what if you’d become the model you seemed secretly destined when we were kids to be and ended up on the perpetually adolescent arm of some sultry interminable troubadour contemptuously entitled to his own terrible el jefe reputation and I wouldn’t be able to watch though I’d sure as hell dreadly look from time to glancing time and oh how damn debaucherized imagination’d surely make me sick to my jealous self-spiteful over-adjectivized stomach thinking she’s still way too fucking beautiful to be paid for appearances just like always and how’d I ever let that ship sail
Dear All Of You,
It is Saturday in the realm of writing stuff. My Saturday writing stuff realm thought is: maybe I should write about writing stuff instead of writing stuff for a few minutes, but like a letter, at least once a week, like on Saturday. Or Saturdays, as in more than just this one. Everybody does it and I should do more of what everybody does. It’s a daily battle between “is” and “should,” though. Not weekly.
I come home tired and the sun is thick and the air is shining thicker and contractions seem inappropriate, fast like the blood feels through my brain’s constricted vessels
Always in need of time, and sick of this fragility, the mind-body problem as antiquated and alive as ever seeming senseless, though, and jigsaw-puzzled and all in all contained by nothing but an heirloomish box with a porous lid of chance, four fickle sides of swirling words for grasping these torrents of feeling and maybe sometimes at the same time that monumental carved in marble blankness, and a flimsy bottom of the underlying assumption that rate x time might = out from under Their control with the top blown off like ins on the outside where reality so called so cold may strike with not-so-subtle bites, concrete claw marks left like abstract scratches more like burns and so the fuck what, really, so what if the pieces never fit back together again in the same way I never knew to begin with—that’s what I think, how.
He, gentle no one, opens the driver’s side into traffic, careless, without so much as a glance and I wonder in my quick reaction swerving what can I do to change that dumb shit the dumb shit we the great grand so many people do without thinking without heeding without even seeming caring, piled on top of each other and entitled to our disruptions, to the very air we breathe
They said you can taste poetry, it must be bodily before it’s intellectual. I can’t separate the observer from the observed because… because there’s no because—it’s mind and body, present and past, art and cognition, each a universe creating. But not separate. Separate, no, not at all.
It’s not easy to sit here and tell you what’s wrong with me. Not when I spend so much time thinking there’s nothing. Or nothing I can’t handle—big difference, seems, seems especially now, now, now, now that I’m feeling a little beneath the task of being. What does the past look like and feel like and sound like? I should write about that, get my mind off this, capture nostalgia’s zeitgeist, maybe paint it or something, leave it some cookies and milk and see if it stays.