1 am
jun de vingt-huit
those dandelion eyes were melted wax and the introductions mattered as much as her comfort level when the water drinks were poured out and I met with her insults and condescending eyes. Jazz rhythm belt out chords to settle the score induced by a crazy bar tab when the beer was local but the booking agency was third party. Probably India or California.
"We don't need our heads because our bodies are young."
when the whiskey ginger poured out on her lap the eyes went blank and the comments became a depressed force like implosion or gravity or concealing... those counseling hours spent making bricolage paintings with spare body parts and the magazine cut out fiction and the finger paints neglected radically and the chalk outline around the bed and the feeling of helplessness that pervades everything and the negativity that serves drinks to sleepless nights- coffee or english breakfast or the motorcade jambalaya southern drawl stereotype destroyed by a philosophy professor with said drawl and testing, meaningfully, the stereotypes of tiny little kinds, not so much white fake generosity when the money is constant and the drunkenness pervasive. Can I have time with you... my intelligent graduate student friends? Or is my life too far removed from your tiny world of concerns that may as well encompass the entirety of your comprehension of the universe. It ends one day with a sad smile and no one ever cared.
do you ever think about your tragic death. mortality is a heat seeking missile. our fates our lined up with time if we are careful, otherwise we can throw in the twenty year curve ball of smoking copious cigarettes or the alcohol abuse that dilutes the mind to heart race mornings of hangover.. death-like crawls and a disregard for the wasted youth to hold high majesty the popular youth in which we oohed and in awe until the morning light at five took us out from horrifying dreams of persecution and then of death or betrayal or worse. When the bicycle tires flatten. When the view is so bittersweet that the viewer sits and waits for the eyes to take in anything else, however myopic. the paintings wonderful. the jazz in tempo with my heart. the jazz in tempe with my old brethren. the jazz in blues with my old guitar compadre. the civil wars we used to spark up between our instruments when the smoke exhaled and the dream expanded around both of our heads at once and the humanitarian views of life and love.. and the end scorn promise of above or below life and certainly only below life... imagine graves.. catacombs... we are useless if not already dead.
moment of death shocked me into a paralyzed awe. the sadness expands but not from my own tragic source. rather from my famille triste and the concerning letters of reprimand and the paintings forgotten and the confusion settles heavy over her brow and no one knows how to deal with her multi stroke name forgetting. imagine your own mother losing her wits. imagine your sister forgetting your role in her life. imagine the scenario unwritten that your friends had witnessed. those were hours spent in ridiculous departure from reality. the reality I can never quite exit. my doppleganger. there was never an exit route when the tsunami came as such a surprise that the seaside town could only passively board up windows before full destruction.
if only, if only I had nothing more to say
I stopped in my tracks at the thought of mortality. Terrified or petrified or both. Nonexistence is impossible to tell. What I've said recently has been extremely depressing... says someone close. No one else is close as I drown so succinct in the pit of absinthe dreams and collateral suicide. The most beautiful suicide crushed down into a limousine off the empire state building like an angel at rest having falling and napped out of heaven. Try to change the attitude. It returns. Evelyn mchale still falls to her fateful death into the far below limousine. an attractive girl and the idea of ideation. what that truly means. for me today this spark was like a horror story of future death. inevitable. it was the looming nonexistence and the subsequent forgetting of all stood for when the world implodes and the novel to be written that enters the space capsule for other martian generations one day. I believe in math. Send my writings out to the ether with space ships that no longer send signal back to earth. the mystery of receipt still remains. is anyone out there at all?
