Posted by marko on 1/14/2007, 8:35 am a chilled numbness is mistaken for respectful silence. scene 138 i feel it building. i know something will go wrong soon. i fold it carefully. i run my thumbnail along the sides. the scene 140 i draw the line at my soul. i’ve endured a lot. more than scene 141 i’m either in heaven or playing dead effectively. i’ve scene 142 it feel more desperate, frantic, than passionate. these
65.167.39.236
scene 137
apparently no one is actually listening, only going
through the motions. cruising through the ritual. the
earth’s too hard for shoulder to the shovel. but i see
a backhoe one loop down. the road circles three times
until you hit bottom, then you keep driving until you’re
back. i never understood why someone would plant
on such a steep hillside. where a hard, lengthy rain
might wash it all down into the woods below. there’s
no arguing the view is beautiful. is this designed to give
solace to the grieving? it just makes me think of all
they’re missing. the permanent residents could care less
of course. it can divert one’s attention. the river twisting
a few miles below. & the almost too green hills of west
virginia appear to roll on forever.
it’s uncanny the way i can predict these explosions,
especially since i understand so little about myself. i
write as fast as i can, trying to hold back the flood. last
night i lost an hour nearly on the nose. at nine o’clock
i rose anxious, muttering. the next time i was aware
of my being somewhere it was ten. yet i felt no passage
of time. the voices were being more obnoxious & cruel
than usual. i said i won’t stand for this. i was in a fighting
mood. it hadn’t been a good day. i think there was an
altercation, but i’m not sure. if there was, nothing was
settled, because it carried over into morning. made worse
by the fact i woke in the middle of an emotional, &
disconcerting dream. i feel confused. something is missing.
i have no idea what it is. i may find out. or i may never
make sense of what never happened.
scene 139
corners are sharp & determined. but it doesn’t come off
as official. it doesn’t appear delusional either. it does
seem to suggest certain intangibles are contained within,
but in a low-key manner of speaking. i used to leave
these lying around for days, sometimes weeks, before
making a decision. that’s no longer necessary. i let them
fly immediately. damn any second thoughts, damn any
tears or broken hearts. damn the consequences. damn
the inevitable silence. i crushed the words into a fine
dust. it was the only way they’d all fit. they may still
read as italics though. it’s a sunday afternoon. one of
those kind of days that imply rather than squeeze your
arm & pull you in another direction. there’s no reason
to hold back. no reason to go any farther. it’s all in there.
a man should have to endure, i think. but i’ve plugged on.
i’ve forgotten some of the tactics. but i know they were
devious. i haven’t forgiven though. i’m not sure what
needs forgiven. i’ve forgotten so many of the details. i’d
like to believe my higher nature had something to do with
this. but i don’t really think this to be true. on the other
hand i may not be giving myself enough credit. i’m humble
to a fault. or else my self-hatred denies me. pieces surface
on occasion. a bubbling gumbo of emotional content. long
enough to see a face, hear a few words. a glimpse of the
past, which i refer to as another life in order to distance
myself from the fragments. i haven’t lost it all. i don’t
know if this is bad or good. those i speak with seem to
think it’s good. i’m staring at a tv with no sound. i’m not
dressed for the season. the fabric is too thin. i ask for extra
blankets. i get them two days later. i demand my clothes be
returned. it ties in the back where i can’t reach.
never been much of an actor. but it’s important not
to delude myself. everything sounds so lush & full.
like an early 60’s phil spector record. but an aluminum
bum note cuts through the symphony. i have a good ear.
it comes back around every twelve bars. nevertheless
it has a spontaneous feel to it each time. improvised
or not, i arrange them into tight little five spots. i
still have my multiplication tables. i could go much
higher than ten. it’s one of the few things i haven’t
lost or destroyed from my youth. i clap my hands. i
stomp my feet. i yell one more time, knowing full
well it’s unnecessary.
are often confused with one another. i can’t imagine
an alternative. but this doesn’t mean it feels right. i
thrash around like a dying animal who doesn’t know
how to cry out for help. or maybe i do, but i know it’s
useless, because no one will come. a wordless suffering
becomes a prayer. the sort of prayer that’s never answered.
i thrust my hips forward. pushing toward something.
as if i need to get somewhere soon. but i’m not needed
anywhere else. my movements have no truth in them.
unless you consider self-satisfaction as a form of truth.
or self-flagellation as a way there. but i can’t fool
myself into believing any of this. you can’t see my face
from there. this is a blessing. for you, not me. because
there are things about this that you’d never understand.
or maybe you would. but it doesn’t matter—it’s still
a blessing. nothing behind you has anything to do with
where you’re going. nothing screams satisfied. nothing
whispers tenderly underneath. peel it all the way back if
think i’m lying. it’s blood-stained gristle. it’s monstrously
disfigured. i want nothing to do with it any more.
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