This is not time for writing. Must read Shield's comments on the distinctive prose poem vs. the ceaseless rant of the unpracticed writer, who blogs or something. All different shades of pretentious quips pour out of him and I find myself boiling in my seat, sometimes preferring the color changing trees outside the window to his hyper objective analysis of his own selected pieces of literature, so confident in his abilities. I am invisible on his radar. Nothing I have said or written has infected his mind enough for me to even be remembered by sight. Blame myself, without help, lose the rhythm of those background words, fall to pieces when I read his shit book and swore one too many times in his classroom, all golden frazzled and round tabled with the eager students lapping those tear drops. Mother over protects and makes us wear helmets made of tin foil. Sister drives up in through the rain and gets caught in traffic and lets smoke cough out her window, drifting along the astroplane. The harsh irrational value judgments that fire up about her or her or my girlfriend, these insane women, in three different ways, the sister on a deck of cards is a wild card, something unpredictable, just depends on the game played, shield's bald head on another card, the condescending self-satisfied guru, or the careless teacher of the arts who is too deeply involved with his own burgeoning theories of the medium to help us students to grow in our own most productive ways, the teacher who knows the field he teaches can't be taught, the students, the guppies, then the lover with a nervous condition, the other lover with a lethargic mind and dozing on the couch, leaves the burner on and the little cottage, the wood bricked cabin burns down, hidden away in a plot of unfurnished land.
Read the Crevecoeur. Give the cat eye drops, he may be going blind. Paranoia isolates itself in the reconstructed floorboards of this adjective friendly apartment, something of the nature of wild beast becoming tame and fighting back with last little pathetic energy once their master knows they are docile and lets them roam about freely. Bars of the cage ripped open but the beast naps on his mattress within, spent from all the energy expended in the attempted escape, though failed and snoring, the owner removes the cage and the barricade becomes invisible, habit-based, the trainer is a manipulator though she knows nothing of it, she knows her mind is rational, her habits sometimes painful to her body, her motions are accurate and purposeful, she tames the lion within her that could be called a heart. There is a heart card, a lion card, a sick cat card, a mediocre grade card and a french grammar quiz card.
Anxiety swells up. Stacked deck with anxiety monster cards. Gotta get out and going to the jazz show and feel a peace free of anxiety even with the french questions haunting my ears the beats removing their eyelids and having it out in underwater ghost ship battles where plumes of black sediment well up from the centre pompidou and the art exhibit becomes the whole world because even a pile of garbage can be beautifully framed and captured and I saw two people in neck braces surrounded by firemen and paramedics, evidently victims of attempted vehicular homicide or a hit and run or they fell off of a room somewhere and crawled to the center of an intersection, 42nd and university or 25th and ravenna or the new thai restaurant gave someone cardiac arrest, or the clouds crushed a skull because the pressure, oh god, I know the pressure of angry screaming clouds.
