november 16, 2001
"and the whole-wide-world is just a jail"
damn, baby.
it's november before we meet back here again.
in the bombshell glints of the past two months you may find snapshots of the backside of a captain morgan's rum billboard and chipped flowerpots overflowing with frayed ferns. buried like kleptomania, disturbing nakedness of a capitalistic/fatalistic rembrandt: all the watercolors meddling & flowing -- wordlessness, or the cryogenic watchdog of irritating supra-verbosity.
brain hightailing it into euphoria, but this ain't the most blissed out state around -- reality is in the mire. physically it's a fool's game; emotionally, a quadratic equation.
water stains on the kitchen table ring in the question: could i have designed something more clearly if i had bothered to pull out the magnifying glass & attempt some sort of line-item-veto of the mismatched bits?
what it comes down to is simple: i expected explicitness, i'd hoped for something grandiose from a rotting thorn-covered chicken-wire fence. there was a little girl who showed up to make coffee one day; four years later, a woman will pack up a box of pictures and empty bourbon bottles, heading somewhere outside of the zither.
i think constantly of the miniscule/infinite experiences that continuously shape me. i'd hoped to be incredible, to blow my mind away. let go of the flickering dysfunction and request the time bomb be re-assessed, collapsed, hindered by prosecution. my forwarding address = voicelessness behind the microphone.
so keen, this crepe-paper feeling. folded within the vinyl & crinoline, watching showdowns and come-uppances and retribution shaded by the checkered light of sirens, garden gnomes, and thieves.
"dear motherfucker,
slide foot in mouth. turn on logic. spend three weeks pulling foot out again."
pleasantly, without a doubt, the most earth shattering moments are clasped behind every syllable that slips from mouths -- that which is always intimated, nothing explicit here. would we find our way back to the heart attack of faithlessness if we disregarded these minor filters?
windows on my wall opening up into white plastercasted wallpaper. no design, just the texture of too much paint and florid, faded maroon stripes. each performance ends as the clock ticks through the crumpled paper of all these letters i keep writing, never sending.....
.....piling up under the
hatbox lid, accompanied by guitar picks & my illusions of tenderness.