Vesuvius at home
I can hardly keep still. I don't really sit down. I have this inconsiderate habit -- when signing on to AOL -- of immediately leaving the computer to go perform some other activity, like making a sandwhich, watering the lawn, ironing an outfit -- the one I'm going to wear -- or taking a particularly lengthy shit, so I can return at my leisure several minutes later to the many delightful surprises of e-mails and blinking AIMs. It's wondrous! People care, they really do! It's like walking into a room at the ring of a piercing bell, announcing yourself with aplomb and turning invisible! They're befuddled, what's this, they ask, Are you really there?? You're not responding. How irregular, just now. Are you not well? You're unsettled. Of course, that's what it is! It's my molecules, I'm losing consistency, I'm dissolving! Weep for me, internets, I'm broken apart! You'll say I'm crafty, you won't admit it, what matter of trickery. Look, I'm preparing a "sammich" and my girlfriend's nagging at me, she wants to correct me, she says it's revolting that I don't cook my ham beforehand, and why must I subsist on the basest slices and eat it RAW to top it off?? It's immoral! Barbarous! I'm making her look bad. She has to hide her face in public! I retort, it's just something to tide me over, a snack, this is just for now, baby, just like you! I don't make it a point to lavish quality on my pettiest desires BESIDES. I'm not picky, any old thing will do! With that, I leap over the breakfast nook. She manages to grabs my ankle before I make it across, in mid-air, and I eat it on the other side. She finally catches me -- I don't struggle -- she slaps the shit out of me. It's painful, it's cute! She really knows how to give it, her flat palm stings like a whip, a tough girl, not strong, she has brothers that are somewhat belligerent, they showed her a thing or two! There's laundry to be done and ironing, too. She laughs at me when I tell her to get busy. She's insolent! I entreat her with arguments about tradition, the loss of our culture! Where's my Catholic wedding with the bells heard for miles around?? That's a good question, sooo, I take to pondering, as I'm pressing my clothes, giving them a long lazy, marginal press, when I notice the grim acquisition of new and indellible stains. Black, gummy, greasy! This late in the process, I can only bring myself to shrug about it. I dab a little water on them and press the stains along with the rest of the soiled fabric. My poor warddrobe, what drastic perdition! I'm a messy camper! I'm not supposed to show where I've been, cause I've been places, nasty ones. My washer's on the fritz, maybe? Waiit, it's an undershirt! The collar's presentable, that's all that really matters in the end. Avert your eyes! On the toilet, I'm squeezing out monstrocities! No mere logs, whole cabins! Unflushable housing! The toilet water won't pierce the edifice, the waves sink right through, all is vanity! This is something of an exaggeration. I picked it up in jail, where I actually smelled such horrors in a badly ventilated room. I'm tasteless, I need to drink more water, my viscera is doubtless dry, rotten, my piss is dark and fuming! I refuse singularity, I want these things to be a generational condition, so the old critics can berate us all for a certain apathy that perforce includes the loss of hygiene. That's your hang-up, people! Common decency! You too? Admit it! We don't take the right fluids. Juice is ineffectual. Soda doesn't taste the same anymore. It makes me phlegmy. It's the years of smoking pot and continuously hacking up a new species of slimy intelligence, strange cultures. I have a growth in the throat, a corrosion, perpetual gunk, rust in the pipe system!
Livejournal, my account is expired. I received two notices on the matter. I think I realize what's at stake. It's hard times! Trying, desperate situations! My interests are rapidly becoming frivolous. They're losing their novelty. It used to be that some would get adopted, they'd link up to perfect strangers who'd fancy something of mine, a similar dork. Now, they're regressing into plain text! As I understand it, having distinct interests is now passé, so I'm changing lenny on the tile to lenny bruce. Find me now! I'm far gone. The only reasonable solution: slapping my bare ass! public displays! slapping innocents! fingerpainting with filth! zero regard! I have to assert my presence somehow! Believe it or not, there are times I have nothing to say, when I'm stuck repeating the same words into already tired and pre-prepared symmetries. Mirrored mise-en-abimes, same songs! Peep this, how I plan to revamp: I'll stop slicing the fat that spills out the sides of belt and involve the whole gross body, hair, odors and all. I'll kick my absurd knack for hurling aside stepping stones. I'll learn to speak in a quick Portuguese, no, a rough translation. I'll gallivant around like an unsuspecting queen down a rape trail. I'll court the sly thug in the greenery, wringing his hands, fiending for that mmmmm soft pink entry. I'll unearth my protean roots with a rip and a crack!
I'm still tormented by giant moths, armies of ants, and, worse of all, Mara the Tempter. I purposely write offensive and truthful confessions that betray the innocence of my face, which is the most whimsical deceiver of all, hard to control, impossible to capture. Where most others first originate a feeling, which then proceeds to register on their face, I'm backwards, I get cues, suggestions, now commands from my insolent face! I feel with my face like it's a direct extension of my imagination. Sparked and entranced by any passing object! People inspire the most capricious involutions. Oh, meeting people! Nonsense erupts. Understanding ensues. I absorb and redact, I give nothing back, or I give all I can, never enough! I love them fiercely, temporarily, but I am nothing, what is everything at once. You want to trap me in place! Pidgeonhole me! It's preposterous. There are times I want to skip ahead and simply make out with someone without having to intone the requisite lines of poetry. No knowing dialogue! A little less conversation! Set aside the charm and histrionics! I have this perverse fetish for leaning into that first sweeping step which leads to a quarter inch of closeness. It's the singular rush of proximity, like the trails of shooting comets, their tails co-mingling, no meaning attached, because the eventual kiss is only a byproduct that pierces you with a slow poison, the corrosive act that will infect the memory. You can keep it! Before such an exquisite moment in time, before that stark portion of the day, we were nothing but absolute strangers! Your wretched cosmetics and your wrapped up bits be damned!
Single kiss in a far-gone past -- a treacherous breach of mind and body.
Livejournal, my account is expired. I received two notices on the matter. I think I realize what's at stake. It's hard times! Trying, desperate situations! My interests are rapidly becoming frivolous. They're losing their novelty. It used to be that some would get adopted, they'd link up to perfect strangers who'd fancy something of mine, a similar dork. Now, they're regressing into plain text! As I understand it, having distinct interests is now passé, so I'm changing lenny on the tile to lenny bruce. Find me now! I'm far gone. The only reasonable solution: slapping my bare ass! public displays! slapping innocents! fingerpainting with filth! zero regard! I have to assert my presence somehow! Believe it or not, there are times I have nothing to say, when I'm stuck repeating the same words into already tired and pre-prepared symmetries. Mirrored mise-en-abimes, same songs! Peep this, how I plan to revamp: I'll stop slicing the fat that spills out the sides of belt and involve the whole gross body, hair, odors and all. I'll kick my absurd knack for hurling aside stepping stones. I'll learn to speak in a quick Portuguese, no, a rough translation. I'll gallivant around like an unsuspecting queen down a rape trail. I'll court the sly thug in the greenery, wringing his hands, fiending for that mmmmm soft pink entry. I'll unearth my protean roots with a rip and a crack!
I'm still tormented by giant moths, armies of ants, and, worse of all, Mara the Tempter. I purposely write offensive and truthful confessions that betray the innocence of my face, which is the most whimsical deceiver of all, hard to control, impossible to capture. Where most others first originate a feeling, which then proceeds to register on their face, I'm backwards, I get cues, suggestions, now commands from my insolent face! I feel with my face like it's a direct extension of my imagination. Sparked and entranced by any passing object! People inspire the most capricious involutions. Oh, meeting people! Nonsense erupts. Understanding ensues. I absorb and redact, I give nothing back, or I give all I can, never enough! I love them fiercely, temporarily, but I am nothing, what is everything at once. You want to trap me in place! Pidgeonhole me! It's preposterous. There are times I want to skip ahead and simply make out with someone without having to intone the requisite lines of poetry. No knowing dialogue! A little less conversation! Set aside the charm and histrionics! I have this perverse fetish for leaning into that first sweeping step which leads to a quarter inch of closeness. It's the singular rush of proximity, like the trails of shooting comets, their tails co-mingling, no meaning attached, because the eventual kiss is only a byproduct that pierces you with a slow poison, the corrosive act that will infect the memory. You can keep it! Before such an exquisite moment in time, before that stark portion of the day, we were nothing but absolute strangers! Your wretched cosmetics and your wrapped up bits be damned!
Single kiss in a far-gone past -- a treacherous breach of mind and body.