Containments, etc

Mine is unadorned, hmph, casual, causal--the natural involvement (due, of course, to distance from objective infatuation, subjective incest, hmph--as in, my dear fawn, he was a lordy resistor to my temptations but truly unequaled to my size: As I am). Once wearing, unashamed, the commitment. Now, sickly worn by repetition. He will not, as agreed, even in seclusion, advocate the advancement of the female population, let alone, matriarchal conditioning.

The other avenues, my friend, are far less bitter but it has oft occurred within an attenuated sure, yet nevertheless awakened, desolation that I am far more fearful. And, here, there is not even an alley to sequester the loose realities of the absolute, sure, the "crumbling" dissonance of "collapse"--of my lap, my pal, my judgment has persevered to an agent of everlasting decay: back and through the in and the out and, without the ironic tremble: Through! Ah, there is, at last, you see, the general posturing of an adolescent presence. My own, I beg, will not abide by such disgrace, such disturbance. Not that which has permitted the excuse of ineptitude.

Ah, the graceful and intrusive introduction of the contemporary capitalist female (as if, in an inadequate display of wisdom, their own intimate disclosures procured no insight into the feeble putrefaction of the external containments!). And I, too, I do adore the remains, the lasting glimpse of the absolute. But the newly chartered, the newly present--oh, tut their abandonment, their restless squalor of confident resource, the un-becoming exchange of character without addition--assimilation without progression. How the altercations could not but be without full guile! And in a hand no longer subject to angst, the "crumble", indeed, the "collapse" of perhaps the finer half of the finer spirit in the absence of the vacuum, in the absence of the pitiless--we, now, like all the others.

This decrepit introduction. We are far less active in a resolution to empty--far more active in a resolution to complete. And, now, against the only hands that were fair, we are concerned and certain that ours here (ours only) survive and do not survive by source of outer containment.

Where now is the absolute. We had already squandered ours and now, in glee, permit them to squander all that will be in remains.


Jersey Turnpike, etc

I have begun, he suggests (a martyr of course), in similar conditions: the natural inclination, as such, is to suppose the premise is ill-founded and wasted by tasteless inhibition. There is the harrowing recognition that the skeleton of objective success is mired in incapacitation and incompetence. As such, the pedestrian garden opposite the freeway provides a suitable yet unbalanced situational harbor: there are upset participants in the frequency of casual encounters--some, regardless, much more displeased than others. The traffic, while in usual aggressive fashion, holds no demands on the greater political leadership. We are not generally disposed to claim ownership over the market economy, as such, an informal yet published (official documentation) rebuttal over lethal overnight crashes. There is no traffic at that time, he suggests later (no longer a martyr--no, no, of course not). The internet exposition, clean, is un-lent and he borrows twenty-five cents from a street walker--she, of all hookers, is a kind soul, he considers later, though bothered by the suspicion that the entrails of his deceased uncle now trace the undergarments of the east river. No, the entire structure, while formed in such concrete images of human possibility, could not substantially support an ill-conceived premise. It would be ridiculous! There are, as far as I can demand, ins and outs to the disposition of the modern tyrant and he is in no mood for coercive sex. The ensuing laughter, mild in character, yet aggressive in appearance, suggests, oddly, that his place, in the outer reaches of Queens, has become a distraction to the menial laborers and, out of good faith, a request for immediate departure is granted. They will not enjoy my company in Bermuda, he exclaims, but, as such, they are uninterested in the posturing of the beautified village personage. At least, in the latest of sickness, I am indebted, quite well, to my place of encounter. Yes, yes, it still enjoys its miserable sense of identity, nurtured by the meek and antisocial gypsy. At last, while corruptible, she casually nods, accepts a gesture--perhaps even a causal arrow of seduction (I will win, he decides, again, ill conceived in manner and approach). Abandoned eventually, he sours at the turn, once more, of light. There are only ever cars and trucks after all, he mutters, and it is far too fucking loud to hear myself think.


starting from the beginning

and last night because of a dream I was young again, swimming with Wendy my mother at the Y. And everything around the edges was lost, and everything at the center hurt -- because it was more there than there. Gaaaaah ! there is no sound for it in the silent page. I lean my head back to let it out to the sky : and what is it? the noise of being alive! I was there, that was me, and I am carrying me inside myself still; sometimes am I allowed in--

Downstairs the neighbor's brand new baby is crying gaaaeeh! gaeeeh! She vibrates the air in periodic waves and they come crashing up through the floorboards and around in my bedroom, colliding with the walls and my ears which can be likened to two mouths drinking them in. You are here! I hear you! Do you hear me?

Is there any other question, S., anything else that can be asked?



Oh my, oh well

....dismissed, perhaps, acknowledging a faint illusory subjective termination—a dream, a terrible dream. Late in the year, October, maybe, no November—no, later still, it was December, telescoping backwards, and it was white, white all around, on the landing in front of the library too, it was white like it was all the same. It was all very white. Yes, yes!

The limitless initial embrace of the unbound color, this absence of color (or all of the colors together, as in, white light, of course) is detailed as significant, complete, absolute. Oh my! But its grasp, oh its grasp is quite unlike its embrace, yes, yes--it is ever fearful to let go. It will not like to let go. It will not ever like to let go. Oh well. There is only ice, she proclaims, she an intruder, a foreigner, like the others, she is not as pale but it is still cold to her—no, of course it is cold to her. They are racist. This is a beautiful place. No, there is nothing here but ice.

It is December, A. It has long since passed the aged autumn of the primary maturation, the glimpse into the dissolving sun—and yes, the weariness, the wariness even, of its disappearance, like, I only perhaps suppose, abandonment. There aren’t even crosses—criss-crosses still—that begin to anticipate and elucidate the murderous pathway into the abandonment of this primary maturation, this sunless containment: this winter is ice and it is only December.

I thought as once Jerome thought, I would lose my voice in such cold, in such vociferous activity—but it was not winter that takes its place in ice but ice that takes its place in winter and I found, at least a while, that I could scream quite well and even, once dejected, faint…..



I want to say exactly what I want, and mean it.

You are the product of a conspiracy centuries and centuries old, centuries like pages in books stacked up through the sky.

Are you your mind? Can I I bother you a bit, and say that you are not the things you think about, or the sum of your numerable parts?

Once I got high and wrote these words:

"lonely lonely who is lonely?

everyone's fingers look like mine--"

Though I was. I was lonely. I am not lonely anymore.

Why just last night before sleep came I was allowed to leave myself and move amongst friends and strangers I saw that day until I reached a place to stand that was the intersection of everyone, and everything good that happened to them happened to me. And I went to sleep, smiling.

You -- what do you want, exactly? To be loved? To be safe? Do you want to swim through the ocean of others up to the sun? Do you want to swallow cities? To be rich? To be stronger than me? Do you want to hold me down and feel me, afraid?

Once I came up from the subway stairs and the sky was so wide for a second, my heart shook with fear. I thought: that must be what oblivion feels like.

(S., I am going to write these until I can speak honestly to you, and in the hope that I will then speak honestly to everyone. There are things on this page that are not true, it still mostly waste. I am glad you are out there. You help me separate the essential from the rest.)

I have already told many of my stories, made some people laugh, made some think. What was I trying to say? Will I ever say it?

I will keep trying.

Wrangled, Unpredictable Girl

The resolution, impossible to predict, is completed (with subtle angst), against the pedestrian notation, with implacable perfection. I am strangled and: There is no parking here. The commentary was without sync and she was an outsider, a tramp, and a whore: for seventy-five US dollars. We did not like her much. But it was impossible to predict. The natural course of the general agreement permitted occasional oversight and, while, indisposed by the erratic behavior of her father-in-law, she was nevertheless suicidal and acutely overwhelmed by meaninglessness. Yes, she was never one to utter, as she overheard, casually in the dining hall: I don’t like thinking like that because it is too serious. Those were, kindly, in betrayal and tempting words—an excuse, she reasoned, to commit suicide. Again, impossible to predict. The avalanche of aggression, the landslide of hate, the—Wait. Re-address the crowd as a custodian of terse discourse. Those were moments of resolution and this one, oh, unlike the feeble companions, was destined to be absolute and rip the guts out of the ladies locker room. We were only murdered by our own hands, the common hand wrote, in sign language: Fuck you. I don’t think anybody eats take out from IL Chino anymore, she commented and this, yes, yes, only hours, even hours, before her attempt. There are seventy-six records that are incomplete and incompatible with natural course of existence and none of them is in-line with the feminine hierarchy of unqualified, sure, unadulterated observance: life, golly gee, is so darn precious. Impossible to predict and yet the courtesy of the evasive man, the countertop woman, could not possibly describe the disparity between the two (yes?)—the obsolete version of psychological diagnosis and the modern, less academic, version of strangling suicide…Murder. Oh my, she only whispered, occasionally, as if her own dear sister would depart in such anger and impolite impetuous classlessness: I must, I admit, I must rearrange my dressing gowns. The warm-up simply will not do. Oh, my sordid and ugly impertinent daughter! The abuse of detachment is sourly confounded with your sick insolence, her mother remarks, purposefully, after the arraignment, the coming trial the disappearance of her self-worth into the lottery: 55 years.

Suicide, dear-dear, it was only ever impossible to predict.



I am attracted to my teenage self, she mutters and in suggestion, perhaps permissive toward her ailing and diminished sexual appetite, poses: I am a lesbian. No, I was a lesbian. I am no longer a deviant of any type. Deviant? The casual meander in and out of proper social attire exhausts even the most vigilant conformist. Without a doubt, the dabbling and coercive injection, do not persuade the natural skin. The aging process, therefore, not only a marker of wisdom (in most cases, as such, perhaps, in many cases) but also a liberation into the natural self, if permitted, or the tame and cured and harbored self, if of weak resolve. She is in spandex in the photograph and her hair is permed. Stylistically, appropriate and even risqué, for the time—in an unbecoming and unflattering era there were few opportunities to stray and become: No! There were never unbecoming times.

The marker in the harbor.

Seventeen, he admits and, frequently, cautiously, his son is chagrined: to my own skin, he observes, we are wedded. The discharge from captivity is, ironically, the deliverance into isolated and divided time: minutes, hereby, are counted and exchanged, eagerly, for minutes, against days—against months, in starving circumstances, though never officially condoned, against years. We have many years, the son admonishes his father but his father is now chagrined: to my own skin, he too observes, we are wedded.

And then?

And then, hmph, he sighs, I willfully laid my back against the concrete, willfully flat and on the cold, and let them tie me there until I could not move, each piece of me on the ground and could not move until I could only think and only for a minute could I think that maybe I was not tied to the ground. I am attracted to myself at seventeen, he says and she agrees. I was beautiful and unattached and now I am tied to concrete. It is easy to see that you are tied to concrete when your children trip over you and tie themselves to adjacent concrete blocks. This is not so bad.

Seventeen, he says. I think I was sixteen, she mutters.



The fabled in and out of the mistress, while coy and unsure of her perfected motion, were nevertheless far superior to ordinary and mechanistic performance. She was committed, quite literally, to the forcible notion of procured sexual nature. Buying sex, a seemingly innocuous act of maturation, provided a series of dangerous and hideous ailments--most specifically the contraction of inhospitable hosts. She was opposed to such disease (and appropriately, as such) determined that the most capable and subservient guest would be subject to detailed questionnaires and medical examination. The clinic was modest and unbecoming. Suitably, and clandestinely, affixed to the back of a utility closet in the basement of a sheet metal warehouse in the outskirts of industrial sprawl, the clinic enabled a casual--and, yes, quite elegant--yet confidential promise. A promise she felt destined to entertain (though the in and out, in its entrapment, is often conjured as the unveiling of a public insecurity, a desperate ascent into and out of depressive states--especially, in this context, under the allegiance of capital). The men were, mostly, uncharacteristic in their starvation. I have witnessed, by god, a trembling man, she once commented and then retracted upon noticing her company. The investigation, she scoffed, was by far and away the most thorough investment I have ever made.

For its allure and splendid possibility, the investigation was thorough. Her medical training consisted of three days on an overnight canoe expedition, or retreat, in the upper amazon basin during which she operated systematically on spider monkeys. The resemblance, their resemblance, to the human species and to life in general was fascinating and inspiring. The daily waddling motion suggested a livelihood that could not be replicated in laboratories nor imagined in text and it sprung to being, quite noticeably and awkwardly, the foundation of future and applied sexual demand. It is, after all, only waddling (so far as I can imagine). Questioned later in the aftermath of the scandal, she did not deny the existence of common parasitic injections. In truth, she witnessed, the elaborate arrival at successful orgasm required a detour into socially unfavorable methods. They are, however, a necessary and virulent component to opposite sex interaction. And, ultimately, of course, lethal.

She was modest in her appraisal of the clinic though never unassuming in appearance. The stages of development, really a cascade of chance occurrence, demand an opposite, a complimentary host. A being willfully engaging in the subtraction of life. I would dress, she confided, occasionally in leather and sometimes in satin. But never cotton, not unless the engagement was one of nostalgia. But that was rare. Only once, in a questionnaire accidently given to the child of a chemically addicted lobbyist, did she suspect that the in and out motion, the parasitic injection, might incidentally cause a reaction formation of the adult population--a stance, if survived, would permit the aging man to define himself purely in opposition to his surroundings. However, she admitted, this was not ever the purpose of the clinic. You see, the men were supposed to die at climax. It appears, I now believe, that the amazon basin was not producing the lethality to operate a clinic of such absolute intent.


Witness, I will not massacre Myself

The slaughter of the world, quickly excused as a prevarication, nevertheless introduced the usually deceptive and awkward illusory tyrant as greedy—indeed selfish. The subsequent laughter (by chance, surely) arriving at the weekly bridge club meeting did far less to restrain the man than encourage him to gloat: we are enough, all of us, we are enough. The hierarchy, it appears, has been replaced. Generally, locked inside the vision of success, concealed in normalcy and haunted by a primal glimpse at rebellion: there is a union, of sorts. Nevertheless, the immediate chaos which ensued (or, these are certainly not my possessions nor my principle worth) managed to unveil minor differences in the daily routines of sexual deviants versus star athletes, prosperous businessmen, teachers—doctors?...most certainly, doctors…we are not valued without value. It was tautological in its intent and even less pleasing or fulfilling in reward. The end, as punishment inadequate, misplaced the primitive suggestion: I am corrupted by the mere suggestion that I must conform. The potential option evades the eventual conquistador and he, alas he alone, is met with model success in an evaporating skin. Perhaps, by chance, he may even request his execution as a remaining reminder of his inability to adhere, to belong, to them. It is the vanquishing of such a identity the modern thinking man becomes: he is, no longer by chance, a chance to witness his only observable and owned being, his spiritual self, his redemption at the eager failure of all passage of development and advancement: his betrayal of only this, this skin. He is not the sum of markings and hair and canard: he is a resolution. There are no exclamations in the final burial of the driving mind that will not breed inadequacy into the un-sterile, fruited, existence that we have found as exception and as ours: it is not an arrival of acceptance and of approval, it is not a landscape of social adequacy, of recommendation, of networking: it is, on hands that are only hands, in skin that will un-become, the solemn promise, the blessing embrace--it is the spirit of the skin and the absolute passion of observance: to witness and not to force a world into it. They have, I suppose, the hardly misinformed tyrant suggests, asked--continually though not universally--bad questions. I am un-become at the insistence that I must become and there is an environment on which I will beast myself to pieces in one memory.

For when I was eighteen, I forced to memory (and have easily forgotten) my own self, the self-imposed and created principle of my life: in deep wells I gather water and feel the rhythm of the earth upon my soul.