counterclockwise
X+Y=Me.
X=The text. The text is the unknown, or ambiguous quantity we’re seeking to discover.
The text when combined with its apparent intention (Y), equals “me.” That is, the “me” (usually the reader-writer) engaged with the text defines the text’s intention. Each “me” will likely uncover a different intent from the text when engaging it.
From this formula we can also deduce that if one subtracts the text’s intention from the self, all that remains is the text.
Therefore (of course), if one subtracts the text from the self what remains is pure intention.
What we have here is a formula relating the text and its intention with the identity of the individual engaging with it:
I grew tired of my family
and emigrated
but they followed
I grew weary of my animality
and became sophisticated
yet still farted after meals
I grew somnolent in God
nurturing a fiend
but wickedness was too much work
I did not know you
or myself, so
my conquest was imperiled
I was ignorant of This
and my occupations were
unfinished and demanding
So finally, growing tired of growing
fatigued I became artificial, a drink
overwhelming the world
And disappeared
The dog and I range a vacant path, nocturnity charging us with joyous alarm. You and your pussycat pilot through the enciente erection, the sunshine within you revealing mournful serenity.
I adore the mutt and perceive its lust, disregarding my own. You spurn a kitten and cheapen your affect, citing its alternative.
It deficates near a refuse bin in the rear way, unique among the innumerable lanes we’ve been haunting. She urinates absent the package behind a decimated structure, the one edifice we haven’t shunned.
The path’s commotion is far from our obscure space. A lull, alien to the boulevard, isn’t dear to your time beyond the daylight. Voters cavort blithely, enlightened by shop windows and greed. Outsiders mime sorrow, dimmed by clouds of creosote and repulsion.
We abide in the dimness, floating sans volition as neither of us purposes it, not I or the pooch.
They journey off into a radiance, sinking, electing something despite knowing nothing, either a feline or you.
J’adore le chien, et tu la chatte deteste.
We piss together quietly. Divided, they obstreperously shit. I beleaguer what will emerge from it, the canid I believe, as you observe yourself composing that which won’t conclude the felid you observe.
He’s a diminutive dreaming wad of sandstone irrelevance lying near a palmetto by the pier, illumined by a common beam as I guard him. She’s abundant, the honeyed fiber exceeding her seed in the eye of the storm, obscuring the fact her cat’s playing violently beneath her.
He stirs and we abandon the green for the concourse of neon-lit roaming, rummaging for something, anything, but nothing is here.
She slips into sleep as we enter from an alley, or off of a structure against glum shadow squatting, lingering despite the nothingness, knowing something is elsewhere.
First, it’s daylight. I think it’s summer, but I’m not musing or vivid.
You’re ousted, minus your kitty, in clear light from a lady’s cubicle for misplacing two enormous, short-haired cats and a couple of adults, who are forging mature banalities off air beyond a dim corridor sunk with joy.
As parents and pets, they do battle, but I was disciplined at University. Vanquished and confused, I can’t locate the rear anew, subsequent my achievements there.
We descend to circle Main Street in the gloom of its many alleyways. We overhear peddlers scheming hopefully, claiming they’ve just gussied up the square. They’re geared to gloriously impound it with a myriad of faithful rites, baptizing it a convenient commercial zone for hard-working consumers.
Traffic is bound to bulge and boom, they cackle.
Thankfully, I am invisible to them as the old man remains forever absent, hoarding his nescience of the lucent hallucinations they can’t deposit.
Emerging from the radiance, he cedes all but himself. Their senses are quickly littered, and you feel violated.
A youthful woman roves briefly with us, yielding her notions of the puzzling metal objects we keep coming across. She evaporates in the shadows, taking them with her.
Our milieu is abruptly emptied, and I feel alone, but you aren’t lost in sexuality, weeping over cocktails. You can nevermore surrender the elsewheres alien to you, rising from your realm of silence to hark at street beasts, deaf to this and that.
We’re going to seal and drape her, mute her dint and spew her from our sac into a less morbid furtherance.
You lament that we catch her. So I am impelled, with the mutt, to exit obscurity and enter a strange man’s condo. He has two rather tiny, hirsute dogs and a pair of androgynous, cherubic-faced children. We watch television in a well-lit room buoyant with happiness as the kids and canids play.
Enfin, je perceivus la nuit partout.
Here you sense materiality is summer, vis-à-vis oblivion.
Mission exposed
revealing how flash seekers
revisit their starkness
having assassinated
nobody
Those with a need to know
who knew the undeed
must disappear
Dark horse sprouts vanilla frosting full of ice-lightening from invisible bobbing lamp bulbs projecting visions from somewhere behind and above me threatening nothing more than their unobservability.
I personify kinetic stillness vibrating juices with thought:
To lease or to purchase? I have the cash for the purchase, but why not save the cash and rent the car?
I want to own my own new car now. I want to own my own new car. I couldn’t own my own new car before, but now I can.
I now have the cash to own one, but why not save the cash and rent the nice new car now? To lease or purchase my nice new car? To lease or purchase it?
Now, if I lease it, I’ll have more cash, but won’t own my own new car now. I want my own new cash and my own new car. Now I want to own my own new things including my own nice new car, but I also want to keep the cash I got now. I want to own my own nice new things now. But I also want the cash I got.
Now:
The bulbs behind me illuminate her and the bar. Everything’s covered with vanilla paste, and Mr. Oui-Oui’s still frothing at the mouth. Milk flies everywhere bathing stools, wreath and corner post.
She continues trying to help me decide. It seems she has a stake in the matter. Despite all her blonde-haired cuteness and Midwestern charm, she’s a femme fatale on commission.
Never before has such a spewing of health emerged from Mr. Oui-Oui, grasped tightly in my fist.
Reality appears as an old color film from the sixties. The hues are faded and gouges appear where sky and her flesh were once depicted. The t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t of the projector rattles lightly in my ears, animating objects moving like squirrels.
Outside the open door of the cabin, the sunlight beyond molests not my inner space; the bright world’s luminescence forms trees and butterflies in mid-day sunshine, echoing the silence and dust of my dimness.
Never before in my story has so much frosting come from Mr. Oui-Oui, and he’s still at it. He’s in love with the object. It’s pure joy:
To lease or to purchase?
He’s in love with the object.
To lease or to purchase?
It’s pure joy:
The way between
the same place
she said, among
the tongue, here
where survival or
extinction become
War, the same way
where always
there is
Tao there is
Tongue, then
loss
Awareness sunders the gravid continuance from our vision of eternity, suspecting the Gadget is Itself. Musing dulcifies our pubic contents in liquid prayer, the vapor feel of brio swellinging to work our G-spot: A catholic murkiness punctuated by commodities sketched in neon.
The creatures above us are full. An acclivity.
Greyness grinds everywhere.
Mom and Pop are elsewhere beyond the vertex. Saints nor siblings nowhere below a nadir.
Darkness above, light below.
The pampas. Underside contrivances grate hungrily. The peculiar radiance gleams lavishly on minions expunged by tattle.
My assemblage of vacuity and dimness are bounds sketched in neon feeling themselves scraped bare by the metallic backhoe, the dense vibration of machinery braying, substance scratching claws down my soul’s exit ramp:
Will without depth known. But they’re in the muck beyond the mountaintop. You’re flowing from lake level. I crave my parents’ return and comfort from this torment.
The freak, a corporate clothed septuagenarian, gaily exits his macho many floors above his infantile feebleness.
An infant-suckling in swaddling clothes snares the acclivity in dread, bearing monstrous force.
You repel your issue, quitting for that nagging indulgence.
I’m cleaving to edge of tier.
So, we’re in the lamp in the blindness of the deep.
Queasiness of pit, unfathomed:
Nauseated, I dangle over the unprobed abyss fully aware that meaning has been permanently dismissed. Things are only thoughts of themselves, clinging to nothingness in the existence.
Commerce enlightens our void.
A truly frightened child possesses great power.
Normality is defined by the statistical average. Only mother can make it go away.
Nothing exists beneath the bottom.
Hope aspiring images in the heavens, on the ethereal steppe, to shine down on the lost and peculiar:
Meditation sweetens your flesh and sensuality, setting off flashbulbs in the deep.
The bloodthirsty gods are drunk and have left us hanging here--the poor, unfortunate, misbegotten wretches of their capricious orgies.
Our true parents exist beyond the Milky Way.
Hypocrites become who they believe they are, escaping reality.
Heaven’s down there somewhere if shit rolls down hill, Hell’s gotta be up. No one shits in Heaven.
There’s a lake forming at the foot of the river, and I can smell you rising from it.
I am emptiness and form, tangled in ignorant sentience, gooseflesh erodes my sensitivity.
Will without deception known:
She--this pried-
open radiance--this dalliance
inciting that foreign sun
the wispy strumming where
somberness lies
This indulgence
not all yours
or theirs or mine
but hours spent
actively intensely
fucking inebriately
liberally fornicating
Being specific for silly men
Being vanity
a smile on the half-breath
coldly existing
which no longer
compels
Obliging
I’m trudging clockwise round a sunlit city block focusing on rifts in the sidewalk. A hip high red brick wall segregates my orbit from the blacktop that dips to a bare drain hole at its core. Cars and vans are parked in intermittent spaces around it. It’s autumn, and an exotic glow glitters the lowering air.
At the corner, I turn right and march nether a tree branch, something of a curbside bower, its green epicurean leaves whisk the crest of my skull as I stride below them.
It’s summertime. The structure soars to my right on the other edge of the parking lot, molesting a heavy sky. Now there are seven foot high wrought iron bars bursting from the waist high brick wall separating the walkway from the parking lot. I attain the gate and the stall where the attendant, a nattily dressed black man in a starched, military pressed security guard uniform nods at me as I go by. I smile and wave. When I do so, I note that I’m decked out in a gray business suit. I discern the plastic squeaking of Florsheim wingtips beneath me on the sidewalk. Pits of concrete nettle the soles of my feet. As I mark my apparel, I gulp. My Adam’s apple is restrained from its alfresco distension, garroted by a Jerry Garcia necktie. I motioned with my right hand because in my left hand I’m carrying a briefcase. My God: I’m carting a briefcase.
I persist in my clockwise ambulation of the block by turning right anew at the next bend and begin closing in on the structure I’ve been curiously avoiding. Its small grass lawn rimmed with potted flowers enlivens its uniglass foyer. I enter through a revolving glass door and detect its counterclockwise rotation. Gazing down a corridor to my right: Sol shines velvety sapphire hues through a glass wall from the street and sky beyond. A ubiquitous glow warms the lobby as dust flits charmingly along the separated sun beams. It’s hard to judge, in toto, from whence the radiance dawns.
An old ally hails me and we take a stroll around the ground floor of the skyscraper. Outside light illuminates our counterclockwise rotation about the building. I tell my friend I need a job. We both know I’m not qualified. I don’t even know geometry, for God’s sake. I tell my friend I’m an akuta, that what I don’t know about draftsmanship, I can make up for on the main frame fixing big ones down at the plant. He grins and shakes my hand.
We’re back at the spinning glass doors. An even older friend, a kid I used to call Dutch Boy, now dressed in a beige business suit and brown tie emerges from where my escort emerged when I entered the building. He ignores me and continues his clockwise rotation around the interior base of the structure.
Dutch Boy, I yell, but he’s deaf.
I realize I’m no longer holding my briefcase, but an invisible pole instead. It’s very hard, and seems to defy gravity. I begin raising and lowering it as I please while watching Dutch Boy disappear down the corridor to my left. I shake hands with my escort throughout the whole ordeal.
When I turn back to him, I notice he’s no longer my escort, but a blond-haired, blue-eyed Adonis, smiling faintly and asking me, sincerely, if I really wanted to do this. I notice he’s naked and I feel attracted to him. As I start speaking to him, a strange man, tall with black plastic framed glasses, brown suit and brown brush cut rushes up to me, hand extended. The way everyone’s responding, in formal panic, he’s the boss. He pumps my hand and leads me out of the erection through the counterclockwise spinning glass doors. He’s very jovial.
So, you want to be a draftsman, do you?
I’ll be the best damned draftsman you’ve ever seen, I say.
He laughs.
Not today, son. Not today.
We’re the same age.
You’re funny, he calls after me, as I begin my counterclockwise rotation back around the block, at the base of the towering skyscraper, from whence I came.
I’m alone on the sidewalk until Adonis, still naked, exits the building. Somehow, he’s threatening and repulsive in the daylight.
Say it. Say it, he taunts, quietly but mercilessly. You want to hold it. You want to hold it in your hand. You want to stick it up your arse, don’t you?
I wave my invisible wand at him. He laughs derisively. I flee down the street to another place of consciousness:
In combat
one vies with
what’s been established
and prevails through heresy.
Whatever:
Now that’s a tedious theme!
Motoring north in my worn out, decaying automobile, I turn right onto a one lane asphalt roadway as I attain the lake. The cerulean surges thrash and chasten the rim to my left. The cattails in the bog to my right swing low the lashing whip of the northerlies. Eastward, my car tames a modest slope. There’s a road off to the right, heading into the marshes. This time, however, I don’t take it. The next thing I know, I’m heading west again.
Somehow, my car gets turned around, or maybe the world spun counterclockwise beneath it as if it were the north pole, and now, as I go downhill, I see a beach full of sleepers and swimmers through isochronal oak trees, at peace with the coming storm. The bulk of swimmers are waist deep in water holding their hands out before them like zombies as the waves crash against their backs. A minority of dim dots dip smoothly beyond them in the fluid tempest. I dream of sleepers dreaming me as we snooze on our beds and beaches. They seem dark skinned, but it’s impossible to tell what color they really are, especially in this light. They are all curiously clothed in pale earth tone t-shirts, even those in the water. The littoral is divided into sections by segments of trees sown into earthen piles that jut out into the lake. The marsh remains unsegregated, though roads seem to scar its belly with stone and blacktop. There is no sun and it’s cold, but I feel a strange urge to join the swimmers. I too will remain dressed. There’s something holy about swimming here, yet my dip is not to be. I abandon the littoral road, turning left to retrace my way southbound to an earlier locale:
The village. There’s something I need to do here. I get out of my car and enter an old dilapidated building on a deserted street corner. There’s no one around. A southerly gust swirls dust and old newspapers about the street and sidwalk. The signal in the crossway sways to and fro in the gale, swinging neath an abhorrent lemon sky. I enter the building. Its wooden floor is dirty, but not one board creaks from the weight of my steps. The wood could just as well be stone for all its silence. To my right lies customer service, a room accustomed to queues. One must descend three steps to attain its level. There’s a long, dark brown counter there, with glass block windows set high up in the white walls behind it. The room’s colors lie in a spectrum between dark brown and white, appearing fuzzy in the dull illumination.
The next chamber resembles a gallery. Empty glass top tables contain no artifacts. I sense that myself and this structure are the only true relics here. I migrate from the room to the corridor, which gets narrower and bends to the left. At its end, a door opens wide, emitting light. I enter a cage and it dips abruptly to the left. About ten feet down is the floor. A custodian watches me oddly. Somehow, I’m not surprised to see him there. He’s almost expected and smiles as if he knows me. I feel I’ve been caught. I think I know him also, but I’ve never seen him before. Then I note that this is a crumbling auditorium with red, blue and gray seats torn asunder, knives having eviscerated the cushions. Trash is strewn about the seats. On the floor below, a ruined podium stands. It seems someone gave a speech and a mosh pit broke out. I feel it was me, somehow, who gave the speech. I give great speeches. Suddenly, the auditorium begins filling with murmuring young people. Students? Is someone finally going to hear me?
The whole building is astir. It’s no longer an artifact. It’s a living, breathing bureaucratic machine. It’s not just a school, auditorium or museum. It may be village hall.
I exit the hold and return to the corridor I was in before. Except now, I’m not at the end of a hallway that bends to the left and stops. It’s a major corridor that keeps on going until it reaches the building’s other externality.
I exit the cage and turn left down the portion of the corridor that did not seem to exist before, and end up entering a small, cramped office.
Brusque old women with blue and silver coiffed hair wear horn-rimmed glasses that slide down their noses as they work behind the counter, less than an arm’s length away from their cigarettes, coffee and doughnuts.
Fat chicks crowd round, pushing and shoving each other to feed off their elders.
I elbow my way through the soft sea to a blue haired matron.
I’d like to work here.
There’s no jobs for the likes of you, she spits.
She would make a good judge and executioner if she wasn’t so busy here.
I leave and go out to where I parked my car, but now there’s a bridge by it. The bridge crosses some rapids to the south. The road on the other side disappears into a tangled forest.
Young boys hang around my car with nothing else much better to do. They throw rocks into the rapids and occasionally kick at my tires. They have short hair, white t-shirts, round pink tummies, and short pants that go down to their knees.
I ask them a garbled question, and they point to the other side of the bridge as if they understand perfectly.
I say something else and they laugh.
What I’m looking for isn’t here, but I like this place anyway. I’m comfortable here, but still get into my car.
Moments later, I’m crossing the bridge:
The moon fits like skin
if your heart is the sun.
Mind is that dim stitching
A relation.
Which ruler has the Tao?
The boulevard beyond is burlesqued in a spherical reflection, bending space like Escher’s globe. You haven’t fouled the sable bike; it’s your Harley, yet it isn’t.
A corridor within isn’t vivified beyond the cube’s obscure substance, marking rhythm by which to chuck tact.
I’ve been laving a white car; it’s not my Escort, but it is mine.
The naked branches of the Japanese elm enlist as asymmetric frames for a splintered and distant actuality. We weather nature, our bliss is in ignoring you, atoned and beaming out there in the harvest moonshine. A leafy peduncle alien to Irish potatoes takes creamy matters vis-à-vis the firm or nighing image.
They squat in their gloom observing me leer at them, debunked in gray sunlight. I’m not finished washing my car, and my opposition swells.
We trim our bosom:
None huge, one dead, zero black, double true. Gladness wanes.
They wear windbreakers:
One blue, one red, two white, one yellow. They seem to be diverting me.
Five of us endure on a picnic board in the driveway, mooning you. We are their focus.
Five of them perch in lawn chairs in the garage, facing me. I can’t get my work done. Their lips stir, but I shall not do their bidding. Pop hoists his tin of ale at me and they all gape at him, tittering consent. My father’s there, but who are the rest of them? I suppose one of them is my mother, but the only thing I know for sure is that the bricks, and my house, yes; this is my driveway and my house, or my mother’s house, I live here, and the garage is filled with ghosts who pass judgment on me as they succeed in distracting me from the simple chore at hand:
The white car won’t come clean!
Existent colleagues! Our subject is here! Our ears freeze, and we’re no longer obeying.
Mom demits from me her glass of wine, those of us invisible to her weep in discord.
In fact, it’s gone. You impart an exotic, pinched idiocy to us. I take in a wide angle assessment of them. Dead neighbors? Your mother’s here, and what isn’t she after all?
A paranoid sickliness dawns as the only abstraction in your sensibility, your children and co-workers stand glaring outside screaming coherent truths strange to you.
The red brick garage seems to be the only tangible article in sight. Obscured in mist, my parents and neighbors mutter garbled bromides about me.
We stockpile the dubious knowable blindnesses alien to you. They partake a special unknowable view of me.
You can give your play a start. You feel many of us aren’t your father, and that many things you’re unaware of--like the garage’s occupants…
Or the driveway, no, that isn’t your garage or address, and your father’s address, you’ll die there, or the bricks ain’t emptied without bodies that keep an open mind about you after we fail at focusing you on a complex theme to come:
A black bike will go dirty!
A cryptic shape prods my ass out of the driveway.
Nobody hasn’t held your bike east of a street with no walls standing.
Someone’s motored my conveyance westward to the driveway two doors down.
One isn’t moving here within one’s self, beyond others.
Is this my ex-car ossuary? It’s a womb for your future sorrows!
His home has green siding. He’s heading there, oblivious to my swelling anger.
The young woman minus sable skin, strange to the ally’s naked black aliens, is ambiguously coming to the street, or’s returning from her foreign land.
It’s parked there by a shiny dark gray F-150, behind the old lime green ‘69 Buick Sport Wagon.
Her yard ain’t nothing her bike ain’t from.
A familiar man with snowy whiskers, one of the garage’s white frocked denizens, has egressed ostensibly from the garage and is going home.
She can’t be Minnifred Mugrump.
His dwelling’s where my car’s sitting.
Her street has no brown interior. She leaves here, curious about your contracting peace.
How dare he? She dares!
He must be Wilfred Mugrump.
The concrete abstraction you sense leads you away from your street.
The garage’s occupants warn me telepathically that it’s Cassady’s turn to wash his car as some outsiders conceal the fact that nothing’s really pure.
The driveway is no longer mine. Every path is invariably hers. I’ve lost my spot to Neal Cassady. You ain’t drained sans focused rhapsody. He can whip me, but doesn’t. Your meat hasn’t scorned you (or your pure ebon hog) as worthy, deflating you into bliss.
He’s too concerned with his ‘57 Chevy. She can’t fail you, but does. My ghosts have deemed me and my dirty white car unworthy, and it makes me madder than hell.
You crave not to hurl your chaste machine, musing vainly or sweetly, and elsewhere emerges from the time you weren’t squatting in dark delight, eased from your folly, suffering as a worthy spirit by those with plenty.
I’m filled with nebulous rage.
You detest life because nobody’s alive to love you.
I want to kill, but everyone’s already dead to me, mocking me.
You didn’t get your beat from Old Bull Hubbard.
Neal washes his car obliviously in the autumn grayness, chewing a toothpick with the sleeves of his white t-shirt rolled up onto his shoulders exposing his cord-like biceps.
Old Bull omnisciently coats your motorcycles in seedtime semen, swallowing the pistol barrel in a gray pinstriped business suit that buries his skeletal form.
I intend to fetch my unclean car, feeling embarrassed and dirty, but every direction I go leads to the place I’m at, standing white with rage and frustrated in my task, judged unworthy of execution by those without need.
She neglects her Harley:
Do you hear
the sadness
in what you did
How it crumpled the form
dehydrating that bloom
in your palm’s resentment
How, like a nugget’s fugue,
it slid on moist pavement
the way a crutch drops
At the end
the configurations of response
are inexhaustible
You’re hired. Right this way. Take your shoes off. Put on these. You have to wear this.
I put on the strange white booties and lab coat.
Are you disinfected? Sit here with the others and wait.
I wait. The others sit similarly dressed in silence waiting at the long conference table in the center of the main office area. Cubicles are divided into units by rug covered dividers like cow pens. Moo. Ferns are everywhere, photos of loved ones stare at vacant desks. The senior staff is in a meeting down the hallway behind air sealed glass doors. At the end of the corridor I see some of them sitting around a table. Each time I move someone new comes out to tell me to sit still.
Lunchtime: The glass doors unseal themselves with a swoosh. We pass through them and turn left. We enter the cafeteria in single file and grab plastic trays and silverware. The cafeteria is opposite the room in which the big shots are meeting. We’re served red jello. I take mine out to where I was sitting before, but somehow I lose my portion. Perhaps someone took it from me. I don’t know. It just disappeared. I turn around and return to the cafeteria. I tell the Latino serving the jello that I lost mine.
It’s my sister’s, he says.
I turn to leave and I’m accosted by a tall buxom brunette who’s dismissed herself from the meeting. It’s her turn.
I lost my jello, I tell her.
It’s his sister’s. Go sit down.
I return to my seat hungry. I’m beginning to wonder what the nature of this work is. No longer able to contain my curiosity, I start to rise from my seat. The glass doors open and the brunette comes out. I’m her special project now.
Please, remain seated.
I sit back down and she returns to her meeting. Now my curiosity is turning into impatience. I want to know what I’m doing here. I can’t just leave because my shoes and coat are behind the sealed glass doors. I decide that I’ve had enough. I get up from my seat and approach the glass doors. Much to my surprise they part with a swoosh, and I enter the sanctified area. As I bend over to pick up my shoes, I look down the hallway. The meeting is still going on. As I don my shoes the brunette returns.
What are you doing?
Tell Jim, I assume that’s who it is who hired me, but, in fact, I’ve no idea who did, but anyway, tell Jim I quit.
The brunette looks at me like I’m crazy to be leaving such a great job.
I know I just started, but I’m uncomfortable here, I say while tying my laces.
I turn to measure the brunette’s response, but she’s gone. I exit the glass doors and pass the long conference table where my colleagues sit silently eating their red jello in white lab coats and booties. They look at me as if I’m nuts, but I feel the ferns know otherwise. I have the sense to know I’m leaving a real opportunity behind, but I just can’t stand it anymore.
I depart from the building and enter the sunshine, relieved to be free of the situation. The sun’s shining, and I’m happy that I quit. Sanity, or whatever seems to pass for it, slowly returns:
The wound plows
sinking the cave
A fabulous pool of health
gropes for white flour
Waking up, stretching, scratching the dog’s belly, yawning, I gaze at myself in the mirror: five-foot-ten-inches tall and two-hundred-fifty-pounds of bulbous sex and flesh appeal carting around the abused mind of a fucking idiot, whose dharma has him smiling at himself in obscurity.
I hear the sound of blood rushing through my external ears, passing like years of frost in daylight, glowing in its own aural brightness calling me from beyond. Elsewhere a siren beckons me to join the world.
I look out the window and see brown water, as if from a canal, pouring through my neighbor’s garage across the street. It’s flowing into the street which now seems to be a river. Each driveway from each house is supplying water to the growing torrent. Soon, the yards begin filling, the water rises to the height of the cellar windows. A liquid calmness seduces me, and I turn from the window as the siren calls:
I am news
radiantly sinking
eating you slyly
at your harshest
While stars splash
like anthems deep
in your offense
of forgetting me
If you linger
I’ll detain you
If you provoke me
you will not win