We wander, we waver, we explore. Our followers, ever present, ever complacent are the only constant factor in our journey. A parabola we are, a baseball lazily tossed into the sky with the potential to contuse the countenance of a 9 year old child. We leave you 8 amazed. As we stealthily and expediently sprint down an alley in the backwards and ruffian-laden district of Scars, miles and miles from greeting your smily faces, you still turn up. Your pack, you squadron of open minds and eyes, you peek around the corner, you sniffed and followed our tracks. You are a disappointment.
In a world of such chaos as this, constancy is ludicrous. How the hell are there still 8 of you? We have tried to lose your track. We have attempted to shake you off like obstinate beads of water on our thighs, like the clenched jaw of a dachshund hound firmly and unrelentingly fastened to our crotches. You remain.
Perhaps the number is not truly as it appears. Perhaps the figure is dormant upright, not slumbering on its side. That is the only coherent explanation for such a ridiculous phenomenon as this.
Leave. Go. I demand this of you. Gain more velocity, anything. Change. This number cannot stand and it will not stand. If you have no agency in this, I will take it upon myself to implement said removal. I am the exterminator of Scarsdalean citizens in disguise. I must do this. For my sanity. For my lunacy. Go.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Wrong directions: the commodified, the humanized, the severed thing.
“It takes a long time, but god dies too, but not before he sticks it to you.” I thought as I looked down at my deformed testicles hanging limply next to the new stab wound covering much of my lower body. I raged last night, bar hopping, cow hopping, girl flopping, trying to forget my existence, as it is so easy to do these days.
Earlier that day I walked down the street, which is next to my house, which is desolate, and a car followed me. A blue car, with a woman dressed up in a black dress and a man in a light blue dress-shirt, crept behind me. In that moment I jumped to the future in my mind, which is where things are supposed to matter, and I followed the three of us down the street, in the car, to a motel, room 306, where we would meet a group of men and play chess before having an orgy. I followed us there in my mind, but the man, in the car, in reality, stuck his head out and said “Do you know how to get to Robsham?” And to this I replied with directions, carefully describing the route he was to take, carefully guiding a video of the future in his mind. And as I stood there, making gestures with my hands to get my point across, I realized I was the direction-giver. That’s a lie. I didn’t realize it then, but rather directly after I gave the directions and their car crept off, and I was left with the pitter patter of my footsteps. I was the direction-giver and nothing more or less. The man took all spheres of my person, except for my internal map, as my hands danced in the air, and the couple listened intently, eagerly. No ‘Hello’ or ‘Goodbye’ is meant for a man such as I, at least not in that moment, when I should stand giving directions, stripped of my name (which means nothing), history, life, and personality. And I wonder, now, if man has always commodified—nay, demystified— himself.
So, as I lay on the ground now, writing this at the end of that street, by my house, my domicile, and I ponder the second, screeching car that came, and the angry man, with wrong directions from some other guy, I wonder why he asked my name. I wonder why he took his time approaching, absorbing my fear before plunging his knife into me. Perhaps the commodified life is better, if for no other reason than the apathy associated with the object, and consequently, the objectified. The first man used me and then tossed me to the side. The second man, with wrong directions, looked into my eyes and recognized a human, and sought to conquer that human.
I don’t wish to give you, reader, my name, because I wish to escape from humanized sentiment, and avoid commodified apathy. Perhaps this is why I lay still, dying, more, or less than human.
Earlier that day I walked down the street, which is next to my house, which is desolate, and a car followed me. A blue car, with a woman dressed up in a black dress and a man in a light blue dress-shirt, crept behind me. In that moment I jumped to the future in my mind, which is where things are supposed to matter, and I followed the three of us down the street, in the car, to a motel, room 306, where we would meet a group of men and play chess before having an orgy. I followed us there in my mind, but the man, in the car, in reality, stuck his head out and said “Do you know how to get to Robsham?” And to this I replied with directions, carefully describing the route he was to take, carefully guiding a video of the future in his mind. And as I stood there, making gestures with my hands to get my point across, I realized I was the direction-giver. That’s a lie. I didn’t realize it then, but rather directly after I gave the directions and their car crept off, and I was left with the pitter patter of my footsteps. I was the direction-giver and nothing more or less. The man took all spheres of my person, except for my internal map, as my hands danced in the air, and the couple listened intently, eagerly. No ‘Hello’ or ‘Goodbye’ is meant for a man such as I, at least not in that moment, when I should stand giving directions, stripped of my name (which means nothing), history, life, and personality. And I wonder, now, if man has always commodified—nay, demystified— himself.
So, as I lay on the ground now, writing this at the end of that street, by my house, my domicile, and I ponder the second, screeching car that came, and the angry man, with wrong directions from some other guy, I wonder why he asked my name. I wonder why he took his time approaching, absorbing my fear before plunging his knife into me. Perhaps the commodified life is better, if for no other reason than the apathy associated with the object, and consequently, the objectified. The first man used me and then tossed me to the side. The second man, with wrong directions, looked into my eyes and recognized a human, and sought to conquer that human.
I don’t wish to give you, reader, my name, because I wish to escape from humanized sentiment, and avoid commodified apathy. Perhaps this is why I lay still, dying, more, or less than human.
Invisible
The room is painted beige green and has four chairs, one occupied, no windows. The sound of the sea still manages to rage in, and a silent boy with a bored expression begins to write.
I’m sitting here! With hooves and golden wings, flying on kites, then sinking into oceans. I am your tortured soul, and you are my enraptured muse, now listen! Listen, until you can’t anymore. Whoa, here’s the scoop: Today, I’ll ascend. I’ll ascend, because I saw a boy yelling at a girl, and then they held hands and kissed. My claws are sunken. Here, I’ll ascend, because I heard two professors chattering in the snow, because my mom is getting a divorce I foresaw, because my brother went to the loony bin and came out a quiet man, because the Africans call me cousin, but I don’t pick up the phone.
What do I mean? I mean I am witness and inheritor of the promised land of temporal development, the linear land, and I deny my birthright. I refuse, with rudeness, to kiss and make up, or even to kiss at all. I won’t be fooled by marriage’s happy occasion, or the reformed man’s wise words. No! Now listen, dears. Listen to my quiet, needlessly enraged words, because in a moment I’ll be a cliché going against the norm, standing upright and nonchalant as I listen to you.
My words make no sense? Maybe, just maybe (nothing additional), you, with your degree, job, or family, just don’t get it. Fuck! I’ve got hooves and golden wings and you can’t see youth’s prize possession. Enlighten yourself when you stand across from me on the train, or sit next to me in class, while always wearing your Nike, Burberry, North face disguise. Just do it. I am listening, reader, I promise.
I’m sitting here! With hooves and golden wings, flying on kites, then sinking into oceans. I am your tortured soul, and you are my enraptured muse, now listen! Listen, until you can’t anymore. Whoa, here’s the scoop: Today, I’ll ascend. I’ll ascend, because I saw a boy yelling at a girl, and then they held hands and kissed. My claws are sunken. Here, I’ll ascend, because I heard two professors chattering in the snow, because my mom is getting a divorce I foresaw, because my brother went to the loony bin and came out a quiet man, because the Africans call me cousin, but I don’t pick up the phone.
What do I mean? I mean I am witness and inheritor of the promised land of temporal development, the linear land, and I deny my birthright. I refuse, with rudeness, to kiss and make up, or even to kiss at all. I won’t be fooled by marriage’s happy occasion, or the reformed man’s wise words. No! Now listen, dears. Listen to my quiet, needlessly enraged words, because in a moment I’ll be a cliché going against the norm, standing upright and nonchalant as I listen to you.
My words make no sense? Maybe, just maybe (nothing additional), you, with your degree, job, or family, just don’t get it. Fuck! I’ve got hooves and golden wings and you can’t see youth’s prize possession. Enlighten yourself when you stand across from me on the train, or sit next to me in class, while always wearing your Nike, Burberry, North face disguise. Just do it. I am listening, reader, I promise.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Library Management
We that control the library are masters of puppetry. Careful needles sew the threads of control into the workers. Careful planning sews our fingers into their backs. Planning sheet beckoning for our pen, dulled eyes waiting for our direction, eager looks hoping for our produce. We that control the library control the information. Come and learn, dig your plot to greatness.
Friday, January 28, 2011
Library goer
We that walk the library aisles sliver through the stacks, assaulting les livres with our eyes, searching for safety. There, in the land of words and in the graveyard of life, we find deliverance. And we peek at the librarians and we gaze upon the staff. But it is all for naught, for we will never say a word. And when they close the library we will hide on the tops of the shelves and watch them leave... then pounce.
Library Weekend
We that close the library on the weekend are somewhat of a sad lot. A strand of human being that quivers in the shadows and shields its pale skin from the phosphorescence of big buildings by means of sheets of thick, yellow paper.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Motels r' us
‘Do laundry. All of the laundry piled on the chair and nip tonight in the bud.’ I thought as I lay on the bed with fumbling sporadic thoughts slipping through my head. Meanwhile, she undressed and her clay skin seemed to shine in the darkness. Beautiful pale skin dispelling myths which I pondered for so long as we had coffee today, as we ate Rigatoni, as we laughed and our eyes loved. Across the street from Bill’s Used Car lot, next door to Disorder News Station, in a hotel with flickering lights and rat crumbs in the corners. Only one more sock to go before our beloved clay model was prepared, with salt and vinegar, and tomato sauce. Delicious. Ding, she is ready.
O with ever slow speed she creeps towards me with a distant look in her eyes. This mustn’t be her first time. First time here, or first time being cooked and prepared for me? Who knows? Oh, right, she does. Crawling onto my belly, which is held in, for optimal appeal, you see. I think she may be ready to die. Ready to destroy herself, just as I am. Naked on the bed, I am ready to fuse with my mate, cast off my Identity as Chip the Virgin lad, the whole, the individual. I am salted and lathered with sauce as I prepare to become two, experienced, the adult male with his identity as a normal adult male completed. This town needs me to be Chip the Virgin lad no more. Everyone can sense great turmoil hidden deep in my crotch regions, ever turgid, ever conspicuous. Yes, oh yes, she is ready for me to destroy her. Murder this nameless prostitute in a philosophical way. Steal her body, pierce that soft region and rob her of her fluids. I’ll do it, on this hard mattress with too little blanket covering.
I grab her and throw her off of me. The meat is scared and passive now, ready to be stabbed with my phallus. You can almost see eagerness in those downcast eyes of hers. Perhaps we’re all masochists.
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