You know, it's almost good for you.
In useless observance of manual labour, I pulled an abdominal muscle last week that put me on my back and prostituting my pain for kindness. Other than that the weekend was uneventful.
I’ve done far too much work this morning, but I feel redeemed because I wrote two things that seem harmonious, or angry. I’ll now need to commit to Word the few thoughts I had Friday night but was in too much pain to sit down and scribble out, and found the computer to be in a really hot zone, so I didn’t use that, either. Barely even for porn. That’s how painfully hot things were, and how much pain I was in.
I read one of the books Danielle gave me for my birthday, now I’ll read another. She got me my book-crack, the kind that goes down fast and kicking my cerebrum like waves of literate ambrosia. Or crack cocaine, which I watched the Miami cops busting severely ugly people with on TV. The Wire on HBO has some minor players who make me twitch in a sexy way (well, I’m not sexily twitching, they’re just putting a sexy mood in my mind).
If I could organize my thoughts, I could rule my block. If I could get a gun, I could rule my head. If there was a stretch of time that never ended or changed, I’d be in the suburbs looking at a pavement crack next to some dying tree. My father is a cipher, sitting in some small room manipulating numbers into ordered chaos that a distant force will use to fragment the air and divert a disastrous outcome from the skies elevated security breach that foreign aggressors tore against in order to subjugate and terrorize. But he doesn’t do it because he loves them. From my mother’s breach I sailed into the random wave of life that came from jumbled order and was distilled in eminent glory by a thousand thousand words and phrases that projected me to the point I just swept past and chose to ignore because it demonstrates the ever delimiting nature of my remaining time. Clangers, carry on.
~m
I’ve done far too much work this morning, but I feel redeemed because I wrote two things that seem harmonious, or angry. I’ll now need to commit to Word the few thoughts I had Friday night but was in too much pain to sit down and scribble out, and found the computer to be in a really hot zone, so I didn’t use that, either. Barely even for porn. That’s how painfully hot things were, and how much pain I was in.
I read one of the books Danielle gave me for my birthday, now I’ll read another. She got me my book-crack, the kind that goes down fast and kicking my cerebrum like waves of literate ambrosia. Or crack cocaine, which I watched the Miami cops busting severely ugly people with on TV. The Wire on HBO has some minor players who make me twitch in a sexy way (well, I’m not sexily twitching, they’re just putting a sexy mood in my mind).
If I could organize my thoughts, I could rule my block. If I could get a gun, I could rule my head. If there was a stretch of time that never ended or changed, I’d be in the suburbs looking at a pavement crack next to some dying tree. My father is a cipher, sitting in some small room manipulating numbers into ordered chaos that a distant force will use to fragment the air and divert a disastrous outcome from the skies elevated security breach that foreign aggressors tore against in order to subjugate and terrorize. But he doesn’t do it because he loves them. From my mother’s breach I sailed into the random wave of life that came from jumbled order and was distilled in eminent glory by a thousand thousand words and phrases that projected me to the point I just swept past and chose to ignore because it demonstrates the ever delimiting nature of my remaining time. Clangers, carry on.
~m