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09 December 2008 @ 06:05 am
right eye is sunrise; left is sunset...  
Regular morning thing...Thing...to time travel, feel back to high school, that time so many people gauged deeper into their sockets for eyes, despite themselves, all in the same vacant space, parental-presence shoveled out, moved clean and respectfully tidy, but the holes, in the ground, that ground so plural, if I counted each blink before I got even near what it all was, how it measured and where it went and where it stopped-- we were all discovering ourselves through envy untouched by the skins we starved of—
We were discovered enough to finally turn ourselves entirely to the others---and those others…they turned us into and along, towards this moment, This kind of moment; which is simply a eulogy for the bits that were grasped and how long it took us to see them, a memorial for these imperfections we waited on, famished to feel through the touch of our own fingers. These fucking laughable inabilities we still own so perfectly; to never remember enough and always forget with our tongues what the rest of our bodies, fucking bodies, bodies fucking-- always know, they knew then, they practically swell from the juices of feelingknowing memories now…too much loss of carbon dioxide-panting and sweating like tarps; dewing, a sagging memory from before--
I declare, more prayer, to these limbs, orbs, stumps and innards, if I ever had the chance for emotional-memory-autopsy, I’d slice with that 10-blade, so sweet, as if across gifts of ripened citrus—bodies, oh body, I don’t really know you, but I am certain you got it all while I was busy flexing senses at the next guy girl creature time thing laser printer memory of the color-wheel all great and auto and fleeing-gone..
Told again, again all over that the Present is to be revered and within it we are also revered before the ticking, the tock-ticking of next and next-- and more than we were or are…but fuck you or thank you Cartesians, I have both feet on and long bruised legs, all within the riptide of my mind-- even with this elegance that catches eyes in easy, random contexts—-but if I asked me, which I am, or you asked, fuck, I don’t really know where, how and the butter-cream of in between..the best I could offer is some fucking hum, hymn of song to evoke something I know meant something around the time of then—was it then for you? Too?
.…and the tired ticking kickerkicking--which I’ve become-—is this my body, which twitches and tremors like the best and worse Looney-tunery—-
who expects the white and grey lumps and fissures, as if they promote excellency, instead of tired pinwheels of thoughts and cravings for the worst substances. As others maintain and I respond, just then, if only I had a distant language to translate it farther away from here--
I am wired to receive external tune-ups of the chemical variety, and I end up; tune-up or not, deliberating synergy at the strawberry-jello level.
I am absolutely a full-platter meal of influence, sliding, mashed and messy, unexplored to significant degrees, thank lord, but how else are people, but growing and rowing with other people searching for the hook, the words… That’s what we do. That’s where, how, when and what we are…im no reductionist, least I think not—sometimes. As usual, more to come. I think this piece of writing makes simple, important sense to me, but I also think everyone else would rightfully disagree.
I dare me to seizure; I dare these muscles and nerve cells, jammed with their loaded ammo, felt and unseen, these twin-dimmed lids, under opaque cerebral twilight, soon-to-be night, only the night, its mythos, all its amnesia self-serving— not quite a cocktail of one’s own whims, not quite a sudden desire for a dense-sweet, strawberry milkshake. No illusion of snow or bodily fluids; from person, animal, perhaps some bugs, certainly other life-forms. No illusion of snow, so I shall not switch up and darken the suddenly-real fence posts-Robert-frost identified to serve—served to identify---

nighttime eventually intercepted with that sun-growth, that bigger-than-now now, venom and noiseless--of something other than sun; sharked from... shards of gritty, bitten and compelling resolve, an owned path first burned, long ago in the haste of hopeful collective universe appeal, or in preparation for collective dread-- seared like our smiles glitter as embers do...embers stamped onto retinas, stamped in this 24-hour memory, circadian; I think I will throw up now, it all up up up…
Current Music: cat power
andtheflesh on January 5th, 2009 12:12 am (UTC)
so, I have a question...do you or did you ever frequent the java net? Cause that'd be weird.
laugh_scream on January 8th, 2009 05:45 am (UTC)
the java net
i did frequent java net, but years ago, really--and i wasn't ever a real "regular." the last time i was there was about a yearish ago; i remember the black cushiony seat i sat in and the book i was reading (unquiet mind by kay jamison) and some of the distractions--typical coffee shop distractions, spurred on by the door opening and closing, the boots stomping, the people walking u p exchange...-- whenever i go to a coffee shop to read, i am far too stimulated by everything going on around me, and all those people, they all have books too, how do they do it?
and that is the answer i have for you. whatever it means or not--who the hell are you? can you tell from my writing or photos my possible involvement with the java net? hmmm....
andtheflesh on January 8th, 2009 08:48 am (UTC)
Re: the java net
I can tell by your photos that you remind me of someone I saw there frequently this past summer. You know the type, attractive, kind of stern looking, persistently engaged in something or other. Work that probably involves numbers and formulae! So, they become that distraction you spoke of, that little bit of beauty you consistently catch sight of till you've looked too much, imagined too much, so that you can't ever picture a proper scenario in which you might even utter something as simple as, "Hi."

Regardless, I do love the way your thoughts just kind of fall out as they do. I'm not typically one that's so prone to those distractions you mentioned. I'm typically plugging my ears with music to muffle the bruce springsteen, of all things!, that's leaking out the overhead speakers. And I'm most often buried beneath words of some sort, be it someone else's or my own.

I do get curious though as to what all those people bustling in and out are carrying in their pack for literature. My general consensus is that I probably wouldn't be too impressed.