(no subject)

last evening was spent downloading much johnny cash, tonight i am rewarded.

last night was horrible, horrid, horrific. the night, that is. i tried to sleep, my body wanted to sleep, my mind was set on sleep but sleep only came through a hard filter, giving you just enough to confuse and annoy. and the night, oh the night. the wind was whistling and the insects were sobbing and the wind chime windwalking and the night trains were loud and distant and the sounds of sirens and firetrucks never stopped. and an insect has been inhabiting my room, i never see it but every few hours i hear it buzzing my ear. a while ago i would wake up with mosquito bites all night but that hasn't happened in a few nights. still i sleep with the blanket tucked all around me, also for the cold because I sleep naked. and i lie there last night having fever dreams for hours, flying cockroaches, bagging groceries, insects, strange faces. and i thought about the word "fear". Fear has always been a key word, a blank word, one of the strongest of my Variable words.. I use Variable words when something can't be expressed specifically, it can only be related, empathized. The Variable word means something different to every person. This is how i intended to weave my iconography. and I thought about Fear because it is, to me, the strongest variable word i have... it marks the immediate cessation of thought, of words, only emotions are allowed inside it. it is irrational and mute. and i thought, shit, this is everything the things i write lack. the purity of emotion. but, bah, that was never my strong suit. the men of my family have always had to be strong and smarmy to weather the bad luck, poverty, and poor romantic choices that follow them around. but no, is that me? surely it's not me. i am brave and passionate. hardly. anyway. bad night. poor morning. walking in rain. walking back home in sunshower. big difference, you see. anyway, i don't know what's good anymore. not that i ever did, but there was a time when i could convince myself one way or the other.

(no subject)

&two days ago or so a man an his kid came in and bought some essentials, the man had an odd goatee and dirty blonde hair but nothing really out of the ordinary. and the kid was cute and had bright eyes. he was around five or six. and the man proceeds to pay me in quarters, about ten dollars of them. he puts them out in neat piles of four and asks if this is alright. sure i say. i love quarters. here's why - and i pick one up and do the twirling the quarter on your fingers thing. which i've been doing since high school, drew started it i believe. we were always into practicing odd little things to make ourselves seem cooler than we really were, things like twirling pens or talking in accents or writing poetry. but anyway the man says to his child look at that he's a juggler. and he says to me i ought to go down to the reinassance fair that's just down the highway. him and the kid are musicians there but they have also, trying to qualify his statement, jugglers and other stuff. he says maybe you could be in the cast next year, though i'm sure it doesnt pay as well as this place. hah, thinks I, the prodigal son shoveling pig shit in Babylon probably earned more than me. i ask really what do you play? and the man replies oh i play guitar, we play guitar, me and my son here. but sometimes he plays bass.

just the way he said it, the casualness of it. like he was saying yes my five year old picks his nose but sometimes he eats it. or something. i thought it was wonderful. that made my day.

(no subject)

I am of the opinion that everyone should write their own Voyelles. or at least every language. The fact that Rimbaud did it first means nothing to the english speaking world, his vowels are french vowels. A may be Noir in french but to an American (I mean, to me) A is most definately White while E is black. not that i'm a synaesthetic. Who doesn't think that A is white?


meanwhile, here's my Voyelles, written in the rain today.

Vowels, I have your tongue,
your english lips, your
cruel, fickle guts.
E with shadowed eaves, A
the blanched parchment spread. O with a bouquet
of ripe or rotting fruit, I with sunlight
crying through a pinhole. U the feel of mould,
lumps of putrid offal. Vowels I have witnessed You
and I and Thee and All and Of and You.
And I have seen the arms that vowels use.
The Five-sensed fingers you scrape on our throats
in song or sense or sun or sand or sin.
For all for them for it for one for you.

(no subject)

and drunk for once, falling
through the grass
like a melting glacier
in the dawn's B.C.

and overhead the trees waved their arms
chanting soft and foreboding
oohing, aahing, the whisperings
of a plaintive threnody...

oh we are small things and dying
and won't outlive the ceremony...

the wind's covenant with the priests above while we,
kids pissing in their seats, impatiently...

and the trees prayed over me
begging my ressurection