19.1. Le général Yamamoto a été mis à pied. Nine eleven. Ground zero. The sky changes. Nobody was on the street thinking about summer. It is not, after all, that kind of holiday. Tomorrow I saw them dismantle a van. Summer shadow is cast by limber arbor lover, trees smell like being a child in place of actual childhood, childerhood, rabbithole. Dead when born and born when dead and without resistance to the touch of women who are…on that watch. You got that watch. That compass-watch. Keep on that watch, hon. Count me down. Tie me off, count me off. Keep time hereabouts. Don’t rush it. Tomorrow I saw them dismantle a van. Hereabouts. A tactical unit. Pressurized spectator. A man against the chassis handcuffed, waiting for the light to turn green. They have begun to ask questions, honey, about the stain that umbrellas us here and encases us with our planet in tandem, in tatters, asking me just why it is that I happen to choose…one word…where another would have done just as well in its place. Or what is meant by joy for example. Okay, okay. The whole ides, the whole pone, hon, is I’ve to reach this…this fever pitch. Keep on that watch. Approaching me at all hours with loose women, a bottle with my name on it, narcotics of weakness and discipline to cancel one another out. Frenzy. I in turn grow to worry of the lungs and heart, matter cut up and disjoined…remnants of _____, conceived on the baseboards, blind birth, keeping the heat in the basements of my ________, not to spill out into the garbage and stone. Honey, I need you to pay attention. No, not to me. Tomorrow I saw them dismantle a van. Saw and absorbed. No doubt I have no hope for the homes of my children and their children in tatters in tandem with bells and whistles burning lights lit up in their accidental Occidental sockets. Hardly even able to light up the night without drowning it out. Another Scotch in paper cup with tap water, no visitors this Sunday, nothing calling down nor to task, neither voices nor their trolley cars of anticipation ringing in the kitchen on the phone left by the…the cable cut off yesterday to clamp down on my drinking partners, and no doubt to make me…squirm. There is a thunder in our collective underpant. They name her Act of God. I will show them, pants around ankles, ankles signing their own checks, two or three things about the colour red, in full dynamic and innovative expansion. And a safety pin thru my prick hangin’ out my shorts is what they see. When I open the robe daddy handed down, all expansive red around the rosie. They ask and don’t get it. Make the beast with two back, mattressback. The Baroness. Barking in her lorry. Barbarossa. Esperanto. Afternoons reduced to fancies abandoned in adolescence or great fields of lazy excess dreamt there on cartoon bedspread, a relapse in the family tree, adapted vices and vases, on the mantelpieces in pieces, dredged up in the attics of elsewhere. Forever I am lost in the mazes of inheritance. Honey? Yes, hon. Surely I do not go wayward in crediting to you the ability to mind the compass-watch, to count me down, count me off, eyeball with your own eyeball the necessary adjustments. Surely, hon. Godforsaken. Folded rolls and rows of folderol. My Lucretia. Night, its not masking the thing. The stain. My left headlight cutting in and out. I see in the reflections of grocery stores and their windows my hair has grown down past the concrete, how dirty am I, reflected in groinlocked gridlock. They have cut off the overhead. They have weakened in the knee. Having avoided my reflection it stuns me as it creeps up on me in the city at night driving alone. Clock it. Tomorrow I saw them dismantle a van. A quatrain of vein and muscle and a meal in the eye. Like celluloid in a fogged-out fever, but still looking and still laughing. Lunging, now, intent in there. Blue intent. Human imagination disposed all things in such a manner as would be most easy. Oh Christ, steady, girl. Lying on the floor with the bottle almost empty. They have begun to ask questions about the stain that umbrellas us again and in synchronous sputtering and exacting extractions and thrusts enter the sleep I have so far succeeded in keeping to myself, coming to at dawn sweating on the carpet and unsure of the lapses that alerted me to my life on the floor and in full view of the good goat god who shines down through the windows and hurts me. Tomorrow I dismantle a week for a week in van. It is not, after all, that kind of holiday. Steady, steady. Ugh. My eyes were harbingers of headache before they were even eyes and looking down I see myself lifeless yet all agitation and rubbing off dead skin all over me, eating it for breakfast, finishing off the bottle, and going to the store for more. Gracious. They visit me again at dusk and speak of stains. All right by me. Sometimes there is a caving in and I drink and listen to them and they are full of all the nonsense that keeps me buoyant, so there is nothing to do but squirm some more on the floor and finger the empty cup nervously once it gets that way. Again it is night and I transform the front room into a Cinematheque with my friends in the ceiling and two packs of cigarettes, one in each inner pocket of the sport coat. I begin to imagine that everything on earth could be translated into English and that this is the industrial magic of the cinema which has grown quite close to me like a brother or sister might, given the time to…adjust. I am too cocksure to fall under the Scotch to sleep. My car keys all jangling up the stairs to an early bed of nails, to lie awake and read revisions stacked like produce or legislatures in journals of vagary and pages of nothing but page. My darling. If you are not a book…nothing doing. My bed, my Lucretia, is a monocle. Bedecked painter syphilitic. I sleep on. Francis Bacon. I sleep on. Mona Lisa, for no reason save time. Loose lipid in bed awake, asymmetrical warfare on the radio. The president always sounds like he’s reading you a bedtime story. How appropriate in this case. Then the. Then the president. Then the president quotes Revelations and drops bombs. He appears not to stop. Nine eleven. Clock it. Here we are. Interrupted. Rod. In a gear. And another now. And another now in synch. I keep the radio on for possible sirens. I keep on. You. You with me? Hon? Honey? My bed is a harbour for those visitors with their talk of stains. I keep. I keep my floor. I keep my floor buckled to my belt loop until the good goat god shines. Use the empties as pillows and i-beams. I sleep beneath a sky. I sleep beneath a sky without the aerial ceiling fan of airplanes. No trouble with Port Authority. No worry of parking tickets. No need to move whatever. No money to drink down but all manner of ancillary surplus. To jam them. Gears, rods. All of them in tandem, in tatters on the transom. One must finance one’s revolution against surplus from the floor. Both possibilities. And, additionally, both possibilities. The paradoxical terminal at Port Authority. All possibilities on the road to becoming nothing doing. Getting there, Lucretia. Getting there not fast enough. No, no. Don’t rush, honey. But roughly visible beneath the stained blankets and speakers. Airborne daggers of juniper. A little to the right. Dogs mobilized down the street in the park. I am not driving, my car is not with me. A little to the left. I have come under attack in the parking garages: past, present, future. A little higher, honey. Where the history shell-be-written. Stored on bookshelves incommensurate. Lower, dear. A little lower. Draw this the fuck out. Ripped-up from binding. Dredge. Dredge. Torn from the binding. Blocking the pipes in the winter. Mmmmf. Mmmmm. Binding and blocking. Pipes. Oof. Heat blocked-out in the natal furnace, the navel burnished. The god cut out. Eternal December. Ugh. Mmmm. Fuck, yeah. Nothing to remember. Or not remember. Or spit. Blood. Jesus Fucking Christ. Welp and Warp. Goodness Gracious, thank you, hon.
19.2.
Sows, one by one, slosh slosh
agrave in the beshat realm conversing
(one of them is belching)
varnished by pink frippery
meandering like words sloppily slipped into the margins
of the not-particularly-special day
(chickenscratch’d swatches) –
into the margins of stupid bloody tomes
maneuvering for slop.
No comments:
Post a Comment