|
| BUMMER, GUYS: I'M STUCK IN AN ARRANGED MARRIAGE. MY PARENTS ARE HITCHING ME OFF TO THE WEATHER. I KNOW, TOTAL DRAG, RIGHT. THE WEATHER IS SUCH A CHEAP DATE. HE ONLY TAKES ME TO THE MOVIES WHEN IT RAINS BECAUSE THERE'S A FIVE-BUCK SPECIAL. AND THAT'S NOT THE WORST OF IT. I HEARD THE WEATHER DOESN'T EVEN WASH HIS OWN CAR. HE PAYS SOMEBODY ELSE TO DO IT. SO IMAGINE THIS FORECAST, ME CONDENSATING LIFE, BAREFOOT AND MID-CYCLE, WHILE HE DRIVES US IN HIS JEEP THROUGH HOT WAX AT THE CAR WASH. ALL I'D LIKE IS A NICE DINNER AND A BUGGY BATH. ALL I'D WANT IS FOR HIM TO BUILD A DECK IN OUR BACKYARD FOR WHEN IT'S NICE OUTSIDE SINCE WE CAN'T GO TO THE MOVIES. I WANT THE WEATHER TO GET HIS HANDS DIRTY. THAT'S NOT TOO MUCH TO ASK, I SHOULD KNOW. I'VE GOT A CREDIT LIMIT LIKE YOU WOULD NOT BELIEVE.
On another note, I feel it appropriate to remark here that I'm about 45% sure I might die today. I'm no longer spry or "with it" enough to write manifestos on here like I used to -- those ideologies turned out to be useless in the past year or so anyway -- and I'm looking at a slow procession (three) of well-dressed, bored-looking black girls at Temple's computer lab at 4 in the morning. So I think a numbered list of evidence is the best form.
- Thursday: While I'm drunk and walking up the stairs at a house a lot like the dream I had once, I stopped to say hi to Margot. She looks me in the eye and, with a smile, tells me that I'm going to die. I assume she meant in an overall sense, which just left me with a big duh reaction, and it only seems important now.
- Saturday: A bird shows up in Francis's room at the same house, with no explicable entry-point: no open window, no hole in the ceiling to the attic. It's like the bird came from another dimension, and Francis even has a hard time describing what the bird looked like.
- Monday: I get a large tea for my Creative Acts workshop at 4:00 because it's relatively late in the day, and I don't sleep much anymore since I got my own bedroom in Philadelphia. It's TAZO tea, and the flavor is "Awake": a black English breakfast tea meant to "invigorate at any time of day." It has a fortune inside of it, which I find pretty quaint, that tells me that my future is hazy, but that the clouds will part on Thursday. After getting multiple different bags of TAZO tea -- all flavors really -- since then, not a one has a fortune on it. I don't remember a fortune being on any bag before this either. I'm drinking the same brand and flavor (Awake) right now. It's making me wanna puke.
So three reasons don't really mean it's the end of me, I know, but can you blame me? I've been an English major dabbling in Linguistics, I've been taking acid and watching TV, I've been seeing logos for channels as potential Pagan hieroglyphics; meaningful symbols kept hold of through the ages as a means of evoking entities that date before Christ. Just think of England before the Anglo-Saxons, and Stonehenge. It's enough. I know how crazy that sounds, go read The Crying of Lot 49 and tell me how crazy I sound. Fucking stupid. I'm sitting at the TECH center with all these books open, wishing I had my copy of Tacitus's Germania just so I could read the parts about animal sacrifice and wild, pubescent sex ceremonies where the village watches kids lose their virginity by the light of flame. "The [Proto-Germanians] dislike peace, for it is only in war that renown and booty can be won. In peacetime, the warriors idle about at home, eating, drinking, and gambling, and leaving the work of the house and of the fields to women, weaklings, and slaves. They are extremely hospitable, to strangers as well as to acquaintances, but their love of drinking often leads to quarrels. They are monogamous, and their women are held in high esteem. The physical type is everywhere the same: blue eyes, reddish hair, and huge bodies. The normal dress is the short cloak, though the skins of animals are also worn; the women often wear linen undergarments." These are our ancestors, folks, they made our language branch and major syntactical aspects of how we communicate with one another, which is really who we are at the end of the day.
I've got about six and a half hours until three 80-minute classes back-to-back, two of which have quizzes. I still have about six chapters of material to read, which means I'm dicking someone over today, and it will not be me. 24 hours from now, I'll be passed out somewhere, probably dreaming myself as a Proto-Germanian, except I think I would want to be a weakling, just as long as it meant I got to bone a huge-bodied woman in front of grunting drunks in the light of flame and that I'd never know what the internet ever was ever.
| | |
| i've seen you two or three times cosi, twice during the day, and
tonight...walking past cosi as i was staring out the window. i'm really
not tryin' to creep on you, but i am quite inlove with that mustache. i
don't think i'm your type at all, but maybe we can go out for coffee
sometime and discuss the various degrees and levels of facial hair, as
well as good grooming techniques!
to describe myself, well, i'm always lookin' like a hot mess in my cosi uniform. haha.
| | |
| Everyone outside the window,
"I got tested! I got tested!"
I get it blue mask I get it cascading tile
"I'm gonna die in this frickity Beverly
Hills!" Pouring, seeching
and slap here
stating
completely
for thirty seconds
really strong
it'll be really strong for thirty seconds
the curls and the rotting baby skin
and the floaters
on string in front of the projector
that'll all just squeeze under and over and in
and the rush will be
the rush will be there OK
I can't lie to you
it'll slick over and under and it
it the rush will be there
the rush will be OK
I can't lie to you
it'll make a little dent
just form the rush being there
but itll be OK
I cant lie to you
itll happen twice
twice the rushll be there
but itll be ok
i cant ly 2 u
itll only come on nites lyk ths
on nyts lyk ths the rshl b thr
but itl b ok
i cnt ly 2 u
ovr & undr
itl b thr
itl b ok | | |
|  | Currently
Vinyan
By Emmanuelle Béart, Rufus Sewell, Julie Dreyfus, Petch Osathanugrah, Amporn Pankratok
see related |
And all this time bonejock
thought we were gonna die alone bonejock
hammer into the sphincter-sanctum
tell me toddering deep into
three spank holes
three snakes
swallowing
all hail the god of the great come-down
lakes expand into laps
into the seats of chairs
the dripping seats of actual jeans
Michigan
and again
and again all this time bonejack
thought we were gonna die alone bonejack
a pipeline toward
a cavity
a century of black mouth sewn-leather
screaming
all bow to the crown of the boy mtn
slack-reached and
say nothing speak
to the ones with long shirts
brown ones and
empty-glass wonder ones
the tall-haired mountain peak ones
the scary nightmare-shouldered ones
and twos and threes and force
and all this time banejack
thought we were gonna die alone banejack
a newspaper
a shaved head waiting
outside a bathroom and in mostly dark colors
there is never
there is nothing to
where you wandered off
all praise of the man who gathers cigarette butts
wake up sweating with shit-
tinted nails
the spaghetti stench and MSG spice
dipped into a morning juice
pointing with the stench of
assholes and apples
and all this time camejack
thought we were gonna die alone camejack
all raise to the woman who leaves cakes for squirrels
gestured and peckered
one thousand nights over
waking up on the stomach
wrists folded over the groin
underwear stained yes
thin as leaves
all sing of the birds who try in vain to swallow
and all this time comejock
thought we were gonna die alone comejock
a house
in the woods
a tree and a squirrel
the squirrel stows and sleeps inside
the tree's bark carving
initials into the backside
a house
in the woods
a cat and a dog
thrown in the sack with snake
and chimp travel down river
float until drowning
and all this time cumjock
thought it would die alone cumjock
a house in the woods and
a tree and the wind
the Mexican soldiers weep at the roots
the breath is felt
on the nape of some
branches
a house in the woods
a house in the woods
the concrete ramp and the deathly despair
there is not here
there is not now
there are cherry gashes stomped
in the stickling soil. | | |
|
