Sunday, July 17, 2011

(writing is easy/February to today)

Before the theme: was it a park, or was it regular waste-space land on the edge of the exburb? After, it was a destination advertised aggressively to apathetic drivers of cars gone matte in intervening years and to bickering children in the back who didn't wear seatbelts.

What happened to the little kid who really thought this was the best place on the earth, small face, great plains? When I'm stoned I can get so childlike (it's like I'm in a movie, just now as I type) and feel all these pleasures, of riding my bike through sprinkler mist when it's so humid and turning into the wind down the dead-end street. This is my new purple bike and we're just getting to be friends, and the bike I got as a child on Christmas morning was purple too. That was the most childlike pleasure of all, the kaleidoscope glitter of all your presents on Christmas morning, while it's still dark outside the picture window and sooty on the hearth.

It isn't real in the recreation, isn't how it was when you left this world for sleep. When we break out on the parquet, I can just remember how you founded your thesis on historical conicidence. It isn't how you wrote it, isn't how you recite: in the radical recreation we're all boys and girls, over being red, on cute revolt. In the scientific inevitably the curse is blowing down, and in the deep supersition this side of capitalism we're backing into a corner bitching and reinforcing our previously held opinions.

Boy as we settle into our slips of the tongue, letting our spring fall in wintertime summer. Your little girl, pulling down the curtains around the inverse hanging tent house; see how we spent the Arab Spring in bed and making dinner and leaving each other the house key. How life got simple afterwards, and there isn't anything for me to do but sit in surround sound and hope to pick up shifts. I wanted to see us crunch into each other like crustaceans and now we're living in a modèle réduit. When I dream I dream of dredging for his body with cellophane tape, c'est vraiment dégueulasse, and come over easy to your head full of umlauts.

And as soon as you design the jeans the kids will be smoking dope in them, but if you can catch a hit between the gusts I'd like to take you down to the levee and burn the day's news. I hope your train arrives at night, and we walk home in this cold yellow-gold street holding hands, scared of rustling air conditioners and narrow little alleys between houses where there's room for us both to fit and still feel alone.

1 comment:

  1. sometimes i wake up and wonder where i went, brief undead spells unduly spent uncomfortable under the weight of all the time wasted waiting, wasted, de-basement unabating, and after having been running this long awareness of whether chased or chasing is gone but painfully and plainly chaste, shamefully insane or displaced, each pits of our own broiling waste the fires of which must be fed lest we be faced with dead, equilibrate this incestuous place, headspace laced with deliberate self-foiling malice, alice with can of mace in place of curious demeanor, viscous molasses face, fast&furious cleaner, sell soiled soul to have never seen her