Posted by marko on 1/9/2007, 9:13 am a reckless familiarity leaks junkyard lullabies. patterns scene 114 both cain & abel have something hidden behind their back. scene 115 the lights at least a hundred yard away come in a once set in stone theory of gravity has become clumsy scene 117 i fail to see how eye contact will remedy this situation. it will not take pity on us. any other answer is a
65.167.39.220
scene 113
begin to immerge if we stick to the melody. we don’t
need archimedes or da vinci or uncrackable codes to
validate that which is in our hands—that is, if we stare
until the numbers shift center stage. the curtains will
remain damage control & sexual frustration. a mutinous
process wears a ringer disguised as saintly headdress.
it’s made in thailand. but i can’t say for sure where
would be the best spot to sneak over the border. a
muttering builds until it can’t help but make eye contact
with heaven. the ticket might say rome but any manifesto
will be unceremoniously dumped. a dozen transvestites
shred calculative signs in dead languages. & the
rules will drift away like strays. vestments will be
abandoned. any religious simile taken literally will be
exposed as naked & ashamed.
cain an unbreakable choke-chain & abel a razor-sharp
plowshare. spontaneity sings life. intellective reasoning
gums everything up. call it murder. call it self-defense.
call it living out the logical conclusion. call it a completely
irrational act. but try to consider this. i know what i just
said—forget that part for a minute. everyone tells a
different story. everyone was cast out of paradise. it effects
everybody differently. there’s no rewriting this script. if
you try to put yourself into all those shoes, you might
become part of the tragedy. your blood will be spilled also.
walk away from the story before your mind is branded
with ugly, brute acts. so you won’t have an answer when
you’re asked—where were you when you heard the news?
or where were you the first time beauty overtook you?
predictable intervals. there’s little traffic. no need
for anything that doesn’t reflect on the water. there’s
no reason i should be here. or else it slipped past me
in the dark. a truck could be on me before either of
us could react. blinking barge lights & houselights
that seem to twinkle on the other side, hold those
that don’t feel an overwhelming need to keep moving.
i chuck another empty between silhouettes. i listen
for a splash or shattered glass. though it makes no
difference. i’m drunk. i don’t think that makes
a difference either. but then my thinking is impaired.
but nevertheless, i still want to know how far i can
throw it all away.
scene 116
enough to qualify for a tune-up. or dismantled & diagnosed
as severely depressed. pieces will need replaced. a minor
retooling they say. but it could require turning the dump
over. they don’t mention the danger in ####ing with the
divine. it could die on the table. it could blow up in their
faces. there’s no strict color-coded wiring. each must
be approached on an individual basis. in one hand there
is no wrong move. in the other is a lifeline that stops
abruptly. parlor tricks or hard science? it depends on
where you’re watching from. more acceptable dimensions
are being shot for. & if the stumbling continues, at least
then we’ll see it coming. there will be more realistic
expectations. it may even be able to find its feet almost
immediately.
you’re always looking for easy solutions. & you blame
me for stretching the pain because i question the method.
wrapping us so tight that we can’t embrace, or possibly
kill one another. i’m watching my words. i’m keeping my
head low. i’m executing well in lieu of any understanding
how to seal a relationship in some other fashion. you talk
dreamily about a cluster of stars on a chilled plate. but my
wings are pinned down, & there’s nothing in the house to
plaster a glow on my face, so the prospects would appear dim.
i admit i don’t get your logic or your involuntary reflexes.
how i feel is diminished by every new plan. i have next to
nothing to do with this. how is that selfish or narcissistic?
it’s realistically the only position we’ll find ourselves tangling
with in the morning. it no longer matters where we started,
before things got out of hand.
scene 118
foolish faraway look, a delusional supposition, a
blatant lie, a suicide made to look like murder. it’s
more than a disagreement over which side is which.
it’s not something that will blow over. it’s a white
whale that never surfaces. it’s a vertical blast that
tips the world over & swallows indiscriminately.
it’s a 50’s flying saucer sending threatening messages
that are mistaken for academic quatrains, & lands
only in secluded deserts where gila monsters blink
so deliberate it feel like time is standing still, so
nothing could go wrong in this atmosphere. it’s a
horned caricature that people point to & laugh. but
it’s a self-conscious, uncomfortable laugh. there’s
nothing really hideous or menacing about this portrait.
it’s a six-headed beast because we have two hands
& poor math skills. it’s tagged a demon because
satan is no longer politically correct. & it makes us
feel we have a fighting chance. it’s a reflection that
follows our steps as if they’re choreographed. yet
we never recognize ourselves. we shrug a fatalistic
acceptance that we only get what we deserve.
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