idea #2,451

I should start painting again soon. I’m thinking a series of painted mugshots from the local police blotter will do nicely. Also, Craigslist needs a professional matchmaker. I see all these maniacal, sex-crazed people listed three or four postings away from one another, and all I can think is “Don’t you people read these? Go get ’em. Your 500-pound honey bear with some similar STD awaits you.” This is the stuff of dreams, and to my sweet missed connection, thank you, it made my day.

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For Lynda Benglis

Oozing magnanimous, your molten

talent slithers across the walls.

 

Leaden meteors melt, folding perpetual,

leading  back to primordial tumult.

 

These are  the  liquid sculptures you dream

and understand deeply,

 

but you say your hands muddle intention.

You say your pewter splash is too grandiose.

 

I need you to remember the morning

you placed flattened musket balls

 

deftly along my spine. You flitted gentle

as you positioned each exploded flower

 

onto a vertebra with fingers

steeped heavy in grace.

confessional

this cathartic outlet allows an outpouring of refined stream-of-consciousness writing. with spell check and an internet at our disposal, we create an identity for ourselves–a collective and singular binarized system of self-promotion which strays from self-awareness. our internet identity/image functions as an alternate existence on a shared continuum. identities are immortalized in the internet, stored in dormancy but never forgotten. but can you really convey “who” you are, intricacies-warts and all, in text and images? we project our ideal selves through the internet. the more i move between days, the more i understand humanity and technology as a grand sociological waltz, prancing above egocentric curiosity.

SCRABBLE

I hesitate when speaking

to you; I slosh

R’s and squelch

Q’s, deliberating

a careful approach to my

seven-letter manifesto–

QUARTZY.

 

My smirk

skitters along,

a childlike triumph,

which you’re quick

to crush in an onward

rush of splayed

fingers.

 

You clear the board.

Maple letters scatter

and rearrange themselves

against the white pine floor

in words you struggle spiteful

to spit

out.

brandishing brainwaves as weapons

My crackly, inflexible joints argue with my body’s urge to spring from the bed after a dream-charged night. My stiff awareness of joint erosion gives rise to another immobile awareness I’ve been nurturing in the last years. Mortality sensitivity—I don’t know how else to explain it. Maybe too much Deleuze or Nietzsche creaks like oak planks over my soul, but I’m certain of the uncertain, and this is unsettling. I’m not afraid of death or its aftermath. The getting there worries me. Twenty years lurk around the corner until they’re gone with no proof of purchase. As a peon, I’ve inexorably set my expectations so high I will never reach them. I knew I should’ve been an ant—at least they assume purpose. Tomorrow morning I will look alive when my feet hit the ground and my hips squeal in protest. I will be sensitive, empathetic to a world that doesn’t care if you’re already dead.