Monday, July 30, 2012

Phenoptosis, the Cuckold, and the Thief of Kisses

Like a miserly accountant, perhaps a shylock, he has kept the ledgers straight amongst the chaos and mayhem and comings and goings, the spilled wine and bloodied faces. Countless could not be applied because always he has kept the score, like the tabulating of sand through his fingers. And this grievance he wears, broadcasts, and it is no stretch and takes no great divining to see the analogous Christ, to whom he would have you connect dots (and to strengthen his case did he not take her to that sand and date-filled part of the world, turn her desolation loose upon unpaved streets and shanty rooms, her sweat dried and caked on scattered floor mats and roof tops, her chalice filled and filled and filled?)

Lately your remembrances abound like so many scattered rose petals or a vast library devoted to but one author. I must assume it is a plot and extreme caution is the only protocol. And yet I desire no more than to steal recklessly from you, to capture what you most treasure - do tell: what thief makes a good sentry? Consider yourself warned.

I say you are unfit to wash my feet. And should you dare I would piss on your head and when you turned your face (how many repetitions of this expression: the hurt, the feeble indignation?) I would spit in your eye. And you knowing this as I know this would still pull the rag from the basin, still reach out your hand, and so it would be better for all that I just crack open your head with the nearest sturdiest stone.  Let us see if the maker agrees with your assessment of things, has noted your suffering, favors your endless preening.  And of her?

Make way move over it is for the better of the species. Jesus Christ! that is large. But so very sensible. (Although I am now curious why the Grim Reaper is grim - seems to me he should be happily going about his work serving mankind? Maybe it is only decorous, respectful, like at a funeral). And as I feel the push, the strong tide, it seems that I Bargain (stage of mourning: Kubler-Ross) when I attempt to create value, as if to say, Hey, you can't get rid of me yet - I'm needed. But we know that is crap. Get yer livin in while you can. Make a splash or two. Then go the fuck away and let someone else have a turn.  And for the sanity of all involved - Jesus Christ! be graceful about it.

She looks younger: her skin clear now and her muscles tightened; the hair long (as you insisted - like Mary) darkened full. Her eyes bright like the newly christened. And now when she takes them into her mouth it is with the abandon of a schoolgirl skipping rope, the vigor of a thousand whores. And when she buckles into their laps she drives deeper and deeper than can be imagined by the uninitiated or, in your case, the dead. We may say then: she is well. And she will not visit your grave. Not even to spit.

Saturday, July 28, 2012

Friday, July 27, 2012

The Goddess, The Spiller (of too many words), Ah! Sorcerer, and a Gentleman Jack update

Since yesterday the curtains have remained drawn down and the door shut and nary a sound that I can discern has escaped - the Gentleman is as  a dead man. Surely there is much he wishes to recover from and rest and quiet is a good start. It is nice to have his company, his presence, even if all he does is nothing (I might add some humor here but instead I will practice restraint).

She has asked that I come to her and spend an afternoon at her knee, in the room of lit candles and vibrations (think: liberty bell pinged but deeper more correctly) and still the invitation, days later, remains unanswered. My hands have cupped her face (the tiny ridge of a nose, the cleanest skin, lips: of course soft but not mush but firm as needed by one who speaks directly, commands). And I have felt, marveled at, how quickly she has learned my ways and discarded my diversions and distractions and insisted on now and knowing, as it should/must be in the room of lit candles and vibrations which for no good reason I care to admit I avoid.

I am six days into the Time of Quiet and already I notice a profound effect: the surge of power in my (still) decidedly frail body that reaches past the pains and complaints that halt my movement, that insist on an order of healing, living, and spills into the place where words and thoughts and feeling must have their way and the desire to reach others, connect, laugh, share, sit awkwardly (or roll words in your mouth) waits for some of us to wake the hell up. For this I am grateful. But also my senses have been re-awakened, now obscenely heightened compared to just last week, and I try to believe it is analogous to a man awakening from a deep sleep in a lightless room into a midday sun, the accompanying shock and recoil, the disorientation. Yes that but. The Sorcerer has his minions everywhere I look listen feel and they are a purposeful crew and it is growing apparent to me that I am in his debt and he will be paid. I know I am not strong enough to fight (yet?) so what to do what to do? And of course I will do as always: delay doing as long as possible, and then a bit longer.

Her manner reminded me of a lady dead ten years now and one who I wasn't that fond of before she became dead. So I could have done without this reminder, particularly when I was paying. Christ! A sloppy woman turning things over here and there and every time her mouth opened a scalded soup of words, charred and bitter and foul smelling.  So I found myself provoked and I am proud to report that at least I proved up to this fight and I lanced her directly more than once (the squealing while quite shrill was still satisfying) and cuffed her several more times (although this produced the worst awful guttural oozing - Christ! again, barely human). This was likely the worst elongated encounter I've had in recent memory and while I feel that I acquitted myself sufficiently I wonder how I might have behaved sans the Time of Quiet - and of course this is quite unknowable so there is no good reason to wonder other than to keep myself occupied considering inconsequential matters while pressing business, like the Goddess's invitation, and the Sorcerer's debt, remain unattended.

I hear footsteps - it may be the Gentleman stirring. I should make coffee.

Thursday, July 26, 2012

reports of his demise ...

A new development: Gentleman Jack was not killed/sent west to die, or otherwise disposed of. And as he has been essentially replaced by Alan Mudd he decided it would be more fun, and also an improvement to his long and short term prospects, to remain in San Antonio, where at present he is stationed in my guest bedroom.

If he proves a decent roommate he is likely to stay awhile. Until a better offer comes along (probably a dame?).  Let's see if he contributes to the conversation.

the favored instructor & goodbye to gentleman jack

There is a force that resides in the east, my origin. And at times, delicate times, it feels as if there lays vast oceans between now and there (between here and what has been done - the complete and unfinished, living and dead, the real and potentialities). And yesterday as I retraced steps with a departing friend (Espuma is gone but it is doubtful I will ever forget the anticipation of walking towards it, as long as Alamo Street remains) it occurred that if Time has been so chipping away at what I treasure here, what has happened back east that I can not see? Would I recognize so little of what remains that I would feel as a stranger must? Making it now less real and leaving me center-less? Is this as it should be, must be?

But of course anyone everyone knows that Place must change, it has always been so. Places get taken down and new places put in their space and the people close will choose to scatter, take jobs and lovers and opportunities in other distant places and perhaps occasionally think wistful thoughts about those they left behind. That is likely the absolute most one can hope for. And so I do not then find it strange amongst the swirl, the desolation, the absolute emptying, to take great comfort in finding someone exactly where they were left, doing what (correctly, I say) they were doing, believing/espousing (I love you for writing to the readership of one! even as I disagree) what they were saying before and before and before and before, sweet then. And maybe that constancy was understood/felt then, before it demonstrated itself it was implied, and maybe that was part of the gravity. And gravity will not be denied (pulling us to your porch, to knock on your door, to break from decorum because a few words, a look, from you will remind us so absolutely we will not speak, should not speak, for miles).

And so the beat goes. I fear gentleman jack forever gone, his carcass shipped west towards his country. And good for him I say. Sail the ship sail the ship a pirate ship must be sailed. And gentleman jack was for another time, place. He doesn't belong anymore so bury him already.

At this moment when I look west I see the sidewalk I walked with the poet, always a hurry to our steps (the poet with so much to explain in those days), and the balcony attached to the room belonging to Earth Mother and I can almost make out her outline (statuesque, regal, but bent, slightly). And I clearly see the spot where a dear friend and I smoked several cigarettes and she gave me counsel (she must have known it was her opinion mattered most?) that I have mostly ignored but not forgotten.

And when they smash that building? When I can no longer visit that place, what then?

(you will forgive me for not returning your calls today?)

Wednesday, July 25, 2012

the sorcerer, the slut, a snitch, and the lady of ten thousand needles

Hurt here? hurt here? here? here? ... as your fingers trace my spine and it isn't possible for me to feel the hurt, only the gentle heat of your touch. The calm precision. So I remain quiet as you stick me blindly, trusting the aim of ten thousand years, the keenness of your fingers. Qi blocked, you tell me much later with the face of a prophet, your great sadness born of deconstructed magic. Then why not stick me all over I think, empty your arsenal, repair what I have broken, FIX ME.

She speaks of outfitting in Paris (Well, of course Istanbul is better for shopping. Much better) and lounging about a cafe or three and then maybe catching a glimpse of royalty in London when everyone listening knows she will be on her back and knees and cloistered to the whim of another that will not include her pleasures or fancies. But it is polite to entertain illusion and the trip is not until October: Do account for less sunlight and pack some warm clothes. And oh, the rain. Bloody rain.

He holsters a sword made of your discarded invectives and when he deigns to part the air (slowly, regally) the result is poetry of the highest order. And so (but?) he is always collecting debris and contaminants and failures. When he chooses to appear it is not sudden but rather he bends time to confuse you into thinking he was always there. Before the first of your memories. And whilst you claw through the embers of certainty (he does not visit the uncertain), tearing at what little remains untouched, he chastises your absurdity with a full-feckled grin. Like a skinny hairy runt of a Budha or maybe a diminutive idiot Jesus Christ. And he has minions. An endless supply in constant motion, his bidding absolute, as breath.

Snitches get stitches bitch.

Tuesday, July 24, 2012

the beat, the goddess, a pack of strumpets, the doctor, and the holder of kisses

I accused her of not knowing who she was talking to - that went about as well as you might expect. Yet with some things I remain quick, adept, and so it was diffused, put to rest. Not without damage but I will say only a small loss. Measurable but harmless.

He argues less and writes more and I say how can this be anything but an excellent development. His proclivities shame me and so here I am scratching out a few words again. Looking for what I know to be _______ - it is much the same however filled. He rattles words around his mouth now, off his tongue, breathes. Makes choices like a hyper-monk. On acid even? It is all good.

We must talk. Doctor doctor give me the news (and do not continue the lyric, a bad decision already amok - the beat would spit it out, yes, do spit). Mysteries I need explained. I have been told that I am thick sometimes and this is very true.

I will boldly suggest that the Thief has been converted into a Collector. It was a sudden change, no? Tables turned and bold met bold. What is next? (have I mentioned the insistence on decolletage has not gone unnoticed? that I chill a secret vintage? that peaches are amongst the most moist?)

They walk with backpacks and then strip and dive into my pool, airborne for elongated moments like a crashing of sympathy or symphony, you choose. They hide in ladies business attire (look in the briefcase! it is not what you think) and dress like brainy college girls and slam shots in the bars you might expect and claw their way through crowds with sharply painted nails that tickle the senses. So fine. And with a baseness that will shock all but the dullard. Or the most crude or cavalier. But screw them and open your eyes fully, see what I feel.

He is quiet now and might be sleeping. But it is more likely he be gathering: the things of noise-making, of exaltation, of declaration, of hear me. Yes that.

Aside: still you send them to inspect me? to jostle a few words?

Monday, July 23, 2012

Cast Off!

No, not like Bon Voyage! The cast on the broken bones in my wrist came off today for good because the x-rays said I am healed. 29 days after the fall. My neck still hurts but Doc says Time may be sufficient.

So expect a flurry of words as typing and writing is now a privilege restored. Not a chore. For now. Maybe longer.

a Time of Quiet?

Lately I have taken to noise. Well, more than lately. Certainly since I got home from the hospital after being split the hell open. And there has been acceleration to a now constant TV on or something streaming off of the internets. Sometimes nice noise like the smoky jazz channel I found on iTunes. Or a ball game. More often bad noise like the ineptly inarticulate and disingenuous skip bayliss or his screaming sidekick (as a coping skill I always read when this particular noise is on, or open mail, or fix breakfast, or do physical therapy homework, or housework, as if to say, Well I'm not really listening to that crap) stephen a smith. There are other similars, but must I name them all?

This feels very much like a 5th Step. Such a weight lifted. And yet I blush. This is some shameful shit I confess to. And there is more. Much. Podcasts while taking a shower. Or to go off to sleep. Do I really need Keith Law's spoken (24 minutes) opinion on the Red Sox 2012 draft class? Or to hear Danny Ainge guess whether KG will be back? Or SportsCenter in virtual endless loop?

I have always felt a sadness for those who needed noise. The ineffectual treatment/medicine for a fear of aloneness. What is more natural than alone? (who said the only two things man has in common is that we all come in and go out alone?) I have treasured the alone and the quiet, the calm or unease. The comfort in knowing the sound of my voice, the pathways from my head into my body. The necessities of this. The assurance. Pleasure.

And so now it has become The Time of Noise. I did not read about this in Iron John; it is nothing like the leaves or the ashes, a necessary, if unpleasant, step. So clearly it is optional, unnecessary. Clearly it is me avoiding hearing me, what I have learned from my adventures, the time spent so close to the Great Void. Clearly it is weakness and ought be excised. Discarded. Rebuked. Throttled. (Others, more healthy others, might argue it need be loved into submission; I am not in such a frame - who could be in my noisy condition?)

But now I am so sick of the other voices. They no longer comfort or even ably distract. Fuck me, they so annoy. Christ, I feel like Holden Caulfield on something. Christ, I'll say that again for emphasis, and because it feels good to say. No more of those bastards (and they are very much bastards! they must know they sow poison). Aside: reminds me of Zamyatin personifying characters in such an original odd way - surely he would refer to them in poisonous terms throughout: venom and dripping fangs and slippery and slimy and snakelike and much better than I can grab at this minute; Read We if you get a chance.

I feel ready to gather the quiet with both arms. To sail with it. To soak. To suffer (well, as someone I know likes to say: the pain is mandatory, the suffering optional - so maybe not). To choose noise like one chooses company and wine and groceries. To listen to what I have to say (even though I most don't want this). I am on record.