual in a world of privilege…a designer by future trade. I see it in him…one day he'll go to the city to find his freedom. And be destroyed by it. Like the others. Those endless trails of dreamer who lost themselves in the ominous empire New York. In that place the tragedy of the age is held as a looking glass…and in the tragedy of the age, what choice is there but to throw ourselves to lovers or to cast ourselves to the wilderness? King flesh or imperial night. And in the distant throes of pleasure of the distinguished space he she I become diversions…antithesis…the removed…away from the cautious creeping and straight into the void. And even if he imagined himself, this boy, at Babylon's gate, half awake, sometime before down…the glimmer of the gardens dripping in the pastel morning, there would remain the last struggling stars, the tripping coughing wind, and the drifting dreams. The looming destruction, the Damocletian blade above the starving feast…and even at the gates of a temporary paradise there remains the episodic hope of salvation. So I imagine him there…awaiting the promise, losing sight, and laying wounded.
|Sunday, February 10th, 2008|
She told me how to walk. “This is how you walk.” Flashed arms and faster paced. She didn’t distinguish between facts and sidewalk cracks. She thought Beethoven was overdrawn and Bach over blown. Fantastic and proud, her glasses hid the rings beneath her eyes. There was a safety in her pleasure. “You don’t smile enough. And you take your time. your patience kills possibility, and decays the sense of longing.” She didn’t have time for rewards. Voices of reliability. Rumors of sainthood and virtue in Virginia. Trembling silver. Cautious surrender with razor back spine knobs. Contemptible flesh, beside her. She found no difference between men and broken bones…all opportunities to pardon or teach distance. A star beyond order. Untidy nudity unmasked.
|Sunday, January 20th, 2008|
I think it’s often said best by those who don’t even try…those unconscious breathers, the imperial thoughtless geniuses. I heard something this morning that struck me so…”to her death is quite romantic she wears an Iron vest, her professions her religion her sin is lifelessness.” I am marred…I am troubled. I see my romance…I see my religion. I’ve seen how quickly faith becomes blindness and how dull footsteps can become because the months shrink and shape little more than the distance of dreams. I’ve seen the city change and I’ve seen the dirt dry up and chase itself to the sewer. I’ve seen the words run the same. It’s the surrender that strikes me odd perhaps. How easy it becomes to fold up into duty, into deadlines, into the fears of Molochs of our own making…how simple it is to construct the chains of our bondage. I don’t know if I’ve beer given myself the opportunity to be born…suffrage of the simpleton. Salvation for the unworthy. Constance for the inconsistent. Impurity for the virtuoso. I’m not sure what any of this means to you…I don’t know what it says for me.
I saw you two days ago at the library. There is a sense of grandeur there…even the silence is enormous…each creaking chair a signal over the air. I imagined myself there at night…in that cool calm quiet forgotten rooms of a certain size acquire. There is nothing better than to be alone in the dark in a forgotten room. So I imagined myself there or in the Doge’s Palace or in the forum before the fall…what do these rooms…these places say about us…what response is there? How impure I feel in those rooms of perfect quiet…Emerson felt that in nature “I become a transparent eyeball” he said about it. I transport as well but to the negative, I do not become a part of everything, I feel as though I disassemble…I become the light in the darkness, the limit in all struggles, I cease to be connected, and through my destruction, through my collapse, I am free.
But…always rebellion…against flesh, against face, against tides that push us every which way. Is this our cause? Our innat revolution…when our parents called four and made peace…but show the power of the stree, were weleft with thse crumbs? Where our rebeelion is the repulsion of the self? Filling our selves with pale liquours and false idols? TO judge our aims by what we do not eat? The rebels of lack of rebellion? We stand united against ourselves…sacrificing genius, decapitating beauty, inhaling the poison and calling it free. I am of this. Do you think you are too? How did we so easily give in? Not you and I…all of us? I can’t imagine many reasons, or see much avenue for escape but do you think it has anything to do with chasing our child? That we cant succeed like the promise so we do what we can to run away…shuttle into bars, or books, or any other and creative successions of our souls. Help may be the easily word to squeeze through teeth. Prayers. Solutions. Diatribe.
This is a diatribe about nothing anyway. So on…and so on.
There is little excuse for what I do…tossing aside full meals, burying a gun fully loaded, subsiding when eyes burn with tears. I have little and never ask for permission or for more…such is the pity of stubbornness. I don’t think there is any survive left in me to preserve…to give and give…I’ve reached the point of exhaustion…points blackened and dulled, senses corroded…a place grown moldy from unconsciousness. How does the dance dare be made if there is no place for the song to sing, no mouth to lead the way. I’ve said so many times that I’m moving out…that I’d tackle fate and find destiny on the periscopes of the American arches. I’ve realized that it is just a fantasy, a dream…its in my dreams that I really live and my dreams have sold me out…like a mystery sold for pennies on the street corner of Washington Square. A mix of dreams there to lay and the feet so coldly driven like roots in the ground. Slave to empiricism. Let me know something ...a dream to confound…to get me through. I drink so much without a drop…I suppose then that we all have our means of drowning away the daemons. But I’ve driven things away that will not come back…and I need them so. I, lunatic, I. eye for an eye every time. How could I ride off into the sun? Tied by all the young times? I cannot remember my last happy time. I don know if I care…I know only that I, fool, I.
But here’s an idea, I cannot bring myself to believe in karma as a force but I sense it more and more as I age. I’ve reaped what I’ve some…done damage in love and received it in quick k return. I hate 2007 and wish it to be on the wind, taken to the sea to be drowned, to dissipate lowly in the brine. But here I suppose alas all the confession I make to myself. I don’t dream of wife and family…I long for love but dream of a lonely life among the trees. I say that I wan what I cannot have…I long the impossible…I embrace the trap and only ever ensnare. And I wonder who Abraham felt at the presence of the flame…ho w it feels to embrace the nature o impossibility…to raise one’s and with the blade…to cut off the soul, to put off the sound. To set aside the most basic element of self. I used to see Job as brother, no he is just a man how rises in my memory. How much can a man (person) take? As much as he wills himself to…we are the devils of our own creation…the daemons that we see on the horizon. How painful and pitiful to case oneself to the flame. Just a thought.
What is this I am writing and why to you? Perhaps because you were once willing to undertake this old fashioned enterprise, which honestly, we are both too busy for…but maybe that’s the point…the purpose…to take time to pause, to shroud the surroundings and escape to the word. And I admit my flaws in this, my lack of focus, lack of clarity, and that I am writing one paragraph at a time, sometimes hour or days apart. Such is this thing we do. I wrote it by hand because I could. Because the only time I have the idea to write is when I cannot…or dare I say, should not. Now I am waiting for the rain in the library…. to much work to even care…so I write and wait for the rain and the right time to go start playing Christmas music and dreaming of the warm smells of home. I don’t have a home and I miss home more than any thing. I feel I love a hotel life a place that sleeps too much (cut off…)…. … … …
I like the idea of a kite and what Cohen said about it…neither master nor servant, but perfectly human at the same time, serving the wind as if at liberty but subtly tied to bondage. Confessionals of the air. I listened to a song today and reached the conclusion that the singer had to be a Catholic, because only a catholic can constantly display the wounds of betrayal but hold the mirror and reach such lofty and grandiose means of self-immolation. I take heed that so many of my brethren operate with such closed hearts. The days are years, and that’s how it goes. However that may be.
I suppose you and I are custodians of our cares and fears. Emotional losers…I very much so…robotic as I may be I suppose is rooted in fear. A significant source of Christ-like favors, I hope for everyone except myself. I, as much as I think it will come out poorly…and translate even worse, declare my fear of you. I don’t know the root (or perhaps I keep it withheld?), but I love so much to be in the shadow of your contentment’s and indeed and beyond honored to be within your graces. But why fear? Why ever so much do I feel a sense of distaste…that I am bidding time until eminent collapse? Suture the heart and amputate the arm. The heart shall wear no one. No vigorous sleeve. But you are beautiful and even more so the simpler it is. I appreciated the time we laid on your floor with songs and alcohol to heal wounds…how we viewed ceiling beams as stars – simple because they were possible…if we were in another time (I imagined us) we’d have been in convertibles on some over look somewhere. I loved you for your sadness – for your love how you couldn’t see the way your bad fortune could not be worthy of your tears. I loved your hips and how they sang pressed against mine. How I wanted so much not to kiss you because I did not want to catch sadness. How I wanted so much to kiss you because you were beautiful in red. You wore my hat and drank your beer and I played sad songs that brought you near. Don’t think twice it’s all right. And you asked me to stay and I knew against everything that I should flee. For your sake…or mine? I’ll never know, but it does cross my mind. We listened to Only in Dreams and you held my hand and collected to kiss me so very softly. I knew enough to come to terms with meaning, you and hands and my epistemological futility.
Here I am perhaps on my third week of this letter. I was thinking o of this letter on the way to work and the journey, I’ve been on since I started it and wondering where I’ll be when I’m done. I also realized that this is less a letter than a confessional. Is it so very Roman Catholic of me to hold until I burst in waves of contrition? I wonder where God is…where that safety has gone…I think He’s hiding with my sense of home, my sense of reason. I read about sleep and the animal mind…how ducks rest one hemisphere of their brain at a time, that they can close one eye and be very much half asleep. Now this article goes on to discus our human brains at rest, who we sleep poorly in new places because our animal past comes up and yells “potential danger.” So we do not sink as deeply into rest. I think this explains my exhaustion, my constant, unceasing exhaustion. I can sleep for endless hours and not once feel rested. I have no home. I don’t know the warmth of places and only realize the stillness of my temporary places. I am wholly scientific in these estimations. I do know even know if I would know home if I found it again. Home I think is a place that speaks to you as much as you speak to it…that shapes and implies and gestures to you…tells you before you realize that the seasons are changing, is warm when it needs to e and cold or removed as the mood shifts. And where is God? Where am I? Where are you? And why does everything seem as if it sit retreating – drawing back as the tide – why is everything so god damn distant? Everything is so…far…away. And how do you get it back? I suppose that is the essential question at our age. Alone and twenty-eight. So far to go. So far gone.
Do you think one can be taught how to feel? I think that’s what happens at a certain stage…the arrows point to a proper response. Well I for one want to retreat I was never taught that…my father is a stoic. Irish and proud. I am as well. I think of your street some times…the bridge erupting in the distance like some Parthenon of modernism…and those pretty faces all over the street, I remember when the city was ugly – so strange and mysterious…when that left me (and I don’t know when) I lost my sense of wonder and mystery. Do you get that sense? Is that the reason why Texas is calling you? How quickly that moment will come (if it does) when you and I will be stories told to others, retold over and over, ever changing as the years go by until we are but cellular moments in the mind. Long years grown cold and outstretched aching history. Those boys and girls we’ve kissed, those hours spent idly or wildly twisting away time – because there was a moment when the immensity of time was inconceivable – and yet as it shrinks, as all things do, what remains is the stillness in our minds…the epic trudging of an individual life and all the beautiful and sad people we have had the good fortune to know or love or fight or fuck …or something else. Where will we stand in the other’s mind?
But just now I saw high school lovers…and thought, without any plan or vision, ‘what is the point of it if it does not stay. This is impermanent and flawed by design.’ But I was taken aback by the through. Am I so a man divined with control that I would withdraw from, and shun, impermanence. What good does it serve, but to stimulate m lioness…I horizon gazer…I petrified, I. light and lack. I, imperial, I. I shun. I lightning fire. I night. So what are we to do with stasis? We pitiful feeble humans. Stalls in motion, constant motion. It’s all so sickening and beautiful – the revolt against time, against self, against meaning. I am ok wit it. I evolution. I have so little to say.
It’s closing on the holidays, the miracle of Thanksgiving being so close has been revealed. What peace these times offer anticipation as the last leaves of the year cling to empty branches and the warmth of ovens and sweet smells…but it’s the same outside. That river that divides the hop and the highways that pry dreams from the heart. The winter is the signpost of warmth…a thing o always journey from, like everyman tonight. But I try. And I love suspension, the mid-air delight and the metallic city light and in the snow we can wait for the avalanche…the temptation of suffocation, to lay with the cold. But always remains.
I’ve written more than what needed to be said…if anything indeed was. I grotesque. I verbosity. It took three weeks…too many. I impatient. I hope this letter finds you well. Greet always, with kindness, your wounds and needs.