Tuesday, November 30, 2004
fucked for the immediate future
today I turned in an article for Flaunt (barely slept), tomorrow i have an italian quiz and poetry portfolio due (not planning on sleeping), wednesday I have to present this video of my last public art work to my sculpture class, thursday is my italian oral final, friday I'm pitching a short film to the 480 film school faculty, the following wednesday I have to turn this 7 pg. short story into a 25 pg not-so-short story, that same day I have my italian written final, a week from that wednesday, my Brown application is due, and I haven't started my statement of purpose.
...nope, I've still done nothing and nothing has done itself. Kiss me, I'm fucked.
Monday, November 29, 2004
Sunday, November 28, 2004
notes from forgotten sketchbooks
Apathy is a communicable disease...and it's gone airborn
you can't make a baby omlet without fertilizing some eggs
sweetly breathing, steeply beating: the rhythm of uncertainty guides coarse blistering failure to indifference
if the palest of blues can blend into obscurity, then why can't I?
orphaned options inevitably die without fate or purpose
the ceiling has come to terms with reality
things you shouldn't do like tiny soft little patterns
the 'l' sound in 'with'
an emptiness like the smell of burned paper
an unnoticed silence broken like a sneeze at a museum
cars caress carcasses
dread dead dads
conversation with a small creature:
date and language unknown
night shades the hollow dusk and ducks the low hates as I lower the livingroom curtain, turn to accuse.
suckling infants powering televisions powering imaginary distractions
we are a product of ourselves
I dress up like a clown at kids birthday parties
The money fuels alcoholism
The alcoholosm feeds depression
The depression finds zoloft
zoloft feels nothing
oh, and I like working with kids
when they cover my body with a sheet, I want them to have a picnic on it
And then everything pulsated. Perception flexed its muscle and everything slowed down. My head is pulled back, cracked on the phonebooth, and I taste my forehead dripping into my mouth. It is as if I'm being escorted around by my abusive shadow. Then my body slams the door open, and I find myself falling, rushing towards the black and white linoleum chessboard I begin to paint with a velvet wetness. As I wipe my forehead out of my eyes, I look up at him, heaving with madness. Unveiled horror reveals nothing. His expressionless face terrifies me and I feel adrenaline pulsating in my eye. As he brings his clenched fist to his chin and his index finger to his hushed lips, his expression doesn’t change. The pounding red primordial rush of the realization that something real is happening begins to dull to the eerie placidity of a nightmare. I feel the intensity of the situation trying to break our soundless comfort. Neither one of us breathes. Silence surrounds us, raped by the occasional drip of my forehead onto the floor. Nothing. Already I begin to lose interest. My mind wonders, and I think about checking my email. Then my assailant drops to his knees and lets out a panasonic scream that sounds like television’s abortion. I watch his widening mouth spew a bubbling fountain of battery acid onto his arms, and they melt into his howl. I sit motionless and almost swallow my tongue. He throws his head far back and looks down into my eyes, and I watch galvanic tears rip through his cheeks. He stands up, as bits of his arms continue to melt and drip onto the floor. He turns to face the mirror, rinses off the anorexic stubs where, a minute earlier, the bloodthirsty arms of insanity were wakened, and leans into the button on the hand dryer. As he walks out I see him wipe his wet stubs on his shirt. Those hand dryers never work.
Tuesday, November 23, 2004
move the sound silently with all your broken strings
ushers patience into place
with the slow distant
that shivers air into sound
cello drones rumble and shake
paced like midnight marathons—
dark strides that make men
and rap the frail with might
bow-draws wail with broken hair
and ghostly horses screaming
resound through the shrill
shaking, pleasing, high-pitched pull.
winter songs descend like leaves
falling silent after death’s
soundless shimmers close
not for dreaming but blackness
Monday, November 22, 2004
The Calexico Murders: Chapter Eleven
Sunday, November 21, 2004
fingernails and orange trees
“No, not really.” My voice trembles like lies. Standing, arms tuxedo cloaked, I think about how it feels on the floor. Pressed, creased, flat on chilled marble, refined like folded terrycloth. While off alone in another room, a polished silver stereo screams megahertz and a late-night murder mystery on 8th street.
“You look fine.”
“I don’t feel fine.”
I once had a dream that someone smashed a red wheelbarrow on my forehead. It was full of spark-plugs and fingernails.
“Well…” Her black dress drops silk onto the floor, a falling curtain on a chessboard stage. Darkly rapturous, she will be someone’s third act.
The barrow’s contents flew into the air and drizzled down, down upon the outstretched fingers of a smiling, reaching crowd. Down, jewels and shards for the dripping fingers of queens.
And my father and I rode down the lilac, lace, and orange tree lined street in the back of a black 1923 Studebaker. Staring: me, outward; him, not quite at anything. His eyeballs frosted over, crystals chip off when he blinks, sending flakes into an orbit about his frozen face. Someday this will all be yours, he said, offering me a handful of snow and fingernails and orange peels.