dedicated to Lou Reed

little satellite

There is a sadness in not wanting to know someone close to you, for they are close to you for a reason. There is a sadness in walking past the flowers reaching over and through the holes in the fence to greet you. When i have not eaten for some while i wanna stay there, to know this also, you see, otherwise i lose something. I lose a part of the world. the hunger and thirst of the world. You see how everything in our presence can move us? Even pain moves me and maybe away from myself. Undulations in the spirit. Unraveling of the controls. Spinning out of contact into space and disconnected. Stay there. Without notification. Without any sound except the sound of your own breathing. See how you can never be alone, little satellite? Breath is a tide and their are treasures in its wake, in the pools.

sudden breath (in my twenties)

Sometimes i gotta wonder about all those years. What i went through. So much sitting in denim on hard wood floors wrapping my arms around my legs and grabbing my elbows and holding tight;  forearms pushing up into the backs of my knees. My eyes scanning the typewritten pages all around me. So delicate. Soft paper, hard wood. The lines in my forehead from crying. My eyes trapped behind lids, cause I didn’t want to see my life sprawled out before me. Then the spots. The blind spots, when I opened eyes wide. Sudden breath. The scenario was coming in so fast and down upon me, like a subdegree wind chill through gaps in the window frame. Shaking me up and shook me down.

Then I woke up. Again and again, just like that. Sudden breath. So close to near death. Spotlight of the swinging arm lamp in its antics. Hair on my head frazzled. Feeling frantic. Would life ever cosign my imagined, romantic?

Well. Dig my heels down and pick myself up by the heels of my hands. A sharp push of a young and restless writer. Unknown except by the same isolated subversive wonders disconnected in shades of darkness, tickled by light, trying to write, all up and down the avenues in spattered fashion. Then concentration. Inkwell spilled. How will i get it out? Permanent. Marked for death by impermanence. Superficially fried. Scars covering caverns of emotional deleterium. Broken branches falling off a potted idea or two. Sit in the chair and bang on the Royal.

When lost, I would try not to always fall back to the ground. Sit up, lean forward, and push the qwerty-uiop altogether as one unit, all the metal arms raised up and stuck together like one unified blunder just trying to stain the soft transparence of the virgin watermark. And I would lower my hair and head into the stadium keys all facing and watching me and waiting for a winner. Headbanger. My eyelids crushed row four, seat eight. Headbanger and mashed. Impressed upon me some sort of cold surrender. So then, before the midnight candle wick drowned in wax, I might grab the seat back with both hands behind me, pull myself up by the spine, and hammer out something born of pain and misgivings. Something special, perhaps no one would ever see.

life fully hydrated -iii-

Sorry for the truth. Beforehand. I never wanted her, but she came and found me, stabbed me, and left me on the ground bleeding. And that’s what needed to happen. I needed to die by her hand, truth, and be reborn. Fucking A right. The bitch found me and killed me, and she’s coming after you, t00.  Our world of confusion wants us confused.  A land where lies are institutional.  Now do you feel dejected, alone and insane? Need some essential space by which to breathe or possibly ‘recover’ ? Good luck, she whispered to me in that degenerate, hissing breathe. She ruptured my left eardrum. Pain for a half hour, followed by sleep. Woke up deaf. In the left.