I'm curious.
I'm curious because I experienced a strange sensation today without the help of anything stronger than caffeine, nicotine, or sleep deprivation.
I'm wondering if you've felt this too?
It comes after a period of lethargy or general motionlessness. Let's say, for example, if you've been meditating recently for long periods of time, or if you've been wrestling with questions and problems of yours that have no real answers...or solutions...or bandaids, and you've been telling yourself that worrying is useless because it bears no fruit, or if you've been watching some cheesy teen TV drama so you can forget about your own...
Ahem...guilty, guilty, guilty and guilty.
Mea culpa, mea culpa, da dum da dum da dumb.
Right, so you've stirred yourself from this pitiful nest and you take a walk.
It's nighttime. You're alone.
And all of a sudden your pupils dilate and the darkness is full of contrast. Conversations are spilling from balconies and porches, smoke is dancing between teeth, bad music is pounding from passing cars, and in the distance insects are playing assorted strings and sinews. Not only are you aware of this around you, but you feel like bits of you and your consciousness are spiraling off your shoulders like wisps of smoke, billowing behind you as you walk. It's as if you were trailed by a cape of your awareness, and it tastes like power.
I don't know about you, but I smile at this point.
Inevitably, you get a rock in your sandal, or you run into your friends and the cape disappears; but I enjoy this space between isolation and social interaction. It makes me feel that I have my feet ever so slightly off the ground. You?
The next number is one that's hard to tap along to. It's a strange rhythm that I dance to on long-distance phone calls and scrambled text messages. It's a tune about pixels and sound bytes that magically convert to sledge hammers, bruises, tears, and sharing medical records.
Let's break it down to the base.
It's thumpin'.
Thumpa thumpa.
The base is based on ghost kisses and fiery gazes.
On heat and pheromones.
On late-night conversations over wine and sharing a shower.
Yeah, it's rockin'.
But the base fades and all you hear is highs. It's solo time and I haven't tuned my fiddle. It's a contrapunteo with fragments of your tenor punctuated with my broken baritone and a lot of white noise.
The chorus is a cliché, "can you hear me now?". I wish we were saying it in jest. But, we're not. We're looping. Not that I don't appreciate your solo contribution, but sometimes I wish we would start a new track.
Sometimes we just let the noise ride out, but silence isn't golden in this scenario. If I drop out of the track for a few days, you come up with lyrics like, "just making sure you're still alive". If you go off the track and I ask, you were busy. Busy. End of movement. I really wish you could echo some of my lines. But "I love you" seems to turn to static or a sighed whisper.
I guess you're just busy.
Right...busy.
I don't want to break up the band, but I think we need lessons.
31 July 2009
Afterbirth Defector
Remember:
Peaking heads, first lights, unmuffling of machinery, the stench of everything all at at once...
Delivery room options vanish white sterility giving way to red trouser glares something was delivered something anticipating red trousers over diseased black fur other then that copyright-denied descriptions and silver-screen ambiguities. Horror held by its ankles one gloved hand gets cocked and with one theatrical snap... Time turns over operating table spins out of proportion scene shifts gloved hands now holding their mother's ankles dragged belly-down over white sand drugged on cough syrup to ease the pain of coat-hanger burns only to be aggravated by the sun and the sand and the deliberate negligence of a mother's solemn gaze all too intense to forgive the inevitable rejection born into the eyes of her child...his was a different kind of sadness...feelings that could not belong to her since she forfeited her own gaze when she aborted the birthright...set the trap and it sprung but sometimes they survive...
The boy the one with the burns and the someday, just-you-wait-gloves knew right there on that beach that his mother was no longer his, that abandonment could be execution...this was not only his this came with him. He released her ankles and she crawled out into the water somewhere and died.
Somewhere near the Gulf of Thailand mostly vacant caves chewed the coastline undisturbed for millennia, breathing in and out the tide, sometimes shaky places striking tightrope-horizons...
TECTONIC SHIFT
Lonely arctics half-year's Winter closing in, imagine that last fleeting daytime moment... behaviors possessed by thoughts of calendars obsessed with moving galactic discs, gaps in stellar maps... one slips in from the left...
SOLAR ECLIPSE
Walt Disney's nightmares: that last sun that does not make it from one increasingly shaky horizon to the other... slipping off the disc... no more calendars... that last fleeting daytime moment...
His left lung held its breath in a cooler for three days from lonely arctic vacations until stench of chain-smoking cartoon mice sweeps over the Gulf of Thailand. Believe it or not: the most advanced cancer research known to man was/is/will be taking place in Thai laboratories hidden inconspicuously deep under shaky-plate-mouth-caverns. And it has been this way for millennia. American government appreciation for cold-war cartoon-character-assassins not too mention rodent-themed vacation resorts, tip of the lonely-arctic-iceberg-capitalism... strengthened ties to industrializing third-world checkbooks every Thailander a tourist... too many reasons to not go through with it nevermind shaky horizons and slipping discs...
Current research indicates that cancer cells, under specific conditions, can continue to regenerate independent of the original body, of anybody. The bulbous tumor on Walt Disney's left lung breathing life into the neverborners, neverdiers, unabortables... that kid with the white gloves knew it he saw it in his mother's eyes and there in the operating room... white sterilization... red trousers...
daytime delivery options fade
shaky discs off the edge of the horizon
solar eclipse
or was it an aborted sunrise?
days that were never born others crawl out into the water somewhere and die.
Peaking heads, first lights, unmuffling of machinery, the stench of everything all at at once...
Delivery room options vanish white sterility giving way to red trouser glares something was delivered something anticipating red trousers over diseased black fur other then that copyright-denied descriptions and silver-screen ambiguities. Horror held by its ankles one gloved hand gets cocked and with one theatrical snap... Time turns over operating table spins out of proportion scene shifts gloved hands now holding their mother's ankles dragged belly-down over white sand drugged on cough syrup to ease the pain of coat-hanger burns only to be aggravated by the sun and the sand and the deliberate negligence of a mother's solemn gaze all too intense to forgive the inevitable rejection born into the eyes of her child...his was a different kind of sadness...feelings that could not belong to her since she forfeited her own gaze when she aborted the birthright...set the trap and it sprung but sometimes they survive...
The boy the one with the burns and the someday, just-you-wait-gloves knew right there on that beach that his mother was no longer his, that abandonment could be execution...this was not only his this came with him. He released her ankles and she crawled out into the water somewhere and died.
Somewhere near the Gulf of Thailand mostly vacant caves chewed the coastline undisturbed for millennia, breathing in and out the tide, sometimes shaky places striking tightrope-horizons...
TECTONIC SHIFT
Lonely arctics half-year's Winter closing in, imagine that last fleeting daytime moment... behaviors possessed by thoughts of calendars obsessed with moving galactic discs, gaps in stellar maps... one slips in from the left...
SOLAR ECLIPSE
Walt Disney's nightmares: that last sun that does not make it from one increasingly shaky horizon to the other... slipping off the disc... no more calendars... that last fleeting daytime moment...
His left lung held its breath in a cooler for three days from lonely arctic vacations until stench of chain-smoking cartoon mice sweeps over the Gulf of Thailand. Believe it or not: the most advanced cancer research known to man was/is/will be taking place in Thai laboratories hidden inconspicuously deep under shaky-plate-mouth-caverns. And it has been this way for millennia. American government appreciation for cold-war cartoon-character-assassins not too mention rodent-themed vacation resorts, tip of the lonely-arctic-iceberg-capitalism... strengthened ties to industrializing third-world checkbooks every Thailander a tourist... too many reasons to not go through with it nevermind shaky horizons and slipping discs...
Current research indicates that cancer cells, under specific conditions, can continue to regenerate independent of the original body, of anybody. The bulbous tumor on Walt Disney's left lung breathing life into the neverborners, neverdiers, unabortables... that kid with the white gloves knew it he saw it in his mother's eyes and there in the operating room... white sterilization... red trousers...
daytime delivery options fade
shaky discs off the edge of the horizon
solar eclipse
or was it an aborted sunrise?
days that were never born others crawl out into the water somewhere and die.
one for the dust collectors
the withering roots of a fell tree
buried beneath your feet
in a thriving forest
at the dead end
of a back country road
to and from nothing special
its petrified seed
splintered unnoticed a groove of your shoe
stayed with you for days til
deposited hopelessly
on blacktop erasure
where an old house had been
haunted by hungry rats
and lonely houseflys
years condemned
the home of an old recluse
last of his kin
died alone
meditations rattling listlessly
like the chattering of false teeth
i don't ask anything except
that you feel nothing
buried beneath your feet
in a thriving forest
at the dead end
of a back country road
to and from nothing special
its petrified seed
splintered unnoticed a groove of your shoe
stayed with you for days til
deposited hopelessly
on blacktop erasure
where an old house had been
haunted by hungry rats
and lonely houseflys
years condemned
the home of an old recluse
last of his kin
died alone
meditations rattling listlessly
like the chattering of false teeth
i don't ask anything except
that you feel nothing
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