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.
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.
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.
I hesitate when speaking
to you; I slosh
R’s and squelch
a careful approach to my
a childlike triumph,
which you’re quick
to crush in an onward
rush of splayed
You clear the board.
Maple letters scatter
and rearrange themselves
against the white pine floor
in words you struggle spiteful
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.