Posted by mister narcissistic on 12/27/2006, 8:50 am it’s not for everyone—but then what is. no, i want to hear scene 54 i feel like somebody’s there. even when i’m alone. like scene 55 i can’t see why they all need to be pointing in the same scene 56 i’m not sure what page, or even what chapter, but my black it came apart. it was bound to happen sooner or later. nothing i can’t see it myself. you can point until your finger falls it was juggling skulls—three, sometimes four at a time.
65.167.39.191
scene 53
your opinion. you won’t hurt my feelings. you think so?
well, i hate to explain because i think it takes away more than
it brings—but i was trying to do that. i was experimenting
with a new idea. ok—it doesn’t work for you. that’s cool.
but you do understand what i was trying to do, don’t you?
i don’t think i can make it any clearer. i didn’t say you were
stupid. i like to read. so what? it wouldn’t hurt if you pried
yourself away from the tv & read a book yourself once in
awhile. watching tv together isn’t spending time together.
i didn’t say your comments weren’t valid. i’m not arguing
that point. i’m talking about something else. something
completely different. i think a lot of people would appreciate
it. i’m not a snob. yeah, maybe i should go out & find
someone who understands this shit.
they’re standing behind me, looking over my shoulder,
reading every word. i’ve tried that. i realize that no one
can hurt me now. i’m physically larger than all of them.
i don’t care what they think. i know they’ll probably
never see it. i’m sure they could care less. maybe i’m
explaining it wrong. i don’t turn around to see who’s there.
it’s a feeling. but that doesn’t make it any less real does
it? i can’t say for certain how much it effects the work.
it’s hard to gauge. it doesn’t really keep me from writing,
but i have trouble finishing anything. i appreciate art that’s
ambiguous. that’s open-ended. that everyone can bring away
something different. but sometimes i want to be a bit more
linear, a little more concrete, to the point. what kind of car
did they just say left its lights on?
direction. i don’t see anything unhealthy about it. unhealthy
in what way—you mean psychologically right? things don’t
all slide in the same direction like the world’s titled that way.
they don’t stand in straight lines either. because it’s unnatural.
i don’t want it to look as if i’ve worried about every single
inch of it. if you want that, i’d have to draw balloons over
all their heads. i’d have to fill them with words, mostly
italics. because it felt like flowers. it smelled like the sun
on skin. it reminded me how far outside of everything i am.
because that’s how we think—in fragments. how often
do you think in complete sentences? think about it. or
speak in them for that matter. so why does it have to be
that way here. but it is the same. it’s not like graffiti. it’s
not missing a punch line. it’s not like tv guide for god’s sake.
it doesn’t advertise—it implies. it’s not like the epistles of
paul. that’s exactly what i’m trying to stay away from. i have
no desire to turn anyone around to my way of thinking.
book compares heaven to a mansion with many rooms. but
my mind is like a tarpaper shack wrapped in a stale burrito.
i struggle to catch my breath with a short jaunt downtown.
& nobody knows for certain how many rungs are on the ladder.
probably too many to count. so can you understand my
hesitance in connection with taking on such a task. it has
less to do with what i believe, & more about being realistic
concerning my limitations. all the clever slogans & sound bites,
& the advertising saturation isn’t going to move any of it
an inch closer. do you honestly think that filling the plate
or stuffing the ballot box will light up any of your lines.
whether they were pure muse stapled or cribbed from glossy,
perfect bound politeness. it isn’t it all for show anyway? i
mean, take a look at those portraits. if they’d have smeared
on any more vaseline they could have passed for real people.
scene 57
is forever. nope. not even that. you can try clay & hidden vows.
you can try bent nails & spiked morphine. you can try french
kisses & wild rivers. it came apart. i’m not sure when. one
day it was fine—at least it seemed ok to me, & the next day,
there it was, unraveled into a hundred pages of goodbyes.
there were no dead bluebirds at the scene or stale perfume.
that would have stunk of a setup. there were a few crows
picking at it until they saw me coming. it reminded me of
ammonia. like it had just been disinfected. it came apart. i can’t
be certain. but i’d guess no more than eight hours. that’s on my
time table though. keep that under consideration. a derailed
train that spilled out dozens of coffins. the labels didn’t matter.
not in all that wreckage. there was nothing for the shadows to
steal. everything was gone before they got there. i’m sorry.
i don’t know what else to say. it came apart.
scene 58
off. you can repeat it until the reel breaks. aren’t mysteries
usually gray, sometimes with a bluish tint. i suppose red
if it got violent or was a religious statement. if i have to
consult the glossary i doubt i’d understand anyway. the
way you describe the conversation seems to lack any
culture. that’s not an indictment against your lexicon.
you’re only telling me what you heard. i think i can trace
a passable frame, but i can’t push any portraits forward.
it reminds me of sunken treasure. or something that wants
to stay hidden. i can see why. but what good is a show of
sympathy if you’re going to follow it with a selfish insistence
that they make at least a token appearance. moses saw
the burning bush & ezekiel saw the wheel, but i saw red-hot
brake drums glowing like accidents. i’m only telling you
this so you you’ll understand there’s nothing wrong with
my vision. i’d appreciate it if it stayed between us. i don’t
need pegged any more. i have trouble turning my head as
it is.
scene 59
the words were fragments, elliptical in nature. the music
wheezed like a calliope on its last legs in a hailstorm.
the crowd was mesmerized. i didn’t see a single soul
leave during the performance. that’s pretty impressive
considering all the prior controversy. you would think
somebody would have stomped out or spoken up. i had
to keep clearing my throat. it tasted like grapefruit &
children’s aspirin mixed with kerosene. i had to make
a conscious effort to swallow. i had to remind myself to
breathe. after it was over i heard someone say that all
that was missing were more stars & a better explanation.
i saw too many stars to sand down to numbers spinning
themselves into ash. & why an explanation? any attempt
wouldn’t do it justice. but the press is always looking for
an angle. my hands felt like bone-dry sponges. i kept
them deep in my pockets. it wasn’t self-conscious. i don’t
think there was any body language involved. i was speechless.
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