I think I’m starting to get the hang of it. Though my body has taken all day to recover from sleeping in my car, 50 yards away from a rented bed. I had no desire to drunken stumble into the shared closet, waking up others. My mind was gone and it’s okay, the graduate students were on a fisheries weekend retreat, bitching me out.
Okay then. Walking in a stupor. It is 4 pm and my stomach is sour. I napped on a mossy knoll, as advised through devious teeth. Hey I’m having fun with my words, letting them fall out unfiltered. Is it approaching the flow state? Where the valve is cranked open and the steamy water starts shooting out galaxies? Anyway, unique universe is the term to cherish, to hold as your only object.
This is a collage. Two feet by 18 inches or so. The canvas is painted black along the edges. A layer of glossy gluey finish holds it all together. A painted on kind of glue-gloss that ruined old cheap red-handled brushes, where the soft bristle became stiff sharp and gouging. Upper left hand corner, perhaps too obvious, is a magazine cut-out of a piece of plywood with the spray-painted words “Welcome to L.A. Some Assembly Required” (the book was a small volume about the 1994 L.A. earthquake and the structural damages it caused on buildings and on human bodies – picked up in a Goodwill in Canoga Park, California).
I let some wine convince me to avoid my classwork. There it was in an open bottle in the fridge. Continue reading
Yeah yeah so forgetting things. Letting jazz replace what is lost. Letting what is lost stay lost, even jazz now. Okay world. What will you have me do if not remember you? Grey sunlight in the early morning. Itching all over. Letting red wine stick between the teeth and cancel Darwin. Heaping platter of Faulkner. Let the jazz and wine becoming poetry. Let the grammar erase itself with meaning. I am eaten. Soup, it was, and bread. Red pepper. Roasted. Russet potatoes. Then the 6th grader with weightier nerve took the eraser and got to rearranging my embarrassing forgetfulness. College papers do not ask the placement of adverbs in question form when the dictionary definition holds truth for moments only and seeps into backdrop of blues when the drum beat is erased and the piano and trumpet take the lead and the guitar is only a layer like a first coat of paint and the splashes of higher definite color with broken glass enamel, tooth smeared, guts all torn out with the advice of yesterday died inside that forgotten sphere up there in my mental architecture when the snow can be shaken up and globed and trotted and coating the cars enough to bend their muzzle. Alright, ridiculous, here I am fallen out of language because it feels good to let inhibitions slide off down the icy hill and into the frozen lake of languish. Nothing like that really.
I am sitting here barely caught up. Very itchy. Wondering what happened to all of my friends. What to do with my suddenly invited free time of evening without work (five minutes in the normal future) and finding myself barely up to the challenge of the literature assigned and the writing work to accomplish. Only available for parties of existential nonsense, this clown, all dressed in normal young man clothes, no suits though, because I’m not a business marketing major and my zip hoodie suits me as well as a suit suits you and your fast cars will leave me behind in my dumb old leaky brakes. No stopping now. I am an evolution of something. I am an expansion of younger selves but what would they think to see me so crumpled and heartless?
If everything was as easy as the advertisements intended. If we could laugh and share our thoughts without the necessity of alcohol. If we could disperse our thoughts without the fog of liquor, of sloppy joe to the left, of froggy Annie to the right, of habitat sounds in all directions. People who do not know how to distinguish their bodies from the multitude to the immediate center. Let’s find a skeleton to call our own. Let’s distinguish ourselves as a multitude less confused. Make me into a…” Sarah settle down, put your helmet on.”
but I smile so hard it hurts. and let us get into that family therapeutic setting. I cannot spell because it is no longer talk in school. it is auto correct. it is red squiggly lines. even under squiggly. i know how to spell nothing at all. I teach myself the rhetoric of a land dead for two thousand years and pretend it will advance me metaphysically.
Put conjugation tables away with a pink notebook bang, a beardless young man attempts a biological and genetic experiment using his own face as the parameters, so if shaven clean daily, will other buried hairs be given chance to grow, a clean playing field, a forest with the undergrowth removed, the pinecones left in dollops beneath the always green shade, forever and ever grey and green, then when he shocks his perpetually cut-at-youth hairs with a razor negligence, his theory is that the sprouts will sprout, the beard will grow, and he can be a public Seattle citizen again. Otherwise, no, nothing of the sort. Stay indoors. Watch the underside of the chin closely in the mirror for saplings to dredge up and out. Wait for the right time and then wait for the right time and then wait.
Buddha smiles at me and dj music mocks me and this is the home that my younger self died in, there, on the couch. Are you with me, listener? Can you tell how loud I am speaking? What if I say, “Everything I did today was okay for awhile and then I just sort of, I don’t know, showed up on the couch again, with some beer and the cat meowing to get out…” ? Could you tell I was trailing off into the turtle shell of my sweater?