(no subject)
Ypsilanti tonight is like a ghost town. There is no J. Mascis, only the fog. The glow of streetlights are like ghosts. The rotating sign of the liquor store is like Moses at midnight. "I dreamt about you last night and I fell out of bed twice. You can pin and mount me like a butterfly, but 'Take me to the haven of your bed' was something that you never said. Two lumps, please." You say it but you don't really say it, seeing as how it's whispered without a sound, just breath, against my neck and past my collar and down my chest. In this incident, I attempt to be a man but the quote seems to have the heat to melt me into a boy. If only I was a bigger man, if only I had the courage, I'd flip your body over and grip my mouth against the flesh of your own neck and just "You're the bees knees.. but so am I." If only, if only I was a bigger man. If only, if only if only I only if.. If only Leonard Cohen could get out of my stereo. If only I could know how safe my favourite copy of my favourite book is. If only I could know what I do wrong, what I do right, or even what I do in general. I don't mean to think too much but it's just what my mind seems to do. I can't control it; this junkie of assumption and jealousy, this faggot form that bends over backwards at the slight chance of love over lust. Maybe I'll just stab my pen into my wrist again and make my way, struggling upon knee down the freeway all while losing blood, to pass out in the backseat of your car. It will take you weeks to wash out the ink and blood stains. It'll be my immature revenge, my temporary legacy. "With my teeth locked down I can see the blood, of a thousand men who have come and gone." He says it, and I spit on it. I jerk my jack and spit on every boring riff. Your rock and roll stage doesn't deserve the weight of her feet. Nobody does.. except maybe a weight-timed plastic explosive. And I say all this, but then again, who am I?
My masochism is shining brightly through my recent interest in keeping my eyes glued upon the television screen. I've got nothing better to do but than to lean back in my lazy chair with a beer in my hand and murmur the subjecting phrase of "I'm lovin' it." Maury Povich and Montel Williams. Dan Rather and Tom Brokaw. Lines of static obscure my visions of the characters in certain sitcoms or reality shows, depending on the channel. At times my attention drifts away from the plot the writer's play out and into my own imagination, and sometimes my attention drifts away from the plot the writer's play out and into my own past...
Throughout the trip, my attention falters and fades. Outside the train window the passing scenery attempts to take a tug at my insides, but I object and refuse to let it speak to me. Such a shame I place upon myself, for the beauty it attempts to translate is in one of the only languages I'll ever understand. Mother always said I was quite stubborn. In my hands I keep the mason jar that is inhabited by the heart of my dead son, preserved in my own tears. Germany, Spain, Guatemala, Ecuador.. No nation. No nation seems to have the strength to hold the saddest song, the only song my soul could sing. Dear Daniel was stolen from my life in the worst of ways, by the most gruesome of means. In the dead of night as only an infant, a pack of cannibalistic wild men stole him inside twilight hours beneath the dry desert moon. They cut his heart out. They drank the blood, discarding the body behind a mess of Californian landscape. They raped my daughters, crucified my son, and performed a trial lobotomy upon my beloved wife. As the only survivor, it took me months/years to recover. It has been twenty years since this. Before I turn in each night, I drink a pint of whiskey and huff a bit of gasoline to help grip my mind into the state I prefer, the state where you're inside the bed sheets next to me and I can wrap at least one arm around you. It's a hallucination but it works.
There is a quick decision that moves me to jump on Stacy's bike and ride back to my apartment to fetch Jamie a can of soup. The air is cold. My knuckles are colder. My thoughts are frozen.
I want to be caught in a high-rise fire, or a mass murder at the shopping mall. I want to scale down seventy stories in a state of sheer panic, with flames bursting through windows above me. I want to hear gunshots rattling over my head as I flee down the back hallways of the factory I waste away at every day. I want to see people die. I want to see people live. I want to see people love. I want to see people hurt. I want to sleep, I want to sleep, and I don't want to wake. I want and I don't want, I don't want and I want. The more I think about it, there's really no difference. The more I think about it, I don't know why I even think at all.
My masochism is shining brightly through my recent interest in keeping my eyes glued upon the television screen. I've got nothing better to do but than to lean back in my lazy chair with a beer in my hand and murmur the subjecting phrase of "I'm lovin' it." Maury Povich and Montel Williams. Dan Rather and Tom Brokaw. Lines of static obscure my visions of the characters in certain sitcoms or reality shows, depending on the channel. At times my attention drifts away from the plot the writer's play out and into my own imagination, and sometimes my attention drifts away from the plot the writer's play out and into my own past...
Throughout the trip, my attention falters and fades. Outside the train window the passing scenery attempts to take a tug at my insides, but I object and refuse to let it speak to me. Such a shame I place upon myself, for the beauty it attempts to translate is in one of the only languages I'll ever understand. Mother always said I was quite stubborn. In my hands I keep the mason jar that is inhabited by the heart of my dead son, preserved in my own tears. Germany, Spain, Guatemala, Ecuador.. No nation. No nation seems to have the strength to hold the saddest song, the only song my soul could sing. Dear Daniel was stolen from my life in the worst of ways, by the most gruesome of means. In the dead of night as only an infant, a pack of cannibalistic wild men stole him inside twilight hours beneath the dry desert moon. They cut his heart out. They drank the blood, discarding the body behind a mess of Californian landscape. They raped my daughters, crucified my son, and performed a trial lobotomy upon my beloved wife. As the only survivor, it took me months/years to recover. It has been twenty years since this. Before I turn in each night, I drink a pint of whiskey and huff a bit of gasoline to help grip my mind into the state I prefer, the state where you're inside the bed sheets next to me and I can wrap at least one arm around you. It's a hallucination but it works.
There is a quick decision that moves me to jump on Stacy's bike and ride back to my apartment to fetch Jamie a can of soup. The air is cold. My knuckles are colder. My thoughts are frozen.
I want to be caught in a high-rise fire, or a mass murder at the shopping mall. I want to scale down seventy stories in a state of sheer panic, with flames bursting through windows above me. I want to hear gunshots rattling over my head as I flee down the back hallways of the factory I waste away at every day. I want to see people die. I want to see people live. I want to see people love. I want to see people hurt. I want to sleep, I want to sleep, and I don't want to wake. I want and I don't want, I don't want and I want. The more I think about it, there's really no difference. The more I think about it, I don't know why I even think at all.