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29 August 2008 @ 12:00 am
find a place to call my own, try to fix up  
Undecided, stuck in the inbetween-ness of wanting to do something; put forth, and the gray brittle-boned materials sticking out and through my heart, or whatever is inside that pulls from above and below, stomach stretched up like putty, mind doing that sudden death-drop of roller coasters, you know, the 90 degree angle sick-drop.. . I sit here and I feel I feel something and I want to express what it is, this heavy heaviness, all this sickening confusion about everything, everything...
there are those moments we remember because we all have these moments sometimes self-served in our own muttering monologues of hope, and yes, sometimes we genuinely offer to others in the best ways we can speak them... when we are suddenly there, randomly exposing ourselves, from or to a song, a poem, words said or read out loud and we hear them as they are spoken from the original throat; spiking from its deeper heat, this is how our veins prick all the way down through the inert passageways of folding chair legs, or nappy, odorous couches in living rooms , somewhere .
Once, the arrangement of shadows and terror and indescribable harmony underneath; staccato street-lights, in a person— their way, that way untouched now, yet—
The way someone can stretch us past our own eyes and we see something so much we remember it without words near our own, we remember it in our feet and never know how to see it again, through our hands, touching, with our eyes. We are experts at filling in the gaps--- Some collection of drum beats, a man’s voice singing until reality erupts all its coloring, that’s what we feel like in the furious furnace of the room, the room we maintain, always. We leave, squeezing our eyes as we blink, and our palms and hairlines are hot and damp and unnoticed-- outside, outside the room--
And the history of all there is without all the lines ranking in-betweens, and the maestro of mortality, those theatrics in his sudden gestured bends, of time lines, sinking as if into an ocean, the way that an ocean can sink any thing it’s offered, its great black-grey after-cough, that gaping lesson in ultimate consumption. And after, the canceled space, the voices negated… there is nothing but the atoms and the void…