(no subject)
I become the sheen, the wreck and the quiet. I become the fifteenth time this month that somebody has been divided. The weekend swells up, tells me that it is moving out. The lime is bringing itself to a stiff curdling with the veins inside. Grief come alone, or do not come at all. I will not have you here with anger and confusion involved. I will sit within my chair, and set up all my shields. The lightest weight is heavy when you place it under this wheel. Know where you need to go to, or I won’t know at all. I am falling from the people that told me, wheeling fate wont be real at all. The message sent with washcloths, the lions in their letters etched out a scene from wildly expanding plains, the life will come without its’ reigns, the people are knocking at your door, and they want you to know that you’re pre-approved for death.
Arrival in the turtle shell, upturned green and cotton hell, I was running from my lord, and I found myself here. Wheat and breath and every wind, find the luck to pull within, I once threw my life to gin, and the cold called me home. Young champions of the west, life contained within my chest, live contained within the glances, I was visiting a place I’ve been before. There was you before. There was this among a war, a war displaced, a people in forgiveness. Many loves had passed this stone, this is a home. Something found and something dead, I was wandering for this. I was missed by happiness on that day. Lonely shell and angry tip, lie awake upon the ship, wind is blowing in with you. You have been lied to. I am living in the shell, curled around the point of spiral, I have come to see my strings left and slithering on the ground. Get your house and make it follow, get your money, callow wallowing, stumbling man, arrival, arrival, this is where you’re going now. Old fate, you stung me well, left me pained inside this place. You are a people mamed by history, why’s it have to be? Make believe and calm deceit, battles made by glances heeded, unlatched flame will come at a cemetery, years down the road. I should love without denial, I should love without hesitation, I should love without saying: no, no, no.
The ingredients of time, the rolling cause of malfunction, the earth begun and frothing, the earth became something on an off of it. The poison done, the checking unsold, the broccoli clean, the sunlight turning, the dust becomes the return. The dust becomes the return. I cooked my life through America, smoky life earled through the evening. I heave the dust into my self, I want to love, and so I go out into the rain.
The family rage. The world condensed, and snarling angels tearing. The living room becomes of age, to drink in anger, the drunken stubs of conversation, mauled and inhabiting a deadened scene. The forced-blue face of grimacing love, oh love, what love, in loud gestures, strangling deeds.
“What am I doing?” Ollie grumbled, motivating his reluctant body up the steps to a strange apartment. He was told that he would find a man here. He found someone, but he wasn’t sure to what extent he could call this one a “man”.
“My cat! My cat! AHGGGHH!”
When Ollie reached the fourth floor corridor he found a small, dishelved, raggedy man running after a cat, who was on fire. A flash of absurd amusement crossed his face, followed by complete disturbance. The cat flew down the stairwell, and the man stopped, panting, hands on his knees. Ollie stood there, dripping wet from the rain outside. After several moments Ollie began to speak, but the man cut him off:
“We stole the bitch anyway. You want some tea?”
Without waiting for a response, the man hobbled into a dusty-looking apartment down the hall. Ollie followed.
The wick had thus expelled itself. The wild imagination pulled the throttle. The man awoke in his bedside disaster and the world was sitting cross-legged and swaddled. Will you realize the cause of old, old age? Will you throw your arms out the doors in rage? Will you go on, will you splatter? Will you find a locket and fill it with pancake batter? The wild soldier falls to pieces. You are guilty even if you can’t hit with your elbows. Hit with your citations. I’ll love, long away, bring yourself to Easton, all away, we can’t eat this dirt. We have to try, to make recreation. The forested mind of the seasoned undertaker, raking the earth with bitter fingers.
We’ll win survival at the table. Bred from peacetime, strung out on the wind, I was a causation gunning into the chest of someone who needs to win, I was a trumpet, I was a cold indignity.
The need to sit upon a stump, a clump of self in forest-time. The sun-shocked pines stand tall, tall, the cathedral woods. Here we sit, seeds, unshod, life regained within the clod. I do not know a subtle life, the jarring memory remains still, withdrawn, and coming back from every frothy morning, you wake the world by passing through it.
I walked jangled, down dust-ridden line, talking about sace killed, the wine soaked killer headed out west this time, but I wanted more western fury, told sky to shut up and hurry, told rocks to get out of the way, I gotta get somewhere. Something about the east, the Wildman, who gives a shit. Jumping wild, jumping jack, fur going to and fro, it’s something hard, something that requires thought, something that could catch you by the balls and wrap around your soul. You’ve got no soul, but you’ve got shoes, so get up with the rocking chair movement of day to night, push a little bit yourself and do right, if you can, the world is tanned and reckoning for something. Make mexico your punch, and punch all comening. Commence with the humbling, he shouted at the great blue sky, commence with the living and the dying and all those things that you’re supposed to find in college. Your whole life, compiled and discovered for you, then handed to you. All you need to do is fill in the blanks with the list of words we’ve drawn up for you, and over time you should be just right where you need to be. Run the walker down the street, strike courage into fireworks and hit the world back. Fire has no social tact, but we keep it around anyway. Light begets the day and flowers, hitting back sensory light, I want to right, I want to wright. Kill earth and heartiness flown in for gripes.
The passing compliment compounds, and he confounds his innocence. The contained self is but a dotted thing. Stop, repel, try the again in whatever wings. He walked down 29th, ready to go south, something in the heat of the city in his mouth. He wanted a job, a girl, a house, but those things would have to wait for happiness. The dripping day came down upon his shoulders.
Nemesis drawn, born from hell’s salary. The scaffolded coredtion, the strapped stocks, the bucketed knuckles, the boxed pummlings of the city. I was born someplace decimated by dignity. To the civil benefit of grinding churl. The blood will coffin itself in lurid profanity. I once knew saints, in bowls, in acrobatic slender, the feet unwound about the tender earth. Three week shot put hanging on the bed would kill me anyway, life started to decay. I’ll tuck you into safely wicked harbor. I’ll lion you out the door on a bright green Sunday, there will be jade in your breath.
We bashed our inheritance and threw it in the back of a skylined truck. We said “Johnston’s don’t give a fuck!” and traveled down the line. The seasick people by and by, drew themselves up on stinging time. I’ll line myself on your eaves, blundered love. I’ll take you as far as someone could ever need to go. The pop and snap of life’s roaming roots. The livelihood between reeds and shoots. We’re travelin’ through green and brown, but never will you see me quite so found. Sixteen anchors, familiar with father anvils, headed out to the earth’s center, and all got confounded by sandy disposition. Damn.
The sneer of the sunset unveils my love, casketed in the rocks of the shore. I sighed her out into the sea. The greedy tide was all to welcoming, gouging the coast with its’ picking, picking. Oh God, what have I not done?
His shirt pools on the bedroom floor, that’s where he keeps all his ghosts. He never caught himself no deadly bug, but he never licked no frogs neither. The loud clacking comes from the mouth of a Frenchman on Pike. He doesn’t know what his freedom is, so he unlocks all his thoughts. And now they say he’s crazy, releasing himself out into the world, but now the whole world is his body, and he causes himself to swindle the locked heeding killer punchbags, upended in the loose gyration of the unkempt.
You kid, you’re a fighter. You’re also a sonofabitch, you’re painting the rocks with you. You’ve got abstract numbers in the bank, but what’s that gonna do you in the busted alley, with the busted people drugs?
Have me in the five senses, and I’ll let you go with a sixth. Something is clicking, is hoping for life to be deposited it debt. I’ll straighten the stars if I have to, sweet Melanie. I’ll cold press the lies and marked guns that brought you here. Love, hung on the edge of the bed, struck me down first, and then I was cleared. The life comes around and then you’ll head out the place where the world came back to breathe out the silences that it once held onto so tightly. This day getsuncombines, the run of the lime saught after in time. And we, tucked into her coat, mumbled what we loved, what one day we could become. This was a childhood of yellows, of hues combined in a great loving yarn. And I, paused in the recklessness of everything knew that I could also come to harm.
Ollie did not know his place, he tied to his face, a people of fire. He dolloped himself into the city to find a girl, and he stood at her door. It had gotten to the point where all questions, statements, insecurities had drowned each other in a strangling white noise. Now he thought nothing, his mind, dull and grey, forgetting even what he was there for. He knocked on the door. She came. She opened. They stood.
There was a force in her breath that he had never felt before, even though it was slight, and barely reaching him. There was something there, something that had never been taught to Laureate Street. Maybe it was love, or maybe it was just the weather, but time, that mysterious agent of action, swept over the scene, slowing down the words that came next, indecipherable to the future, the words didn’t matter. He came inside, after she let him, and they stood some more. It seemed they had fallen in love before, on a train ride to Chicago, he was twelve, she was fourteen. They passed, feeling something they could not understand, and passed into their own separate histories until this moment, standing. What breath, what sacred breath rolls out, unties itself and reties in a square knot. They knotted fingers, cheeks. And all came to a happiness.
In the raging of the morning, the thought became apparent and plain. The voice became a killer, and the ocean filled with voice. The people cried from the mountain tops of water, which, shifting and changing, threw them one by one, out.
The wicked wages of a bloody time, pull my life out from the dimes, a cage is runged by every man, the execution of a sedan is struck and strung across the light of greasy gray and mighty flight. I’ll come and get you in the rain, dark by way of god damn shrine, the legging light of every height. I’ll come and kill you with my whim, with every single tuna fin in ocean’s grip the cry of deadly running sigh, the people coming by and by, the wheel comes so down the towing road.
A silent road expressed the hate between the fire and the grate, the oiled science of the old. I’ll catch your eye a day ago, I’ll make the noise between us snow in storms thrumming across the plain. It’s not so far, I try to say, the life will find its’ graceful chords, the lungs collapse to build with air, and yet some still remains. I’m told the people in their cars don’t think much about where they are, as long as they get where they need to go. I’m told that freedom strikes the blues out of every line untrued, every plum and carrot hued by every sucking stone. I’ll reach that place if I need to. I’ll kill the man if he’s not true. The place between my head and the fitful sky. I don’t want no best of my life replayed, I just want to go and say, I want to let it all go by and by. Wherever you say you want to be, make sure you are and perhaps free, I do not have the key to the graceless tumble-by. I mesh the blood and dirt when it comes, the sun will bleak and throw its’ heart down yellowed on the ground. Don’t come here, don’t come around or I’ll sound you out the door.
The heart makes itself known by inner-winds, ripping through the red. I’ll love you when I’m dead, I swear, I’ll love you when I’m dead. You’re love, you’re love, and I don’t know how to describe you, to say the color of your eyes and hair could not convey the feeling. As I go, please forget me. The spilling heartache will not warm you, it will only flood away. Curse the birds, the telephone wires, the mountains if you have to, they express a love that you feel too much to sedate. Kill the heart, stab the place with apathy if you need to, I am gone, I am gone to someplace, and I’m sure as hell my heart will decay, decay, decay.
I picked up some love at the grocery store, tiredly, brought it home. Opened the box when I was alone, and cried awhile.
I greet love on the passing train, in the long subtle moments of the night. I would let you slip away but I can’t conjure up the might to drown that love. To bring itself past the alms, the breaking point of palms against each other, my brothered hands, my life contained and understood, I am but a steed, a neighbored brood. Call me in my bubbled home, the life compounded in its’ mind, the ball is passed and the world goes to where it needs to. The rain becomes a brothered hatred, the life stops and heals itself, making light found in glory. Call me to the browning sideache, the person felt beyond the helm, I am not held.
“So what do you think this all means?”
“You have a war inside yourself, what should it mean?”
“It means that I need help, right? It means that I’m sick. It means I gotta clear something from my palette, right? It means I gotta conjure up some sanity, right?”
“No. It means that you’ve suppressed a wildness of youth, and that you must release it. You have seen love, and you have left it behind. Now you must get out your loss in an extroverted fashion. That doesn’t mean you must go and kill things. To kill would be to plunge you further and further into the feeling, shooting bullets for temporary highs.”
there was a long pause.
“So. What do I do?”
“Go crazy.”
And so Ollie Eavesgreen took to south of downtown, in search of place where he could hop a train.
The amber light gave way to a bruised purple, and then eventually black, splashed with the city lights. He had a warm coat, a bag, and he stood by the train tracks. He had never done this before, and he heard that it’s difficult these days to ride the rails, but he had to. A train went by, but it was too quick. There was no way he’d be able to get on. He went back to the yard, and finally, after dodging the line of sight of roaming yard police trucks, he found a southbound train, and got on it.
The noise of the train was loud, shattering any illusion of peace that could’ve possibly resided in his body that night. It was then that he missed his dog, a black lab that to him signified a beacon of innocence, now very far away. He stared out at the rambling slur of industrial buildings, and then, suburbs. He was so estranged to this place. He was so estranged to every place. This is what modern youth is supposed to be, right? Homeless, with so many houses, right?
The yellow grass was his favorite grass-it reminded him of her hair. There were memories that came in the night by swift and gentle boats. He could not write things to her, nothing that could keep afloat in the deep waters of past. The mistakes made, the lasting vibration stumbling through the air. Yes I found you there, I think, the place where all became drowned in the sink, the nearby rolling thunder cause the hawk begone the likening struggle and all that came upon the loose and killing cause. I will write you a story heard, a great avalanche of my life, coming to still at your feet, the place where pooled strife sits, thinking in fits. The soldering on place, the blurbed happiness in a fiddled tune. I’ll cause you to crash into the great and sorrowing night. I want you to see my light, passing through the scene, I wanted light toppled, found, careened, wherever I’ve been. Man, I’ve dished out live through sicled tin, I’ve found forgiveness in wherever the stones of time get themselves lost within. I’ve made a boat from the loss, the taking tackle of the wind. In that white dress, I do not know, love, will I try to see you again? Sell the wind back to the sea, I want to save my motionless days, sell the love back to me and we will start again somewhere, pawn the memories, that will work, work the life into your stares. Fleshy moon cantankerously poised upon a hilltop, it will lift. And like the birds of dripping sighs she will come with eggshell hips. Oh water, come and make your play, the tragedy of ocean reveling, then split, and upon the earth the pieces cry, just as my mouth cries spit.