untitled prosepome yet still again: august '98

Swish, swahh. A good cult of movement pushes its supplicants along. Too many times am I allowed to tithe this beast.

(switch to blue ink, how much time has passed? the transcriber and former author shall never know)

Now I earn my keep by waiting to go home. Detail-oriented folks will place their heads on the pikes of the minutae when they rise to unchain their meticulous nature. Meanwhile the music of my fluids is a little percussion-heavy today. My body's at war in a season of activity, not peace.

Homes will cost. Choose: Food, Shelter or Mobility. Actualization is for the rich -- what else is new, Abraham. I'd like to make property a vice along with usury. But the Pope wouldn't be able to but little boys. The lights wink out in a predictable fashion. The Great Leap Forward bangs its head on the gate of plenty. Fuck All.

untitled prosepome still again: august '98

Transition is the feeling of sitting your ass down and waiting for enough cars to drive by after the concrete turns into precious mud. The shapes of former tickers litter the implanted mold like a patient killing-ground.
-Tick-
I got a new one. Instead of an empty room with no sockets for the tube, I recommend sliding into spots before the occupants get there. Guerilla living in the blank tofu chunks of time.
-Tick-
Or you could just get there late and be like all the other folks stroking their way to leg-arteries. I only notice the ground when everyone decides to do something else.

untitled prosepome again: august '98

Manicky -- icky how loud can you fuzz your inner-monologue and slow the movie down? Solitude can slow things a bit unless you got caught in the edge cities with a bad car radio. Pick your nose and cry -- everyone else does here. I'd prefer some Schlitz and a Heavy Metal Road Game to the real thing. My meditation is med'd and Mediated by the luke-warm slide of pretty blue and red shiny lights. The covalency of my thoughts to starve-back loop stretches to a usual point -- I leave the light on to pretend I'm sleeping at 3 in the afternoon. I dream of inevitable community sacrifices that the Alliance for Progress never could figure out. My night is stealing secret surfaces in the pocket of a common office denominator. Lowest is Middlin'. August looks at its watch and tags Autumn. Thank Goddess.

untitled prosepome: august '98

Plod, plod, scrunch, scrunch we think it's all the same. Aerodynamic paint scraping by a reminiscence of a brain itch, I thought it I heard it. The pebbles halo out on us just to keep the picture steady but I don't know why my ears haven't started leaking grey wax. Actually hearing the wind reminded my nose to smell Virginia August -- another reminscence but the magic of my adopted world is the novelty of its antiques. The red clay is aboriginal ichor, I've said it before, so has Arthur Miller. Now I remember why the sleeping collective tangs me. I may normally need sense-bricks but a single note catches more my love.

untitled ode to old flame: april '98

For (redacted), for I know you won't return that call for at least a while.

What strands of desperation make you stop?
What immediate slice across the abdomen turns the blood off?
When do I get to scare you with tales of future with too much coffee and pretending your page is your closest ally.
I hope this is a talisman against our old mutual foe bitterness.
But like someone else Mantra-ized, to climb up the flaming sword is to take this pain and know it's the only thing keeping us awake.

untitled prosepome: march '98

The everful advancing ages keep out of reach. Someone schooled you younger. This hand will write tomorrow -- will dream of gargling strings flinging such words like water balloons of survival and love. There is the moment the tune ends, we all look at all of us and don't worry about the silence. I throw up my finger-puppet old hates who were loves, just to check if they're backsliding, or if I could bite my heart to get it beating again. Beat again. You would expect "beaten again" but that's the rule of floating into chunks -- pain is physical and grey with two eyes swinging the same way, repeat if (and always) necessary. Then wait? My Gargoyle legs are about to fail, stone must soon flap.

What is that old she running from? What happened to her? I cannot bleed for her? I cannot bleed for her -- though I want to. Does everyone sense my purification -- or putrefaction? It's all difference and being. But I'd like to know what shade she's chasing -- and why I'd block that quest. Why must I internalize her pain -- I'd paint every person with my face. I want to know if her hole resembles my old one. Maybe she knows she's just a yardstick for me. But I still maintain I'd care if she (any of those shes in the end) would bring the (her) Malkuth to me. I've been spinning in the transcendence a bit too long. Strange withdrawals, stranger voids to be abhorred. The train still drives, past nuggets of a place to rest or stand.

Exhibit A: feb. '98

Exhibit A: Torn page.
Whip out words when regret needs a soapbox. The "never-see-it-again" trick didn't work. Drivel is as foggy minds trip over pen.

In a land that loves me, my old favorite ghost knocks on my chest -- remember this twinge.
Don't forget to fret.
I feel full of monks having a fist-fight with a pile of cotton candy. Emptiness was supposed to dial up that new path. Denial isn't about instant gratification. My emotions talked to too many strangers, my resolve shoots craps with hidden smoky organ hustlers waiting for their inspiration to tell them to go against their instincts. But what are instincts but a bag of paper mache clothes. Identity is not a robe, or a witticism, or a habit (or lack). It's that old ghost.

untitled prosepome: feb. '98

I don't know who I'm talking to but it's you, again. The next time you feel like getting a 52nd helping please try to cover that snicker coming out your ass. You know that I'm starting to unravel. I think the beginning is when I forget what I paraded to the committees six months ago. I wish to awake in a cold lagoon with a dawn half moon pouring steam down from the turn-off of my heart. I remember everything but it has the nice glass in front of it, or shall we say a blue-lit diagonal shot? The cold nakedness is to be shed of course. At least then I'd have no excuse to be alone and I could wait for a new prediction. That's it, obviously. Time to change lens. This is coming from the person who exposed too much changing lens. The lagoon is appropriately piney, or at least deciduous, I like 5 a.m. to be cold in July. Sorry Chris, I think the Hour of the Wolf has to be sleep induced, but I'll keep checking. The lagoon. No. The silouette, back-lit. I must see breath, see how we use air. You see Ash, the idiot-commonality stalks us all. It's her though, yes I'll stop the third person, can't I pay attention to my other apparitions? No darling, you're not the non-exister, that's just my mental cyst. Every now and again a thought'll bump it. And like a four-piece fold (like Mad Magazine) it'll hide again. No honey, you're the drop in the toilet. It's not my fault, I think I still need you. You're also constantly ahead of tangents followed and spoken. I now understand why mystics and secret societies get along so well. Who wants everybody to like their own favorite song?