Posted by marko on 1/4/2007, 8:05 am a woman with pontiac blue eyes blinks away inky tears. a garland of poppies & a mantra from the pop song scene 100 a self portrait tinged with powder burns & a golden scene 101 i thought i heard rapping at the door. but i had headphones scene 102 the illustration shows a hand gripping the world like a four scene 103 i read that neal cassady, when he was locked up for two years, scene 104 i admit i wanted to ask you if you ever thought of me i hadn’t seen them in twenty-five years except for one why do you feel it’s necessary to ask who the song is
65.167.39.162
scene 98
i have a feeling she expects me to fill out the forms for
her. or pen her biography. i’ll insist on poetic license
& a few juicy incentives. it’s come down to mercenary
behavior. i’m ashamed of myself. it wasn’t cribbed
from a former list of outlandish demands & contractual
obligation. i found it on my own. i’m not leering at
first impressions though. it runs deeper than vital organs.
it’s not candy crushed pledging my love. that book has
yet to be written. it could go anywhere from here. i
need to stay out of the way in the meantime without
losing the storyline. i won’t sneak over to the other side
of the glass though. i have scruples. but slight modifications
have blurred their appearance. i will scratch out a few
lines beforehand. in case i’m surprised with a quick
answer. i will spit at the feet of royalty. i will be brutally
honest.
scene 99
of your choice is the deal. but be warned. you know
what they say about something too good to be true. do
i sense some hesitation? can you hear the pitter-patter
of demons gaining on you? a well thought out decision
can be difficult under these conditions. believe me, i know.
i’ve been through the drill so many times i count them
in my sleep. there’s no negotiating with a scorpion sting,
or serpent-tongued lawyers. it calls for drastic measures.
i realize this can be read as murder or suicide, or something
a bit less indulgent. saturate yourself with the opium &
dumb culture, so that when the blood of the lamb is called
for, no one will bother looking your way. become a liability
to their plans. pretend to fall into heaven. stretch your
persona into oddly enough.
aura to give it a martyred glow of sorts, is presented
for opinion. i may have gone heavy on the blue. i
know my face isn’t literally blue. i agree—it could be
anyone. but it isn’t. i’m not going to tell you what
you should see. it’s not norman rockwell or saint
augustine. it wasn’t mean to be. i suppose my eyes
could be described as icy blue, but no one’s told me
me that before. though i had a girlfriend who hurtfully
called me the iceman. i had another girlfriend who
got out of control squishy excited when i painted her
fingernails & toenails. it didn’t matter how good of
a job i did. it was my willingness to try. she brought
out the romantic in me. i’d draw lipstick valentines
& fill them with poetry. she wouldn’t have commented
on my face being too blue. i’m wondering what
happened between us. there was no huge blowup i can
point to. it was subtle. perhaps drawn out farther
than i first thought. why did i bring this up? because
this is what art is supposed to do.
on. when i wear them i pick up many things. nevertheless
i checked. there was no one. i did see three people, two women
& a man, walking down the hill, about four houses away. i
found a leaflet lying on the front porch. i saw another stuck
in the storm door of the apartment next to mine. it was the
jehovah witnesses. the second time i’ve found one in less
than a month. i’ve lived here a little over two years, & hadn’t
found a single one in all that time. it’s a week before christmas.
a perfect time i would think, to seek converts. or getting blown
off rather harshly by stressed out consumers. our gaps have
widened. there’s more room for psychological meltdowns.
though contrary to popular belief, there aren’t more suicides
during the holiday season. the month of march holds that
distinction. my therapist explained why. but i can’t remember
it all. so instead of giving only part of an explanation i’ll stop
here.
finger fastball. the index & middle finger spread wide with
the ring finger & pinkie off to the side. i think it could have
had a effective metaphor. because it says “who really rules
the world,” & to show how a curveball is served up would
be more fitting—as in deception. the way it appears to be
coming straight down the middle only to veer off & paint
the black or miss the strike zone altogether. i open the
pamphlet to the first page. it begins with several rhetorical
questions concerning, who in fact, does rule the world.
it goes on to say that most would guess god. then it says
that significantly, nowhere in the bible does it state that
christ or our father in heaven run the show. in quotation
marks it says “the ruler of this world will be cast out.”
also jesus is quoted—“the ruler of this world is coming.
& he has no hold on me.” this seems to hint at anarchy. i
wonder how someone is allowed to distribute this subversive
& dangerous material.
memorized all the popes in order. or maybe it was all the saints.
it could have been both. two years is a long time to kill. religion,
no matter how much we’ve distanced ourselves from it, is always
right under the surface. still effects what we say & do. an altar
boy’s romantic candlelight diner becomes the dancing figure
atop a votive candle. & if you stare into it long enough, you
might catch a glimpse of his face. one of the older guys told
me that. not a priest, another altar boy. i thought he was just
screwing with me. but half believed it. so i’d be standing there,
lost in the flickering, & forget where we were in the service,
& have to be cued. i was never much at routine. i was a day-
dreamer. i used to go for sunday rides with my grandmother
after church in a blue impala. i’d pretend i was running
alongside the car. leaping over signs, dodging utility poles.
kerouac wrote that cassady told him he did the same thing.
after all these years. i wasn’t afraid of what you’d say, so
much as i was concerned that you’d think me narcissistic,
more so than romantic. more self-possessed than caring.
i was afraid you’d think i hadn’t changed in all this time.
& it would seen like i was attempting to pry words out of
you to make me feel better about myself. i’ve been on a
horrible self-hatred trip lately. of course this is over-analyzing
the moment. this what happens when i become stuck in
a dark head. i was zonked on a cornucopia of drugs. my
impulsive nature strapped down. huge chunks of time
are missing. so i must ask questions to try to form a
chronology. i hope you don’t mind if i ask you to fill
in some of the blanks. i hope you won’t take it the wrong way.
scene 105
of my ex-wife’s sister who sent me photographs. both
of our daughters were in the hospital. my youngest
daughter, not quite two, had pneumonia. we were pulling
all-nighters. drinking black coffee from a metal thermos.
the kind i don’t see much any more. they’d taken the
i.v. out of my baby’s arm that day. seeing your child’s
hands tied to a bedrail so they can’t pull the needle out,
is painful to watch. too painful for anything but a feeling
of total helplessness. you would walk through fire to
fix things. & when she calls for daddy, your heart breaks
into a thousand pieces. your arms & legs grow heavy.
you can barely move. thank god she was finally getting
better. years earlier i’d been in much the same situation
with my older daughter. thinking her father was strong
enough to sweep her away from there. but all i could do was
watch. i realized i wasn’t strong at all. i was psychologically
& emotionally crippled. it would take years to build up
my courage. twenty-five years later we danced at her wedding.
everyone from her mother’s side of the family was present.
i was alone. everyone told me they’d forgotten how much
we looked alike. no one had a bad word to say about me.
i couldn’t understand why.
scene 106
about? what difference does it make? can’t you appreciate
it for what it is? if one has to explain their art, i believe it
strips away much of the power & soul. why do you insist
on ruining the moment? i refuse to interpret my work. would
you like a line by line account? the muse would be insulted.
it comes at me hard & fast. sometimes in one furious flash.
a puzzle knocked to the floor. buckshot rolling around a
frying pan. words so full of light it burns my eyes, & fills
them with tears, so i close them & let my hand roam along
with my mind. i know you’re listening or looking for a solid
lead, a time frame you can match up with history. only
then will you tell me what you think. only then will you
whisper “i love you” or continue the questioning. would
it satisfy you if i threw in an occasional conversation we
once had? maybe mention your name specifically? i could
do that. it wouldn’t be difficult. but it wouldn’t be art either.
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