Secret shared

Outstreched-
All hands and back,
set rigidly in a downward pull.
Eyes closed, ears piqued.
Like this, I sometimes meditate.

Interrupted-
the clank of metal hitting concrete.
Change. A single coin:
quarter of a dollar is -dropped? -left?
-abandoned?
Intentionally placed before my face.

The meditative moment is gone.
This secret moment done.
Circumstancially circumvented.
And the streets are left bustling, busy
with not a single soul around.

I have a feeling this was the impression
I was meant to get.
An intentional, conflicted gesture.

Is this payment of some kind?
Expression of concern?
Appreciative donation?
Did you thik I was busking-
what, my body?
Perhaps, you only thought it would be funny.
Stirring.
Jarring.

It was.

So: thank you, stranger.
I suppose–

Barring knives and Scars

Note: This was supposed to have a visual aspect. Formatting. You know, spaces and shit. It all got deleted when I hit “Post”. Fucking, bullshit. I can’t be bothered to fuck with the tags any longer. So, you get this plain version. I’m sorry.

Get tired of feeling?
Like shit?
It gets no-one nowhere,

Just back here.
Again and again.

What am I supposed to do?
Nothing?

Not notice.

This is idiotic.
Mecha-fucking-kucha.

But anger is truncating,
here,
so sit still and quiet like a demure good litle girl.
Hands folded in an antique lacey lap–
all feminine and everything.
I cross my legs the right way,
ankles tucked behind the left side of my chair,
to prove it all to you.
This isn’t about gender.

It never is.

The world laughs
scoffs
while the lies, they just fucking multiply
— and none of this is about me.

How are we supposed to get a hand-hold?
A handle on it?
A hold on anything?

I think you hate me,
Everyone, everything.
but when I ask you
— you say no.
Everytime.
What the fuck does that signify?

Can’t be bothered.
Won’t be disturbed.
Don’t break this goddamn silence in this fancy room.
It was so nice before
you.

–should just sit quiet
Everything goes so much smoother.
Oh, how time can just melt away like butter on hot bread.

So, we sit here
shit the breeze and get nowhere with each other.

You are happy.
I’m in hell.
I don’t even believe in those lines. Anyway.
What does that signify?

Poetry,
while beautifully crafted,
has fucking elluded me.
I don’t write
in meter,
rhyme,
significant events
these days.

I don’t make pretty things
allusions to brighter days,
happy things.

I’m coming
apart
at the goddamn seams.

A trip across the country,
that’ll fucking fix it.
A lone in a big house,
that’ll even it all the fuck back out.

It broke apart there.
Do you think–
if I stand in the yard
just wait for the wind to come,
Those pieces will float back together?

I slept in the yard
with you and others
allof it, from my head.

I remember back in California
while grandpa was dying
or going mad,
we sat out on the porch swing,
gliding,
slipping,
sidling–
and somehow made up a better world.

Those lines aren’t dead,
but set to rest.
These, crumbling into ash.
Dust and death.

We, as a conglomerate,
have no tangible rate at which to grade these things.
YOu want to run away?
want to hide.
I WAnT to break apart.

Who can help now?
god was such a convenient answer,
such a silent power,
such a non-existent lover.
I think I learned:
to believe in love from a thing that never was.

What does that signify?

Don’t try to love.
We can never stand the chance.

This rotten spring is molding fast.
Do you have have a new shadow
of some present future in your head?
I’m continually afraid–
— it’s coming.

I’m standing in it,
on it.
With it.
–even now.

This doorway.
I don’t wantto have to pass through.
Oh, but here we are.
So.

What does this signify?

I’m a wreck
I make a lot of noise when I dye.
I’m turning red and blue.
I’m coming up at the roots.

Oh well.
Oh well.

This is not an experiment.

I happened upon and started reading House of Leaves because some unnamed employee of the bookshop recommended it, mentioned it, put it on a shelf for me — specifically? — to find. I stood there reading as hours slipped away. I wasn’t even in the room, anymore. I didn’t think it was bothering me. I felt asleep only to wake up mumbling, calling out, terrified three times.

This isn’t me.
It wasn’t you, either.

I have to leave this book for a while to go to Virginia.
You tried to leave it, too.
That doesn’t sit quite right.

When I am done with it, I will pass this terror, fear, enigma on to somebody else.
It settles in you when you least expect it.

Just like the silence.
Just like the dark.

As a writer, I know just what you mean. I suppose the majority of the world doesn’t. I’m sure I can — like you — find someone who does

Coping

These moments change me, every time I come up against them.

I have always been full of violence and fight. Trained or not, it’s what came out. Mixed up little pieces all locked up in a weathered, rusted-out box. My outsides might be occasionally attractive, but my insides are a wreck.

I get by by breaking things.
I wonder how good of a strategy that is.
If nothing else, it calms me.
I’ve learned how to pick up the pieces, regardless.
Taught myself how to glue temporary things back together.
And skin just heals itself, I find.

It’s immediately obvious, isn’t it?
Everybody says this.
Nobody has, significantly, tried to change that.
I’m beginning to assume it’s because I’m actually doing okay.

Which makes me wonder if I shouldn’t just own all of this and be done with it. Honesty, in my experience, has proven itself to be the best possible strategy. I’ve never been one for lies. I prefer delusions.

I think I can be delusional about how well this will work, too.
So, here we go.

I’m breaking up, scattering like static darting through the fibers of your blanket over your feet at night. You might hear me, feel me if the light’s on. You can see me if it’s dark. Otherwise, I’m hardly there at all. Just a spark, a flash, a second and I’m gone.

Don’t feel sorry for me if you happen to notice.
I’m not crying out for help or attention.
I’m just trying to manage, to get by.
I think I could start to believe I’m doing just fine.

This worked in the past.
It can work again.
Right?

In a year or so, I’ll gauge how well my hindsight is working.
Yet again.

To a friend I love:

Good luck with that ending you are spinning.
Endings are impossible for me.
You, however, are a master-crafter.
You will be just fine.

And when the ashes settle, I’ll be waiting for you.
If I can catch your attention and affect you, it means more than it doesn’t.

Evidence to prove the point

Awkward, uncomfortable, uncertain. And here I thought I’d left this part of me behind.

What happened to cool, confidant, assured? What happened to adept, sexy, sure?

Oh, that was when there was this counter between us. When I had a methodology and a pattern in between us. When I had a significant distance separating us. When I had a line you, legally, weren’t allowed to cross.

I’m an anarchist. Where does this fit in?
I’m in control of myself, but not the world.
That makes me feel safe and sound.

And here, I used to think that perhaps I’d become too shallow. Nobody else got this impression, but that was in the design – wasn’t it, doce?

Oh yes. I was intentioned, even then.

I think my biggest flaw right now is that I don’t know what I want. Or, perhaps, it could be better said that I know just what I want but not how to get it. Or, even more clear: I know what perfect thing I’d like to find, but I can’t find where to find that.

Complicated. I just get more and more complicated, every day. Each second that goes by, each dodgy heart beat that escapes through the bones of my chest, each breath I take; I’m just falling apart.

It wasn’t bad enough to realise that I have no memory, no concept of the past. That settled in my head something like insanity, I think. Then came: I can’t spell, and I have a shit vocabularly, and I made up people because I couldn’t sort out friends. Lastly was this realization that I like my stories best because in them is about the only place I feel I can away from myself.

These all were some fucking hard hits to take. But, what was I going to do? Complain? Belly-ache?

Hardly.

So, here I am with no concept of who I was, with writings tucked away in a closet reminding me of how I got here. No photographs to speak of because we burned all of those. A document or two from someone like me, years ago, written all in second-person narrative.
And all of these are my tether?

Ha.

A lot of crying about the past that I don’t even recall — that’s right about where we are. So, fuck me.

I’m coming apart at the seams like James Joyce.
If only I had a Beckett to transpose, translate, write it down word for word. But then, I’m not there quite yet, am I? Find me when I’m blind on bad days and we’ll see how well I respond.

I saw a sign today about retirement and a plan. I could only laugh. My plan is to be dead before I can’t take it anymore. It’s a shit plan, I know. But there’s always hemlock and I hear that’s a quieter way to go than the other options.

It’s not a solid plan. But then, art follows life and the other way around, so what — exactly — did you expect? Nothing else but me fumbling my way through the dark, I hope. All I can think to do is paint some images upon the wall, and then probably fall asleep or down into a hole. Either way, let’s face it: it won’t be pretty.

But then, I’ve heard when you die you piss and shit yourself, anyway. So, I’m not after glamour here. I’m just going to acceptable. Passable. Manageable.

Like everything I’ve ever done.
No sense of where we’re going, only knowing and regretting it when we’re done. Wait, that’s not what I’m supposed to say. If anyone is going to listen, I better have a bright and positive spin. The future is full of opportunity, or some bullshit tripe like that.

How about this:
I have a high capacity for peace and love and positive things.
I have never hid in closets in the dark.
I have a smile on, even now.
It’s not sarcastic or cynical at all.
Clearly.

Help me

charcoal-activated
I have to process what I have done.
私はひどいです
ごめんなさい
ごめん木炭ね

You let me violate you.
You let me desecrate you.
You let me penetrate you.
You let me complicate you.

Help me, I broke apart my insides.
Help me, I got no soul to tell.
Help me, the only thing that works for me:
Help me get away from myself.
Help me think I’m somebody else.

I want to fuck you like an animal.
I want to feel you from the inside.
I want to fuck you like an animal.
My whole existence is flawed.
You get me closer to god.

What if I wanted to break, laugh it all off in your face?
What would you do?
What if I fell to the floor, couldn’t take this anymore?
What would you do?
Come, break me down.
Bury me.
I am finished with this.

What if I wanted to break?
Bury me.

Your defenses were high.
Your walls built deep inside.
I’m a selfish bastard, but at least I’m not alone.
My intentions never changed. What I want just stayed the same.
And I know what I should do.
It’s time to set myself on fire.

Was it a dream?
Is this the only evidence that proves it?
This photograph of you and I?
Believe me when I say goodbye forever.

With the lights out, it’s never less dangerous.
Even with a stranger, it never gets painless.
Don’t be afraid.
Every time, I think I’m gonna change it –
it’s driving me insane.

Maybe tonight we can forget about love.
It could be just like heaven.
I am a machine: no longer living, just a shell of what I choose.
Do you live, do you die, do you bleed for a fantasy?
Automatic, I imagine I believe.
In your mind do you see? It’s a fantasy.

Sit back, matter of fact:
teasing, toying, turning, chatting, charming, hissing,
Playing the crowd.
Play that song again.
Another couple Klonopin, a nod, a glance, a half-hearted bow.
Oh such grace, oh such beauty
And lipstick and callous
And fishnets and mallice
Oh darling-
You’re a million ways to be cruel.

I should…
I wish I could…
Maybe if you were, I would…
List of standard issue regrets.
One last 80 proof, slouching in the corner booth.
Baby, it’s as good as it gets.

Having spent your entire life exactly where you are tonight:
in the valley between intent and deed.
You must have masterd this: the fragile art of a good excuse.
The little things that get you to believe.
They get you to believe it.

So listen, I’m not trying to prove anything at all.
But don’t you think that, maybe, this time, you were wrong?

You’ve spent your entire life quick tongued and always right.
But hasn’t being right just let you down?
Right just let you down?
So listen, I’m not trying to say anything at all here.
There isn’t much left, anyway, that hasn’t been said.
But don’t you think that, possibly, this time, it’s different?
Dont’ you think that, maybe, this time, you were wrong?

Ice age upon catastriophic ice-age of selection
And only one result has trickled in:
The house wins.
The house always wins.

If evil were a lesser breed, then justice after all these years:
the righteous would have freed the world of sin.
The house wins.
The house always wins.

You don’t have to be alone to be lonely.
You don’t have to be sick to be dying.
You don’t have to be lost to be lost.
You might as well give in.

I am losing ground.
Well, you know all this work can beat you down.
I am made of clay.
I feel I’m the only one who thinks this way.

I do not want this.

Don’t you tell me how I feel.
You don’t know just how I feel.

I stay inside my bed.
I have so many things all inside my head.
Don’t tell me that you care.
There isn’t really anything, now is there?

I do not want this.

I hurt myself today to see if I still feel.
I focus on the pain, the only thing that’s real.
The needle tears a hole, the old familiar sting.
I tried to kill it all away.
But, I remember everything.

What have I become?
My sweetest friend: everyone I know goes away in the end.
You could have it all – my empire of dirt.
I will let you down.
I will make you hurt.

I wear this crown of shit upon my liar’s chair.
Full of broken thoughts I could not repair.
Beneath the stains of time, the feelings disappear.
You are someone else. I am still right here.

What have I become?
If I could start again, a million miles away:
I would keep myself.

お休みなさい木炭
{Oyasuminasai Mokutan}
=Good night, Charcoal=