4.30.2006










we can't play this game anymore.
they wouldn't understand.
how long have i been here. this wasteland. stranded in the desert. jungle plane crash. it doesn't even matter. yesterday i drank too much and desperately tried to convince myself i was a secret agent. why did they give me this job. it seemed this girl was on a permanent vacation, but no she's not, she's a secret agent. i think the idea was, that if i just go crazy now, i won't have to contend with all the ebbs and flows of grief. the senses of certainty that so quickly evaporate into infant like tendencies. when i'm standing on the pier, staring out at the sea, and i am myself finally, only to be stabbed in the throat by the presence of no one. that inkling of loneliness stirs inside me like a time bomb. and tells me, "you have no one." i try and say, "okay." to be fine with this news. take it like a real man. but it always seems to kick my feet out from under me. i topple into the briny deep. lying at the bottom of the sea, i drown slowly, all the while waiting for the creatures to come devour me, but they never do. i look around, there on the ocean floor, with a great fear in my heart, the anticipation killing me. where are the teeth, the blood, the cracking of bones. nothing. so i simply sit there waiting. for anything to happen.

4.27.2006


look.
the future
wears only
yellow.
the pine belt.
nothing here is healthy.
the south is testing my patience.
making me braindead.
screeching sea gulls and the gnats
come around
bombarding me with asinine conversation
and constant petty squabbles.
this pick-pocket, robbing me even of sleep
with its hot days and night jobs.
i need that unconsciousness
to alleviate my illnesses
the dull aches and pains
and i suppose these social ailments are everywhere
the most unhealthy one is me
and i have a feeling
the moment i can take no more
when the gun is to the temple
one second before the pull of a trigger
i can finally leave.
Adirondacks !


Adirondacks !


Adirondacks !


killing me.
my boss


he stuck around much later than usual. it was uncommon, but pleasant, as i enjoyed our conversations to a vast degree. the dialogue only substantial in the respect that he made me laugh a lot and laughed at what i said. it was a good recreational balance. we sat at the far end of the diner, and he took off his name tag. i've done some terrible stuff today, he said. i played a guessing game as to what could have been so terrible. work related suppositions. all my questions were denied, but he asked me to continue asking because it was fun for him. i gave up. do you promise not to tell anyone, he said. i looked at him blankly, and asked who do i have to talk to. okay. today i locked myself in the office with two girls. two. i was baffled at first. i didn't want to assume what i knew he meant. that he, a married man, a proud parent of two, would so selfishly fondle two young girls in his two by three foot office. i realized why earlier, when i had arrived at work, a joke was made about being locked in the office, and i was subsequently locked in the office with him. we talked politics in the dark. then i felt awkward and opened the door to leave. the space was too tight. and earlier he had assured me in a motherly way that i too have breasts, like a woman should, but referred to them as "boobs." such a nasty word, and what a stupid reference for such a great portion of flesh. at that moment i stared down at my modest chest and cupped my hands over the protrusions. a perfect fit.

i asked him what he planned on doing. what was to come of this incident in reference to his wife. how long had he been married, he is only thirty. seven years, seven year itch, i say. he concludes that he will ignore the situation. i reassure him that this is the obvious and wise choice in the matter, and he should be proud of himself for being so concerned for his wife's emotional state, that he would put it upon himself to refuse to tell her the painful news. wisdom, sir. pure and simple. and while he laughs i explain this is no laughing matter. why is such a grown man so daft. why are ramifications ignored. and how can inexperience tell experience what is right?

parts of me know how i should resent him. i know what betrayal is. i've seen it, and it made me unwillingly befriend what i now know as agony. so where is the disdain? i don't feel it. where is righteousness? where is integrity?

we climb onto the roof, and he boosts me up onto the ladder by palming the left side of my ass. i commend him for his ploy, and say, this isn't about going onto the roof at all. it's completely an opportunity to grope young girls. he assures me that i have a nice ass, and shouldn't be ashamed of the flattery. where do people learn to talk sometimes? we stand on the roof and stare out at our ghost town. a place of nothing but used car lots and gas stations. i smoke apathetically. where does anyone get off?

i ask him if he ever gets a specific random phrase stuck in his head for days. he affirms. i say, the phrase stuck in my head right now is "good old fashion masturbation." how well that rolls off the tongue. i turn to ask a question and he says, here, have some of this. and smashes a triple chocolate cream pie into my face. i pause with confusion, and then instinctively begin to grab the hunks of pudding off my face, and throw in his direction.

we run outside and find ourselves sitting on her car. she says she's going to leave. the idea is, she won't leave if we sit on her car. she puts the car in drive, and accelerates quickly through the parking lot. we look at eachother and simultaneously point out that this is a dangerous situation. she accelerates more. then slams on the breaks. he jumps off, and i remain, only to be thrown quickly into reverse, clinging to the hood of the car.

we sat and drew pictures.

he told me about his son who spots ants from miles away.

i listen attentively. until i'm bored, and begin casually throwing plates on the floor. just to watch them break. to hear a loud noise through all the silence.



main street

one night in all my sadness i sat, in the ancient yellow chair, wrapped in the knitted blue blanket my grandmother had made for me, drinking two bottles of the same red wine. he came into that back room with me, peaked in, and said, i imagine you look just like sylvia plath did before she offed herself. at the time, i took it as a confused compliment.

i'm trying to get past nostalgia. makes times greater. drunk.


where does all this concern come from? oh yeah, i created it.


get out of your boxes

dropping brides at the alter

i shot a man in reno, just to watch him die.

get out of your boxes.



the happiness of others so wonderful and simultaneously heartbreaking. companionship. i want to be alone with this loneliness, so that it's only mine. i want my anonymity.

to say hello how do you do to only strangers, and only once.

knowing no one. i've given up on taking care. nobody gets anything. i am filthy. i know that. there is dirt in my hair and my clothes aren't clean. you don't have to tell me. that part of me cares, only because of how i imagine you would look at me. disgusted. but for the most part, there is no concern for self-preservation. this is hibernation. thoughts come to me while i am working, i don't know where to place them, or don't have time. they eventually evaporate. then i sleep and sleep. and half way through my dreams, i wake to my own overwhelming metal restlessness. it finds me even in sleep! i despair for five minutes, before sleep takes me back again. but that five minutes is a nasty time. this era makes me like the living dead. i've completed a portion of this education, i'm waiting for the rest. it's coming, and i'm waiting. and i'm dead mostly. i can see my own death in dirty fingernails. the fact that i don't shower unless i want to feel water on my body. in my tattered clothing. in my broken shoes. in the mirror when i put on my makeup. the question is, why am i still putting on eyeshadow? the answer is in the bad air. the decided cause of everything sickening.



Adirondacks !

4.23.2006

on this day i smell of oranges, ginger and oregano oil. the giant, ancient oak trees loom overhead like kind older brothers. and the hot southern sun shines behind them, sometimes slivering through and onto my shoulder. i am trying to be patient here. to be peaceful. but the future is too exciting. and i am writhing. sitting still has never seemed like such a difficult task. i am so afraid of waiting too long. will i be too withered, eventually too despondent and discouraged to move. or will i end up let down again. i want to blow all of this out of my brains. there is so much to be done. for this grand novel. that only resonates within myself. how do i do.

4.18.2006

so the handless cab driver, the woman with the wandering eye, butch and i all sat around talking about the bad air. at least six of those cigarette butts were mine.

4.16.2006

[the future.]

so the soup is on again. and it smells really good to her. all we did today was talk words. and i know you're thinking that is what we do everyday. but this is different. she made some serious broth today. we conspired. and for the most part everything is a succulent secret. but there is lots of tedious work to be done. and it is anticipated. there are times to suck life up. not so much like a sponge. more like bacteria. see we're talking words today. and the water isn't boiling as of yet, but will be soon. it's just a matter of waiting. and not watching. because we all know that when one waits for water to boil, it seems to take considerably longer. but she hopes there's something better up there. we're putting my faith in it. and the yeast. and potatoes. in the batter. we'll have to practice patience. and lord knows if this will taste as good as it smells. but he does know it will be nutritious. yes?

we've said the past until it meant nothing.
we're saying future until it means everything.

4.14.2006




















(the future.)


holds cancer in the teeth.
praying on baby boys
and sleeps with only sirens
this is no laughing matter.
i can feel no body now.
no we can't run any farther
any faster
the sickness within us
it already calls us home.



the danger

4.13.2006

the taste is in my mouth again
visions putting me to sleep
i'd like to be a better man
but we don't have a lot of time
it's possible that i am dying
the lumps in my neck growing
so my lover has abandoned me
and my friends destroy my name
i force my skin to shift along the bone
recognizing i have a body
very full of smoke
i want to practice silence
be grateful for my sight
understand that i've been lied to
many times over it seems
i'm only realizing now
who the foolish people are
and how i've let them in
stupid silly sinners
similar to me
but less kind
funny ha-ha
it's funny how my heart was on the line
and you didn't seem to care
so now i'm all thumbs
and gravity is a joke

4.11.2006

feeling comfortably cool in your tiny little town?

brash and modern in your social system
that rotting body

say hello to everyone
for me today
i'm sure you'll see them all
make sure
talk small
and simple.
what am i supposed to do.
i'm not feeling any better.

4.10.2006

there are blood-sucking gnats. i'm smoking them out. they rise. eat steak for breakfast. adults form the habits of children. chocolate milk and pudding cups. does love wait in haunted attics? deep within myself the pointlessness of everything seems quite apparent. i can't do this anymore, and one minute i'm dressing like the future. saying future, speaking future into the camera. fifteen minutes later i'm under the covers. these fits of self-sufficiency. i wish they would last like relentless disease. but it's back and forth. i've always felt small. when i'm lonely it is truth. i am at my smallest. and i am not great. very fragile. don't tell me i am strong you liars. you have no idea what is going on. we need each other. i can't handle the absence of other hands on my head. and the world seems so good. and the fruit all smells so sweet. my bed a better place. and this is where i go to sleep alone. i can make myself be something beautiful for them to look at so they love me. but sometimes when i dream of being loved again it seems so empty. and no one will ever be inside of me. can i open myself wide enough? can i tell you all my thoughts? weep at your feet? and will you hear me. no one will ever know. there's no way out of me. there's no way to let a drop in. despite initial desire. after a time my words won't seem as lovely. my face won't seem sincere. and as i've come to know i will be boring in the eyes of what once held me dear. i will be casual. shall i try harder again? shall i bring them soup again. wash their sheets. try to make a life easier, because i chose to love? did i already write these words. why can't they escape me. like a used breath. but every used breath comes out the same. sometimes more passionate. but amidst the many times we breath, the sighs are far and few between. is that how the phrase goes. okay. okay. okay. i am very tired. my belly tells me i haven't eaten in a long while. let us wash our faces in each other's hands. let us kiss each other's eyelids.

4.08.2006

what do they think about inside those heads of theirs?

it is the daughter's birthday. she wears a violet velvet dress and transparent plastic shoes. the mother takes us to one of the local wal-marts, to get the daughter's nails done, pictures taken. i sat outside watching the parade of sweatpants, smoking cigarettes and painting my nails fire engine red for free. wondering if a portion of my life was ending, a new one beginning. if this were the case, i'd still be thinking about it now, but i'm not, so it must not have been too important. something about being more presentable. put together. but then it was off to the giant buffet restaurant, to stuff our faces. this fat family and i, sitting amongst table after table of the toothless, confederate flag t-shirt wearing people. i watched in disgust, but still ate my portion. plate after plate, mounded high with fried goods. this dining experience of sorts seems never ending. the daughter starts to cry because she can't have more ice cream, more cake, more pie, more chicken. she pouts until she gets her way. there is something about the way she eats that makes my skin crawl. i hate it. the little mouth moving and chewing so viciously. the expression on her face is completely mundane. she stares off, as she furiously shoves the food in her mouth. and it seems she is always eating. every hour of everyday, unless she is sleeping, she's eating. i want to scream. and don't understand this feeling welling up inside me at the sight of a small child, simply eating. but it bothers me to a monumental degree. after dinner, we drive back to the small apartment in the ghetto, to watch some cheap hollywood flick about something trite. heartbreak, overcoming the odds, getting the girl. where am i, the thought often crosses my mind as i try to be appreciative. or at least glean something productive.


my conversation with a middle-aged man covered in skull tattoos, looking inbred, at the diner:

:whatcha listenin to?:
:oh, um, chris clark..:
:oh really, that's perdy cool.:
:..d-do you know, who that is..?:
:w'll yeah! i may be ol, but i's still hip.:
:oh.. i just didn't know.. that a lot of people had heard of him. that's surprising.:
:yup, been listenin to im fer years.:
:he's an electronic artist..:
:i know that!:
: ... :


i continued to fiddle with the little cup of cream on the table, eventually smoking a cigarette, while he stood staring at me. clearly, this man had no idea who chris clark was. why would he say he did? why did he do that? i don't understand at all. but the instance was humorous, and made me vastly uncomfortable. he stuck around to talk with me, attracting more crazies. two other fellows who asked me lots of questions about my computer, but never really gave me time to answer. so there i was, surrounded by older men in dirty clothes with large bellies and no teeth, asking me questions. in the diner.

4.07.2006



softer shoulders


something to tell you. there is a large goldfish scanning the bottom of the tank for food. day in and day out he does this. eating up the brightly coloured rocks and spitting them out again. my left breast holds a better shape than the right. i am very sick. but my shoulders are exceptionally soft. i am freshly showered. and i have a great appreciation for soft shoulders against my cheek. the day is overcast. the curtains are red. the fan is off. and i will sleep now. at one point in life, my favourite time of the day was lying in bed, waiting for sleep to take me. for a long while this became a despised and lonely time, when it should not have been. and now again, this is the best part of day. having so much to think about. so much to create within myself. so much love to feel that doesn't exist. but it does, because i want it to.

4.02.2006

i feel shame. the kind that comes from just existing.


a disembodied fat arm rotates the greeting card rack. i've created distant cousins in the south. and more and more i feel less distant from these people. while they constantly remind me i am different. i have a high school diploma. i've been to college. i don't have children. i am not married. or divorced. the only one who is one. strangely solitary and intellectually isolated. saying strange things and talking to myself constantly. disappearing acts. still trying. still looking for something. not giving up. i'm lending myself too much credit. i have no idea what's going on. but feel the desire to be sleeping in a car again. to be passing through city after town after city. knowing no one. living no real life. i feel a tiredness that sleep alone could not quench. and death now seems so humorous. not existing. just vanishing with the day. there are better people. far far better.

+

i was attempting solitary sleep. as the friends we were, there was crying, and it was winter. we wrapped ourselves in blankets and sat on the stoop outside the front door, without pants. the other front door, and smoked cigarettes, feeling vulnerable. just sitting. and as the friends we were, often times we would sit in the basement, the both of us together, while i cried and asked rhetorical questions about my self-worth. i suppose i should just appreciate the tight skin around my face, while it still holds to the bone. one day it won't so much. and on another day it won't be present at all. just bone. the thrill of leaving has left me. alone to take care of only myself. and often times, i think of my hurt feelings, how silly of a human condition, to contain such grief for something so intangible. but it was tangible. there were hands. and sometimes, but very rarely, i inadvertently find myself imagining the act which affected me so. and inadvertently the knots form inside of me, my stomach and throat spasm with the onset of tears. my body prepares for the outpouring of an emotional state. because something tangible did take place, and i know there was blood pumping inside the veins and organs. deep breaths and wanton signs. mouths sucking salty skin, leaving the marks to witnessed later. all while i slept far away. and i try very hard to keep these thoughts just as far, but occasionally they come to me suddenly, without initiation, like repressed memories that aren't mine. they belong to other people. they must belong to better people, because i'm the one who wasn't there. who was there, but quickly forgotten somehow through substance and darker hair. deeper eyes and intellectual conversation. i didn't know that these things made a constant life disappear into thin air like some fleeting thought about how you have to mail this letter before the post office closes. if i'd known this, maybe i would have been more careful. and i am told of all i have. life is so simple. here is my gratitude, i'm telling you that i have no one now. there will be no received comfort. and when they say i have them, i see the half-hearted feelings behind words i know are true. so now, when they say they love me, i don't care as much. my life is a series of moot points i can do nothing about. there is no pursuit, except within myself, and i'm getting tired already. and knowing that alone will last for a long time makes the spirit predisposed to weariness. it makes for envy, anger and sadness. i don't want to be so cynical! so no, i don't care much for love these days. because it has given me so much, only to leave me for other people. and such is life they say and i believe them. it is truth, but why waste the time. and why should i dance. i'm only sad and dancing. trying to force something inside of myself to feel good again. for just a little while let me rest, please i say this with such desire. for just a little while let me remember what it was like to feel contentment, and resist the disappointment when i recall that these are not good times now, and i can no longer have that which was so good. or at least let me relive what was self-sufficiency. an honest concern for simply myself. these days i find too much pleasure in taking care of others, and living without it is now detrimental. why is my grief so trite. heartbreak is so overdone, you would think that people would stop doing it to each other. you would think that through my thought process i would be capable of releasing it. but i haven't been able to yet. try as i might, somedays it doesn't seem possible to me anything more than just human. thank you for this. i am thanking you for this. thank you. thank you. thank you.