fever

The moon is buried behind red clouds like a flashlight beam through thick smoke in a burning house. Sure, I could use this time to rest and allow my nausea to cool off with a hot plate hiss. Must be the bile of my memories coming back up to me from my indigestive bank in the gut in the center of it all. Oh Leonora, do you see the red sky night when the moon hides? Gaps of black space look like islands in a pink lake with the moon playing itself as backdrop like a keyhole image for every page of an art book, used creatively for different representations each time. a little hole punch piercing for that new nose of yours. oh calabasas library and your columns, do you know my reverie? ask the reference desk for 'fever dreams' and 'existentialism' and also 'vonnegut' and maybe the remedy can shake up these disconnects and let me live on without the weight and eye-pressure of fevers, of fevers. delirium, mother, I talked to you in a gasping angered asp voice for no reasons other than I heard myself shift into complaint and lodged in my throat was the inability to claim anything beautiful or appropriate and the conversation turned sour so fast that I couldn't even try to keep up with the better parts of it because I erased them all with blank india ink. oh roscoe street, apache boulevard and palm walk, oh vista del sol, the rebibo household and the montessori, the grassy park and the hills up into smoggy viewpoints, up mulholland drive, and broadway, yes and 6th, the spices of life hide inside the addresses we visit enough times to make them memorable, the outdoor patio and the new fence, I helped smash a tv, longboard down E Broadway... past the field of dreams which happens to be Daley Park near the orange trees and the train tracks. down to mckenny behind the pizza hut. across from the park and the other nonsense. my head is full of it tonight. no source of hope just invariable impressions and a consciousness tired and angry with itself because the fever, yes, mustn't forget the fever. the fever of maps and of addresses and books of them just for the self and the postal codes forgotten always and the zip, the car insurance, the road worn tires and the driven blocks of insanity and the girl fallen in love with at the reception desk and the homework accomplished in the waiting room and the tan booth the tanbark the missile sole the name tag, the natalie, the ashley, the christina, who knows what is what on their, those hieroglyphs that change last names suddenly as if in an overnight flash and no i am not well adjusted these memories are dead and so are the people probably it is a life i cannot reclaim and the traumatic experience of my life is an inability to reconcile all of these experiences within myself. they are too many. i am crushed by it. they define me but what about the present tense. is nothing about the red clouds interesting any more? yes. the moon is completely buried. just a blank red sheet remains. some bottom lit silhouettes of trees and nothing else. just sadness for time lost and the face i had when i was 19. all gone in a single flash. sleep, sure, feverish sleep is the best medicine, uh huh, the absolute best when your sleep levels are low, yearn, yeah, that is when that reality embyro really bursts itself into fruition and okay, sure, doctor vesuvius, I'm sure you've seen it all but my case, my case, my case (the moon peaks out for a brief entanda and then goodbye entendre) hey the words are just as sporadic as before when i would come home high from musical exercise and die a little listening to upstairs neighbors have sex and the general silliness of all noises and all sensations all tan lines all hysterics and here is no different nearly the same the engendered differences and the lack of harmony and consonance all are lost and lost and lost and no one matters anymore it is a farce to imagine lasting friendships when all is bleak and senseless and irrevocably changing and gregarious i am not and can't be unless forced so rudely. who was i in arizona that i no longer am. who did california turn me into that i must fight with to work through into a better context. in az i desired to enter all night life clubs and bars and meet the friends. the lasting friendships. horse ass. horse ass. there are always pipe dreams. i don't think i have any anymore.