Posted by marko on 1/2/2007, 8:28 am the angel circles until it gets caught in the branches. then it scene 93 the words aren’t worth a dime i’m reminded. i have yet i’ll leave my coat on awhile until i start to warm up. my scene 95 it’s scratched inside my skull like impulsive art. i scene 96 a sacrificial lamb dressed for the occasion clenches it’s an irrelevant motivational tool is pounded into a
65.167.39.248
scene 92
sings out. it professes undying love. it would never cry for
help. that isn’t its style. or it’s an unspoken rule of conduct.
but no one knows what or where the guidelines are. only
the angel is allowed. it would never take us along. it makes
us sneak through the back door. a clandestine affair with
sacred overtones. turn up the music. i can’t bear to listen.
i know i’ll give in. i’ll climb up & untangle the wings.
but it will never bless me for my efforts. it won’t kiss me
so hard that i can taste it some night when i’m all alone
& it reminds me of that once. it will simply fly off. leave
me struggling to forget.
to establish a market value. but i can’t seem to get it right.
i’m not a capitalist. i’m not a communist either. so any
rhetoric is coincidental. i’m simply a tourist until i prove
they speak louder than actions. persona non grata tattooed
on forearm. a bloated survivor of the manic blitz. but
nobody wants to hear this. it brings them down. this is the
new age of mindless chanting bliss. if i’d try to think more
positive it would go away. just like that. so i confess to
things i never did, never witnessed. that satisfies you,
doesn’t it? a negative held up to the light speaks the
language of dead intellectuals. an opened pack of soiled,
bent playing cards are judged suspicious. though i’d
think the opposite would be true. see, that’s part of the
problem. i’m unable to distinguish what’s of worth &
what’s only a flea market paperback.
scene 94
hat too. why don’t you turn up the thermostat a little?
i know the heating bills are going through the roof. but
you make good money. surely you can spend some on
warmth. well, you throw it away on the silliest things.
it doesn’t mean i’m not staying. i’m sorry it feels that
way. i’m sitting over here because that couch feels
like i’m falling through curtains, & in a half hour my
back will be screaming. it’s that way because i broke
it trying to keep all the other pieces from coming apart.
not that it mattered in the end. i know you’re tired. i
realize you worked all day. you’ve reminded me a dozen
times already. i know i can get up any time i like. i’m not
asking you to stay up. go on to bed. i’ll call you. i just
don’t see the point of staying when you’re so worn out.
you’ll only be angry at me when you wake up in the
middle of the night & i’m gone.
didn’t miss a thing. i couldn’t take my eyes off you,
even through the oily dishwater & blue-glassed smoke.
you move recklessly. i fall for that kind of biblical
dance. i know the judgments aren’t comparable.
but that’s not the point. there is no ‘meaning’ to this.
i’m rolling impressionistic. it’s not the same as
scatological or talking in circles. it’s poetry of the soul.
i heard it all. swirling wood grain profiles even stopped
their chattering, so i could make out every word. a
symphony of ghosts bleeding through a fifteen dollar
radio soaked into the cracked walls leaving your words
unimpeded. black plastic stepped aside for running mascara.
a universe lost in dark thought except for an occasional wink.
a sharp eye slicing through comic double takes & cruel
cutting remarks. mixing metaphors, not caring about literary
criticism. i couldn’t help staring. your beauty was so
incredibly random.
unclean hooves, & gives new meaning to the phrase
urban planning. one can’t walk this dreary landscape
without having to pry thorns laced with hepatitis, &
slivers of glass because someone suddenly got religion.
& we hear never again ad nauseum. there is no ‘never
again’ except when planted deep & tamped down tight.
a five star bone structure snarls at fractured shadows.
low octane bursts out laughing. giving away ferocious
attempts & wrecking thespian skills. there will be bad
reviews. there will be gossip. there will be motel towels
smeared with greasepaint. & some will find themselves
in a fit of inspiration they can’t maneuver around. & some
will be satisfied with a conditional absence. & some will
say that gone just isn’t clear enough. & masochistic numbers
will be rubbed out with a superstitious fury. but if it were
authentic, would that be necessary. there would have
been brass tacks in the inkwell. television cameras
calling for blood. but it’s not too late for peak experience.
slide the nod under the door & no one gets hurt. consider
it a gentle ultimatum.
scene 97
brass horn that plays only discordant scores that
are never submitted. so the film loses quite a bit of
drama. the lobby is a river of burnt corks. some
dragging along hooks. you would think there would
be a wider variety. but no, it’s uniformly banal. shock
value might be a last ditch effort at slashing through
telephones with no message, & sound like they’re
weeping circular motion. drop a more complicated
geometric theory on the proceedings & watch thumbs
disappear. then there will be no perspective. then they’ll
have the perfect excuse. a hack writer faxes the blueprint
to the main office but it’s intercepted. multi-colored
whirly-gigs replace bad dialogue. nobody notices the
difference.
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