Strange how among my list of goals today and work ethic, there could be a forgotten objective. Something with much consistency in practice. An ego defense against the idea of repetition.
The crowd knows how blood can boil when stuck in a rut.
How, like a turning wheel, we fail to see any true shades of color
(those colors are hidden in stage lights)
Exaggerate the nature of the original compliment.
Destroy sanity with a kiss.
Burn teeth with tea.
Carve notches into them, become a fossil, and baffle future scientists.
Preservation of the dead.
(Like a song. A poem. A gravestone)
Build false tombs around the sleeping.
Triangles pointed at an acrid sun.
The work is alien. Of interstellar origin.
Orient my body to the cardinal points.
Give me a watch and a compass and I'm set.
I will dig away without fear of others.
I need a six foot rectangle around me at all times.
That's where thought is calm and detached,
the worldly feelings of sinking into the earth,
disappear likes moths to flame.
Extinguish the thought, the light, make the cadaver smile.
Jut out from the smooth edge.
As adequate as we feel; we are.
Let the spontaneous melodies play themselves to death, but it a fleeting and happy existence. With good thoughts, good friends, and a sense of urgency, thick, in the cold air.
Irish beer and our questions about each other lives.
Rainfall should not be looked down on.
One insane impulse leads to another and the night trudges on.
Bludgeon drink cups with broken beer bottles.
Jut out from the smooth edges
and cut fine lines in their memories.
Go about and be happy and thoughtful.
it seems as I become more busy I do less thinking in general. Just acting.
Meaning moving, doing, being, feeling.
Now is the time to reflect on those feelings anyway. I may miss small details but right now is better than any other time in the future.
The lights and the dances. The smoke coming from the audience, lighters illuminate, the purple-green stage colors and speakers stacked, television screens hanging from the ceiling and moving around, choreographed like a puppet, like a marionette, guiding them along with ghost fingers like the fake ivory keys, plugged through many sources of deviant sound. The vibrations in the notes but in perfect planned cadence, all of the interesting music, getting into it all and let them do their british thing, of a 20 year catalog, but it is about the newest stuff anyway, keeping it interesting to them, most importantly, otherwise they get damn tired of playing the same old songs but they have so many that they could prove to play well enough to entertain a stadium full of screaming people. Car fire and a highway exit crash, necks break at the sight of flashing blue and red lights, car fires are reminiscent of childhood campfires, with the singing and the dancing and the marshmellows, your own favorite creek, fill in the blanks here, the green canopy, thick undergrowth near the back, but a perfect clearing settled into, no neighbors with this altitude, none close anyway, close enough to talk to and tell ghost stories or ask for graham crackers. Add your own churning river, or wet grassland, marshy little lake beside an old middle school, or a rocky beach park somewhere with fireworks in the immediate background. Bring yourself there and believe that it is real. Convince your mind that you are physically there, in this warmth and infinitely pleasant moment, and your body will follow. You time travel back into your own past and spectate on your behaviors. Inside the body without much say in the matters. As it should be. All individual moments combined. No use for regret when studying these self-presentations. Cherish all of the feelings, the whole spectrum of emotion, it will help you be creative. It will help you summon words and characters for further research. Or ideas of combine notes. Within yourself you get beside yourself. Laughing at those little intricacies. I would take notes and study and figure out how to love my life more efficiently.
