Brushing Teeth with Lightning in the Rain

“Only the dead can say something about the living… sometimes.”

-          Sonnevi

…and she is not just miserable, but proud of her misery.  She loves to complain, and loves nothing more than complaining about how much she complains.  She is excited by the noises, hints at chaos in her bones, like a cow who figures that the lush of duckweed down by the crick is the only murky way out of this pasture.  Her body.  Your body.  There’s no way out.  She returns to the body, and ever again, slowly despairing, ever averted.  Until gloomy, and extinguished…

“You must have a goal,” says Mann.  When you’re ^up you’re a cloud blown away and when you’re _down you’re the dust blown away.  Without direction you’ll never be more than you are in the moment. THE MOMENT.  No matter what you’re doing, if you’re only ever really involved with your own ideas and emotions it’s an equation that’s not going to work itself out.  It has to be more than just you.  Be quiet and take the picture.  Matsyasana, momma…

Subdue the mind.  Chain it with discipline.  Work, responsibility, a goal, the objective.  Getting up without dizziness in the decossating rays of morning sun.  Embrace the union, the holistic unanimity of all creation.  We don’t stand set apart from the wracked and wailing storms of creation, they are us.  You!  Me!  Artists don’t transcend the ever-multiplying dance, art does.  Art Garfunkle.

Disclaimer: Last night we became a decade.  I was destroyed.  Torn apart into tiny forms which were then separated out, swallowed, expunged, exploded... The elation of freefall.  A remarkably coruscating swirl of birds, an abstract mandala.  Pass the hat.  First time I ever read the word quadrumvirate: 2/8/16. What killed us was rotting fruit.  Kierkegaard’s snuffbox. The window’s still open.  Our lungs breathe a long sex poem.  It’s Junyasar, dad…

Through tumblr-falling scrolls my appetite for platitudes erects, like a groangut Eiffel tower [erected in Paris, 1889, Las Vegas 1999].  Eat your preferences.  Unmanifest karma.  I reach to count the missing pens and keys in my pocket.  “Like a memory counting its dead,” Says Cortazar.  Nothing is really happening, nothing is going to happen.  Nothing ever happens.  Your ego is Donald Rumsfeld.

Endure the wonder of survival or get stuck running red, doing bedtricks.  Enjoy the touches of flying generosity, or stop waiting for things to happen.  Warm your hands on the burning embers of our lost summerflower yellow dreams, or better yet be still on the sittingstones of permanent eternal glowering gonowhere. I’ll wager your mood juice that the connection in the walks through the Highgate back fields are stronger than those of the Hoskins computer lab.  Everything is open.  Grow your brain like the hillslumbs of Fakfak.

What a baffling profusion of things.  What a provincial, small-minded world view, with a smug belief that all is good in the world.  To say that we’re looking for answers in my mind is not to say that in my mind we’re looking for answers. "I'm not quite right at all, am I?" asked Bowie. What spiderweb wrongs and inasmuch rights.  What depths past the shallow shorelines of time.

One can be blinded by such illuminancies.  Sandy, upon arrival in Paris, “I don’t believe I’m in Paris.  Is this Paris?”

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Blog 368- On Drowning Tigers

Even if I came over right now and knocked down your door and ripped off your clothes and did you right there on the floor until you bled and I'd finished I'd roll over sweaty and still miserable. Groaning. She speaks and the wind roared across a rant of graves. She sleeps like an infant, burning and freezing and shreiking and she doesn't even know any of it.

She sleeps when she speaks to me now.
She speaks in my head.
Sometimes

I walk through your old turf awash in the past. My how you have moved on, climbed out, always teetering on the verge of some torrential meltdown that you'd rain down on me. You moved fast, like a heavy summer cloud and I think back. You were always silver-paced, a regular Diana the huntress, never really wanting in, but pleased to toy with the invitations.
No clocks on any walls I see. My shoes are an anathema metronome. Tapping the little shiver of the poor here close to the wood and liquid fire. Oily walls dripping with acetylenic paranoia. I rub my eyes. This is a bar. These are my thoughts. Dredging them out like crystalline scimitars in a swampy sludge. Every time I find one it cuts me.

Shoot.
Shot.
She

rings against my ear asking where I'm going.
" I'll flock to the darkest place. "
"Will you at least try to keep warm?"
" No, it's as cold as they get. "

How close can you really get to a person? So close they live in you and you cease to exist? A puppet loves their lover's hand up their ass. At least I can smile. People pass like gadflies and there exists in each of them a little unreachable soul and in that I find solace. How can I empathize with everyone and still go unnoticed... still not exist?
The wind off the great bay suppresses. As if all eternity were condensed against me, a tiny illuminate yellowed scrap on the ground, just trying to breathe. Sleepdriving. Drowsy feet. I've seen too much. I've felt too much. Now I lay me. Now I lay me. Now I lay me.