Trust

Close your eyes.

Fountain falling, the water shines under the sun. It is difficult to tell the news from words, a poet almost said, but without them we are lonely. Is it because then we are adrift in the senses? Somewhere a few days ago an information theorist reminds his audience: "Our world is 80% vision."

So whose voice is that, in my head each day?

*

I am remembering a path in the garden. Tomatoes pull on the arms of green vines, they are almost all red except for the curved window of sunlight reflecting off their side. Which is where I put my teeth to. And the juices, I am remembering the taste, outside of words, inside of time, back all the way across the days, unnumbered; before the machines came and needed to know how many before we could know what it meant.

....

I startle, indeed, I harbor, I pledged, once, again, perhaps in upended circumstances, to un-nerve the hostess, and return, once, upon re-entry, to my appropriate place, against the wall: myself, as ever, only a fucking ending.

I want to know what happens -- I am curious to know what happens, she says. She mutters. The goddamn process, I tell her. I am spitting. Quite enraged. The goddamn process.

Who gives a shit what happens. Who gives a shit where it takes you. Like you even fucking know when you got there.

I am troubled, indeed, later, to know that she is committing suicide, right now, by sticking a pen in her eye, because that was where it was that she knew, she knew where she would go, at least in immediacy, when she stabbed herself with her pen. I am pledging, yet again, and this I admit is most foolish, to abet the next wishes of the next woman. Even she will, I suppose, stab herself with a pen.

on approaching the speed of light

Johnny broke up the band and decided he'd become a pilot. Took the $$$ from the guitars and amps, stole the remaining band fund, and bought himself an introductory lesson. Later, years later, when the computers failed and he knew it was the end, he wondered if he made the right choice until he saw the ocean, and remembered flying a kite with his father by the shore; and how time passes faster (empirically) for everyone on the ground you've left behind.

Miserable

Instead Jim understood microclimates: micropolitics, microanxieties. There was nothing too small for him to attend to. Was it raining today, Jim? Should I bring an umbrella?

It is raining inside these blood vessels, like tiny boats in my arms.

So we all get wet.

abababa

Raging, he is able to see through the open places in between himself an the world, which is on fire. Of course! That's a story I heard when I was a kid. Dad in the other room, cracks between the kitchen tiles, and me outside on the patio, drowning ants. They all got to go sometime. I tried different ways -- water, straight; water, soapy; water and windex and some other stronger stuff from underneath the sink.

Today it didn't rain, and that's newsworthy to me. So let's post it using the internet, and not ask how it got there. Take it as a given. Take it with a grain of salt. Take time, take time, take time, before the soap cleans us out.

.

Anything remarkable?
.

The collection, though very dear to her heart, and exquisite in nature (obtained illegally from an Iranian gypsy seeking safe passage into the artic states) became expendable during her third marriage -- indeed, her entire wealth became expendable. As she once imagined herself forever attached, certainly most secure, in her foundation, her physical harness to the world of the elite, the frightful fall from twenty seven thousand feet cleared her of any misconception concerning endless love and, more severely, about the possibility of harboring wealth beyond her tragic and now imminent death.

.

Aftewards, the obtuse captain proclaimed (quite fittingly) the outer door did not close upon take-off and we were forced to shed some weight to regain balance. Of course, the proceedings, during the following days, focused predominantly on the assumed heirs, only one of which was excused from any possible wrongdoing. Oh he is quite too mentally ill to be engaged in criminal offending. Besides, his suicidality is right off the charts, it is about a nineteen and a half. He wants to kill himself so badly the doctor has to duct tape his hands to his legs. Why would anybody that mad desire a collection of Iranian gold coins?

.

We are ever desperate in this cube.

.

I think it is timing that is coming and going -- but not at all -- all that coming and going is just wasting time collecting things and thoughts about other things until -- all that coming and going stops and we aren't really fixed at ever.

.

Boy, I liked that distraction. It cost me about twenty-seven years.

.

There are whores down that alley, Frankie. And they cost $35, at least. You want the other alley, next to the department store.

.

Period.

oh, mercy, there isn't even a button on his stomach

Oh, the flaking tool -- he's a degenerate asshole, she mutters and she is, oh, yes most certainly (yes, she is! she is!) she is angry, annoyed, terribly vexed. I am beside myself with such rancor, she admits, but softly to her teddy bear, that I would literally rip the teeth out of a squirrel. A squirrel? That is mighty fine and feminine of you -- damn you, doctor, she suddenly screams and tears her poor teddy bear to pieces, you witch bear, you monster witch bear, he is a tool, oh, I have seen him on his little side jobs, his extra fucking curricular activities, running over to that fucking tramp, you said little witch bear, trying to turn me into a princess, no? Trying to turn me into a pacified wench, the one that is just taking it in the basement, learning to love on the wheel, against the cupboards of an apothecary, the old sell out gold-maker : yes, yes: "I doubt that I would desire such an opportunity, just to be afforded the chance to stand stoic by your side, even through the [ahem]" -- even through the cursed in and out, the stampede of wolves, spit me out you fucking tool, I will not step aside. Oh, heavens, dear, you are beside yourself, you are quite mad, out of control, flailing like, oh I don't know, a fucking witch -- you stay away from me you teddy bear and again she attacks the bear and stabs him in his puffy fake heart, I will kill you bear! I will kill you bear!

Is she here yet? Has she arrived. Please ensure that the tables are properly set and that our guest, this fine gentleman, is seen delicately into the drawing room. I would hate for any activity (especially on such a fortuituos occasion) to disrupt what must be considered to be an inevitable future. A remarkable bond. He is here? He has arrived? Like this, I am not even prepared, not even dressed, why I have forgotten all about my own self, how irresponsible, yes, yes, show him into the drawing room, ensure that he is with tea or drink or whatever it is his pleasure is -- I am beside myself, I have erred, this union will not take place, I have completely and utterly forgotten myself, to such a post I do not think I have ever been, how has this occurred, how has this transpired, I such a wench.

She runs out of the room, muttering ever so fiercely to herself: that fucking teddy bear, I will find that bear and let him know his tricks are not acceptable and will not derail this princess. I cannot believe I have forgotten myself for such a time, at such a momentous occasion. That brute bear will pay for this!

restorative justice

"She is merry -- the whore." What were you thinking? What was I thinking? That's all I was thinking, you know, sitting there and thinking, she is fucking merry -- and then, like that, it wasn't like I was trying to think like that, it wasn't like I was thinking I got to get my mind to thinking like that, to thinking like all the rest of them, you know, to dig into some really disappointing and dark place in my head and look what is there, you know, like, look around, and say, ah shit, I'd like to pick this up and put it in the slot and see what comes out this fuckers mouth, of course not, no, it couldn't be like that. You ddin't plan it, then. No, I didn't plan it, I said that, you know, I said what I said, I'm not trying to come out and say that I didn't say what I said because I said it, I was there, I mean I know what I fucking said, and I said it like I said it because I was pissed, you know, angry, real mad at the whole picture painted on something that I said or wrote, I don't know, ten years ago, something that good put out there, somethign that was really just a far fetched load -- well -- a bit pile of nothing that I care about now, how's that? She's knowing that too, I can see her knowing that too right now, she's knowing that I haven't been anywhere near any of this since then and that I haven't even, yeah, you know, yeah you know I haven't, ah come on, you know I haven't even thought about this in like ten years, you know that, she's just trying to play with us, you know all of us here, she knows, I mean why would I, I mean look at me, why would I come back into this right now? You wouldn't. Exactly, I wouldn't, you see, what would be the sole purpose of me coming back into this, I wouldn't. This man just said it, I wouldn't come back into this because that wouldn't make any sense, its not, its not like I've been sitting here waiting, only waiting to get caught and to get caught up in this again, I mean, you have it, you can look at it, you can look back through, go ahead, go ahead and look back through all that time and see if you can see any point in time, anything at all, that reminds you -- you know that looks like to you -- that it was something different from what I'm telling you, from what I'm saying was happening from that moment on until now, because, well, if you don't, if you don't do that, then you aren't really affording me any reasonable, you know, assessment or whatever and then we're just two guys you know talking back and forth and see -- she knows look at her, she knows, you aren't even looking at her, she knows I haven't been off roaming around and looking for her, not like that, not like I was trying to come and hurt her, not like that, and no don't play it again, we've seen it, don't, because that isn't me anymore, that's not what I am about, that's not at all what I'm like, not me, here, not me. Don't play it again, no, because, I'm still the same person, walking around, I mean I still sound the same but I don't think like that, I probably still talk like that but, just don't play it again, you know, just don't play it again.

Aside from apart, once: it was suitable

She is over-spoken, over-fond, of herself -- and in admiration, most dearly of her darling purchase. He is indifferent but present in the manner (only ever, certainly) in which he readjusts the cushions on the sofa, readjusts them so she will be in discomfort and forced to readjust them again, if only to be in comfort. He is unnoticeable beyond that -- and offers, as a simple component to his arbitrarily true indifference a composition of meager worth, noting that it is not even of a timely nor culturally suitable subject matter. In defiance, she admits under heavy medication -- assuming failure and praying, eventually, for hypnosis (but not until Tuesday afternoon at four thirty) -- in defiance, she echoes. This time: hmph. It is rather far from bold interjection or even a purposeful attempt at redirection, completion, or, if ever (oh if ever!) reconciliation. You are angered by him? She had supposed, in reflection, at a later time, that her immediate reaction to such a cleverly stupid comment was dismissive in a far more subconscious way, so dismissive (and in fact so overtly submissive was her self-possessed madness) that she did not even recall a course of action, a logical course of action, that could effectively introduce and explicate the process of beating a therapist close to death with the base of an iron lamp.

He bought the lamp in Lisbon after witnessing a spectacle, indeed a state execution, he should most likely never forget. It is the lamp owned by a religious zealot a socially labeled vagabond, who had suspiciously murdered fifteen children in the back of an alley and set them on fire. He has insisted. She has accepted, eventually. Suspiciously, though? No, she mused, I suppose not. Nevertheless, he wouldn't ever forget a spectacle like that -- and even if there were a course of reality that brought a self-bought lamp to be the lever of his own maiming. But, as matters seemed to transpire, not even the general public felt her actions at a distance from the normal hectic meanderings of those under strict supervision due to mental instability. She couldn't have possibly understood such ramifications, it was illustrated in the daily monitor, but to assume that one who already seeks help has but no wall to protect her from such illness is to assume we are a state of unseemly and crude aliens. I for one am not, she snickered, even in court, pretentious and without veil. The manner in which a man begins to introduce authentic altercation -- yes, yes, the manner in which he begins to offer -- as opposed to simply imply -- a contribution without the threat or disguise of reward is, of course, a manner in which he is seen to know and favor the wells of intimate humanity and not merely enjoy to drink.

This I couldn't possibly describe, she admits -- and even admitted, later. Though, perhaps against the better (urbanely) pleas of her casual acquaintances, assumed romantic bothers, she would acknowledge weakly, maybe to only herself, that it was the other he she meant to kill.

"I can tell you two things:

make sure the top lock and bottom lock are different;
and you have to hide from darkness
with darkness."

by george, they changed the law

"Zounds, by Pete, they are at it again!" Oh, soundless remorse -- the pity, upon the fifth regime was without equal, a particular handicapp, yes, given the natural recourse of action - reaction; consequence after impact. We, alas, the Mistress intoned, are of primary affluent noble descent, yet our unprecedented admission (and dare say act) of such failure will not be attenuated by our simply magnificent reflections. Indeed, ponder to watch Melissa, she is enraged by the chance exclusion of her prized mirror (that is the exclusion in the wagon items, as listed by the general accountant, ahem).

I admit. I exhaustively admit that we were without recourse. Our own fingers, bless their bleeding by my own sight, epitomized failure -- and alcohol. The Countess, so taken to service by our --(sure, yes, regardless of the admitted, the admittedly deplorable and realized legal enslavements of crude and improper populations)-- but this countess, again, so taken to service by our tragic and isolated and defeated image swore an oath, to such a height there must have been a doctrine of angelic mandate, reminded demands of man over angel, serve the un-servable, the indolent indigents! Serve us who have lost our people, our followers, serve us who now have no voice!

It surely, upon my own brow, I swear, it must have been this calling, though Melissa, sour and uncouth, against the better likings of her proper feudal mother, dismissed such aid as inadequate, indeed repellent to the (mind you a woman endlessly inculcated by, again, noble doctrine) skin of such grace, perfection, and ah, the angel. And dare I admit, by Pete, that there was such crude interruption, such crude intrusion into the inner estates of the dear lord and provider that, upon, my head, by which was included notes of treasonous and seductive intent --

"Zounds, by Pete, they shot her dead!"

jebarb and mildren

In a sheer whimper of a storm -- an unconvincing act, pretense, sure -- in a sheer thunderous entrance -- a mild and yet oddly appealing, though half asleep, modernized and adapted on numerous occasions (cliche? -- no, in and of itself, that mere interruption is actually the character and action of the inquisition -- odd and ironic and like a ball) -- in a sheer downright dog-gone hollow of a storm, the most usual and conventional path toward adulthood was momentarily unpassable, though, for certain no one could predict how lengthy the momentary break would indeed last, a final lapse? Oh, my, I would dare venture that I hope not. But, in truth, perhaps. Though the bridge had been rebuilt and even remodeled on countless occasions in the past half century, its usefullness was waning and the more structured and well equiped highway was a much more popular (and really, let us admit, a more suitable) choice for passage. Those, however, a coy Mildren remarked, are not headed toward maturation, not in the strict biological and social sense. An unnecessarily long pause, thereafter, lasting well into the fifth and sixth breaths of the young traveler, ensued. Oh, sure, she smelled quite awful for an elderly woman, lacking in appropriate care, abandoned halfheartedly by willful and drunken grandsons. I opine rather with doubt, Mildren confessed, that you are unlike to attempt the fallen earth? The traveler, by now most confused by the ancient worm, decided, though unagreeable to him at the time (and most unagreeable to him in the near future) to disregard her feverish and rather uninviting disposition, and venture a question in regards to the trail now coined as "muy fea". The damn naturalists. It is by far a better option -- perhaps a far better outcome, though it is without its merits and without its recompense. I think. By now a third member had eagerly, though ever slowly, joined the standing and half snarled half eated duo. It is not completely fallen away, Jebarb motioned, though he himself had aged in such a manner to resemble the grandfather tree and in each gesture it is true his hands began to appear as tattered paper. You are just a sad drawing, the traveler thought, but now thoroughly unamused by the still growling storm and the incomplete directions by an unashamed and stoned innkeeper, remanded his own initial distaste and insisted (for he was a man of great will power and strong cognitive discipline) he must encounter the path back out of the town at the lake and on toward the city. Of course, Jebarb continued, it may but be a monster of a storm and little could we ever expect what to know from either path. Though this one is certain to have fallen. For it is always falling.

she just came in short, black eyed, and bleeding

She is a hooker, I count her money. She comes in here, once or twice, you know, a week, with her stack of ones and fives, and I give her a receipt. She gets it into the bank that way -- so she can have an account. She can't take that money, with all the blood that is usually on it, she can't take that to a teller, she can't walk in all beat up, with her eyes black, smoking, like she does, and hand the teller a stack of bills that are grimy, crunched up, and bleeding. She is a hooker. She gives me her money. I deposit it for her and I tell her, usually, that she isn't living that swell a life, I say that and she sometimes smiles, like she had heard it on tv too, and it was a good memory. But she is living a shit life, you know, and she lets these marks beat the shit out of her and they really beat the shit out of her. But what can I do, I count her money, so at least she isn't squating in some crack house, or running into the basements of the city buildings to get from the weather. You know, this way, she keeps a place, she keeps some food and she makes, it from today until tonight and maybe even til tomorrow. I don't know, you know, she is just walking through this day to that day, thinking, well, hell, not thinking, but getting her money this way and that way and then bringing it here, and I take only a small fee, a modest fee, because I have to clean the money, you know, and make sure its not bleeding anymore, not like it is when she gives it to me, and then I have to be putting in these deposits into an account for her so that she can have the money for the place she has but in an account that they can't find her, because you know, those tax men, they don't really think that hooking is all that proper or legal so even if she could pay her taxes, she can't really pay her taxes, not down and out like she is. So I take a modest fee, a small fee, really, and adjust the account accordingly and we see the results. And she doesn't complain, not after all that, not now that she can walk up to a money machine and take out her money like she is just another woman in the city, just another woman making errands, you know, and paying bills -- but really, she isn't, you know, she's a hooker. And she gets the shit kicked out of her. I'd help her, but you know, its not like she isn't surviving, its not like it really is gonna come down to something that different for me or for her or for anybody even driving down here from the hills, I mean, on that last day, you know, that last day when you think that that sky is gonna be differnt, its just the last day, and she is going on the same boat as everybody else, even though she lived like this, like a rat, in the sewer. So what's the point, what's the point but make it, survive, and let her survive, I'm not trying to not let her survive. But what's the point. So she gets beat up real bad and one day she is gonna be dead and there she'll be, sitting right next to the whole bunch of assholes that thought there wasn't gonna be any room for a whore like her.

my own sad puppet show

This is what it reads:

"...the tall one says its accustomed to difficult inference -- and manipulated, only slightly, by the disjointed bridge to appropriate, certainly legal and justifiable resources -- it would, it implies, only use generally agreed upon and specified courses of action. In such a situation, while disposing of competitors efficiently (and in an unbiased seemingly random fashion) would greatly benefit the syndicate in legal gambling gains, political contributors, and even in the number of average dull normal conservative check writers (the fucking balls of the abused)..."

She is watering flowers, afterwards, in the garden, in the back. It might rain, she mutters. That would be the fucking day, he thinks. He is reading a napkin:

1. Everybody wants it.
2. It is accessible to everybody.
3. Everybody does it on their own.
4. Only the self is to blame for failure.

I'd rather pour gasoline on myself and ride through town on fire, he says. Then it'd be the hell they'd see, not the hell they'd let themselves walk. You aren't ever gonna ascend beyond the barbershop, dad. Stop yelling at the radio. All they see is that black mud on your face.

You're blocking my sun, she says, and it is about to cloud up. I don't think I'm the one blocking your goddamn sun, he mutters. Recognition is the same fucking goal -- and we'll give up the natural world -- the one that is not in pieces, is not picked apart by the reductionist illusionist -- because it all happens tomorrow.

and she said, you know, I get high

She, you know, well, shit--
she says she suggested a solution
a reasonable solution
to a hyper-allergic drug addicted bond salesman --

she was numerating, you know,
making it happen,
making it happen.

All the while,
she was just making the numbers roll,
you know,
back and forth,
like it wasn't anybody's,

wasn't nobody's business,
not to start the slashing,
the slashing and the cutting,
the bleeding,
the slashing and the cutting --
she didn't even like the dissections

not that she was making them,
not that she was asking him to make,

just a punk bond salesman.
just a punk bond salesman.

poem.txt

1, When I was a boy;
2, I loved computers;
3, I connected with them;
4, My sisters and I;
5, played them all the time;
6, But at thirteen I decided;
7, If I kept loving computers;
8, I would never get a girlfriend;
9, So I stopped;
10, My sisters became a teacher and a veterinarian;
11, and I became a therapist;
12, I took care of people;
13, I told them;
14, We are in the world to love the world;
15, if we can only learn how;
16, But the computers called me back;
17, to paint with them;
18, what I dream;
19, And what I dream is;
20, connecting;
21, everyone;
22, to everything;
23, because everyone;
24, is everything;
25, and everyone I love is everything;
26, and whoever loves anyone;
27, loves everything;

if I can only learn how

Sally and Jim find a way to go north

I am faking it, Sally says. Sally is not crying but she is sad. She has circles around her eyes. You look like a raccoon, Jim says. Don't say that to me, Sally says. I am serious. I am faking it. Jim turns over on his side. They are in bed together. I know, Jim says. Jim is not completely naked. Sally is naked. Sally is not under the sheets. Jim is under some of the sheets. And I don't really care, Jim says. Sally sits up. She sits on the side of the bed. I have to be up in two hours, she says. I have to go and visit my father in New Hampshire. Will you be here when I get back? Sally looks over her shoulder. I'm faking it too, Jim says. Christ, I can't stop. You know they are going to find out sooner or later, Sally says. I guess. So you'll be here when I get back. In the house? Yeah. Jim scratches his upper lip. What time? I don't know, probably before dinner. Yeah, I'll be here. I'll make sure of it. Sally gets up and walks into the bathroom and turns on the water. You shouldn't go see him alone, Jim says. I should come with you. You can't come with me, you have that presentation. I know, but you shouldn't go by yourself. Sally sits on the toilet. She puts her hands in her face. You know your brother stopped by yesterday. I meant to tell you. I know I didn't tell you. Turn off the water, Jim says, I can't hear you. Sally turns off the water. She doesn't get up. The bathroom is still only half finished, she thinks. We were going to put that water color in here. Did you say Jack stopped by? Yeah. What did he want. I don't know. He asked for you and he said he had something important for you. Jim leans over the side of the bed. I'm up, he thinks. I am going to go to New Hampshire with you, he says. Why don't you shower and I'll start driving. We'll get there by breakfast. Jim stretches. Sally? I'll drive. Ok? I don't really want to shower, Sally says. I don't really feel like getting clean. Jim walks around the bed. It is still black out. He looks at her. What are you doing sweetie? You look like a little sad racoon. I can't laugh, she says. I know -- but I am not sure that it is going to be like that all the time. I don't want you driving. But what about your presentation? I was just faking it, Jim mutters. I'll tell you what. Get dressed, get in the car, and I'll buy you breakfast at the border. I don't think I want to get dressed. Jim stands at the sink and stares at himself in the mirror. Jack was asking about that deal in Florida, wasn't he? I don't know, I guess so. I'll bet he looked bad, didn't he. He didn't look good, I don't think so. Do I really have to get dressed? Yes, but that's the only part of your day you have to fake -- I'll take care of the rest.

Oh I, ever so, could be thinking like you, but only in possibility

Macy thought her purpose was quite shocking, over the top really, a tangible vocation that (in all honestly, yes, and given the absolute parameters) had little bearing in the overall outcome of her success. Of my chosen success, Macy noted. This is quite at odds with my chosen and what I imagined to be my acquired success model. This just won't do. Of course, or rather evidently, the selection process and the ensuing dispersement of purposes had, of late, resulted in incredible scrutiny and (in the general and usual absence of logical analysis) quiet calls for re-organization of management. Hers, I assure you, Clyde remarked, is not the first miscalculated and hence misapplied purpose. While I assure you it is in no way reflective of the general tendencies within our official obligations as Link from formal institutional government to prescribed enthusiasm, happiness, contentment, and (ever quietly, I suppose, but still noted in official exchanges between departments) containment. Of course, if there is a complaint, an official complaint, one that cannot be resolved through informal mediation and informal persuasion, Clyde continued methodically but now clearly resolved to either pacify the agitated Macy or extend an institutional costume marked by the cruel yet calm disposition. Yes, the Post Commander had instructed, be firm and calm at onset. But ever gracefully rise to the assumed position and natural exhibition of disappointment, pity. A true condescender, you see. But it just won't do! Macy intoned, yet again, and unwittingly jeopardizing her ever fragile position in the institutional, the formal, lobby. Oh dear, Clyde thought, not yet accustomed to his parental obligations in such interactions. You will have to keep your voice at a level that is appropriate for official interactions, Clyde warned, considering himself a sound pupil, adjusting his jacket in the manner of the videos and again posing as far from delectable as, well, as is just about possible, Macy considered. Indeed, he is so ever far from delectable I would even venture to suppose that I would recall his image when I ever hear such a word voiced again, because he is surely the exact oppostite of that. By now, the merely extended presence of a resident at the official desk of the institution had gained the attention of the entire northern wing and I could not accept another citation, Clyde thought, not this early in what he assumed would be a very long career as an institutional employee but, at the least, there is some concern for my presence here, it must be unusual for such an interaction to take place, hmph, under marble, or on top of marble, Macy, now thoroughly annoyed, considered. This is just improper separation of duties, improper delegation, faulty leadership -- oh, but she wouldn't dare to suggust faulty leadership of the formal institution, a claim that would engage the outer members of the northern court and cause a great deal of disatisfaction, I would certainly, most certainly hate to spend a week in jail, or even a night, Macy thought and considered whether just leaving, just turning on her heel, might just be the best course of action, of course, if she does mumble the slightest slant, I am within my right, moreover I am obligated as such to handle the confrontation with swift and direct action, Clyde considered. Perhaps, he (oh he himself) would engage the two outer officers into an elegant and peaceful capture of this purposeless woman, this intruder, and in fact, assume that the future orders of purposes, of course, will be well suited to owners, no correction could possibly be made in prior distributions (a point clearly evident with consideration of the response to an admission of error by the formal institution). Of course this was, after all, directly contingent upon his purpose, which with ever poor judgement he had failed to open and, at present, lay carelessly on his bedside table.

g.

Georgia, god damn you -- that was what it was about, that was its fucking constitution. It began in foul places, like those under the bathroom sink, and in the walls, where the fingers play against themselves, undoing the sealant and making it all -- just jesus, Georgia -- you were instigating the entire entourage, into this collapse, my own fucking head into a pile of pie : my own consistency was muddled and we weren't even fucking -- the other kind, the kind that is for embrace and entanglement and confusion and -- jesus, he was watching too, just watching her rob me, take me into the barn, you know, yeah, like that, she threw me on the hay, as I remember it, the only way I am gonna remember it -- I was out of control, then, I was remembering too much, she wasn't anything like she was now, not like she is now, I couldn't have brought her into the barn, she had to lead me -- and he all watched, he and all of them watched, like it was chickens they were watching -- I didn't fight, no, but I was crying and I think I was almost, maybe, I am not remembering it how it was, not like they tell it from A until D, I am not like that -- but it wasn't different than that, it couldn't have been any different than that -- not as I remember it, she was in her skin that day, really in her skin, she owned it much sooner than I owned mine, it fit her better than mine has ever fit me, she didn't have any of the doubt that it was elastic that maybe it would just melt off one day, especially if it was too hot -- jesus, it was hot all the time, it was hot like that all that summer -- it was too hot -- everything else, on top of that, over her skin wasn't really important, not to her suit, not to the fact that she fitted, she wasn't caring, not as I remember it, as I have been remembering it, she was fitted, usual and accustomed to it -- yeah, I know she must have taken me there, even if they were all watching, she must have taken me to the barn, to the place with the hay, because I know, she didn't even know, she didn't know the difference, you know, between her clothes and her skin and she wasn't touched by herself with her clothes, herself was always just her skin, I couldn't have taken her then, she must have taken me. But it was hot and I think my skin melted -- they were gonna see my bones and all my muscle and I was gonna be an alien to them. They were going to scream and run and pull out their hair. But she didn't stop. She kept moving, onto and over me -- she felt like she was in her skin.

I was in her skin. She wasn't unkind -- but fucking inconsiderate -- I can swear again. Now, I am forgetting, all the time, but there is one other command, just one last command that I need to forget, the contracted purpose of my ambition to conquer them and all of them, especially when I am at dinner parties. I don't want to be inconsiderate either, I just want to forget, she was always forgetting, she was always seeming to forget, I just want to forget about the way to get anywhere -- jesus, I can't take anything off, anymore but I like to put everything on. I need to forget that too.

Listening, the other day, to the Stereophonics, singing about Pier 49, I smelled the Pacific air and cigarettes.

Rambling now past the edges.

Loose grass, mud in the air I can smell it so I know it is there.

S----- I remembered drinking and smoking in the narrow space of the fire escape, and felt unbearably sad that it was gone. But remembered, remembering, I had it all and -- believe it or not -- that helped.

"When are we going to build our empire?"

Every day now. At varying amplitudes, different heights. Spring comes and the ceiling is lifted. Sometimes I am allowed back to places that are eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeed off the planet, fatal combination of time and time and time and time...

In some shadows, mud. I saw evil on the wall of a bungalow -- how weird is that? I must have been high, sure, I was, I was tripping balls too but I mean: evil? Last night in a dream A-- said, just to piss off my grandmother, "God has AIDS." And I said, "I mean, sure... only He doesn't *have* it, He *is* AIDS and the mud I keep mentioning and the mentioning and what isn't mentioned and your hair that I coughed up after I went down on you and the whole nine yards and seven years since we were out there," I'm talking to you now, under sky I can almost smell though the fire escape and the cigarettes and the shadows you stood in as you drank the whiskey and the whiskey too are all gone to God now. God of body attacking itself. God of time. I remember, and remembering, close the gaps between Him and me, me and you, and bear everything.