Monday, October 22, 2012

ghost stories


May 2, 2008
I remember his unhurried smile (a bit like the Mona Lisa) and how he warbled towards me with the intent of squeezing any dignity out of me.  This was always his prelude to his insidious banter, and the later it got, the more crooked his beak became: to pick and tear and rip at me like strings of flesh he saw fit to mutilate, humiliate, and eventually discard.  The savage, perusing the wasteland of his desires; he was incessant like a crow, indecent as a horny drunk.  The more I pushed him away, the more he came scratching at my senses, wanting to open me like a tangerine, explore me and seduce me with his stories.  


May 3, 2008
Festoons of flowers seem to decorate my hopes, and the newer the hope, the bigger the bloom.  And they open in ways only I could invite to blossom, should they not shut down and die in withering spoonfuls of nothing.  The heights of my hopes carry me.


May 5, 2008
These.  Sweet morsels of lust, found on the balustrade of my pain.  A hunger gone wrong.  An unbelieved disease in the corner.  In the vinaigrette of my dreams... breathing in fits of perfume, getting walloped by the air.  Seducing, like a hidden scar, shown only to the lovers, and still breathing in the lone unbearable truth.  Two.  In solitude.  Two sick flowers who can't look at each other, can't hear to surrender to each other in the course needed to go their own ways, studying themselves in their distance.  Boiiing!  And back again.  Two brown flowers not able to bear the mirror.  The mirror of each other.  And all the while in the distractions of sex, they might not even really have to look at each other.

The monstrosity of my obsession: Something that had switched from the abbreviated comfort of my life.  Waving in the wind, they don't wear power, but my God, they do feel powerful: The sound of approval; The induction of fear.  And understanding the psychology of a liar, how it reflects the shades of all of us.  


May 15, 2008
And what happened to the worshiped sinners, the leftover lovers?  Mumbling past my ringing ears.  It's Handel's Messiah.

In the slow sum of your forgiveness, I wonder why I still can't find comfort.  In an economy of feelings, I am on guard to spend them and believe.  There are slanted lines that go through the sorrys and pardons and people will come up either way in the end – and that is the noble truth or the disguised truth.  Neither to be trusted.  Oh such plump lies, puckering their ways through such rational mouths.  Can't you?  Will you?  Can't you believe?  Don't dummy your answer just to look better.

It's as if I was living in the rectal barracks of the imbecile future, looking, wondering where the past went – through shafts of the unforgotten, and forgotten.

My soul reason, my sole reason, my absolute soul reason I feel I have to express myself from the trunks of my imagination is because every once in a while, I want to come to life.  Even as I'm living even as I'm dead.  That eternal flame we’re always talking about: I don't want to suffer the possibility of not knowing it.  Those septic thoughts of disappearing – I find it vile – a fright only meant for Our supreme ignorance.  And we all love the ghost stories, told like floating ducks into the sound – they too will disappear, and we too will disappear in narrow clouds.  If just for a moment, I can be alive.

Plunked into fascination – into a barb of the skin, and sin: us humans.  There's no lotion to sooth my sword-like doubts.  None but my own.


May 16, 2008
Talking to Jacquie about the past.  About love.  About others.  Fernand calls from Canada, and I excuse myself from our delightful luncheon.  I hear her laughing upstairs as I write by the water in the room down here beneath, where Miche and Ott last slept, and my grandparents used to sleep.  And when Jacquie asked me about G, I have a sentiment that I wish I could heal something in him.  Heal his love as I wish I could be healed of my love for S; that condensed life of a reality that had been shown to me, as if I were living outside of time.  With him I was lost in time, and when we met in that elevator it was like time travel.

Jacquie said M didn't fit in with the family.  She saw it right away.  As if he were still performing and we were his audience.  I found him gauche, stealing that cloth napkin with the chocolate sandwich I offered him at 5Ninth.  She said G was a blur, a haze, as if he were not there.  Not dead, but with no sparkle.  Then she said he fit more with us, the more she spoke with him and saw that he was learned.

Cold and damp feelings running through my veins, swarming restless by the water.  I find comfort in the release of my own hot urine. 

They are rose-violets.  They are intense lovers that get along.  With each other and with themselves.  Rolling into each other as always rolling out of bed, relaxed and rested in hues that would never be ready for the museum – too vivacious for the crowds, or lonely fingers to pick them.  Ah, that bunch, they are their own crowd in that dripping clay pot.  I visit Jacquie's violets and “Oh my God” whispered as loud as a whisper can be.  And taking my flip flops back to my chair I have souvenirs, not even ready to say.  But they're all related to each other, these rose-violets, and know themselves. 

Selfishly, wordlessly, gladly, he in the plastic bag, her in the icebox.


May 17, 2008
And words came floating through my dreams last night – I was too lazy or unbelieving to write them down... tucked under my comfort, tucked in the black.  So many words of interest come and gone through the room, all to myself from myself.  And I'm cleaning my feelings with care, to renew myself.  Reflecting soft surfaces to believe in, to love.

Forgiving him and his perennial love, like metal boxes closing and buses halting, he's making the noise of au revoir, the clang of a curtain, the sewn up solitude of wind.  But those metal boxes were as hot as the sun, pumpkin.  And if you tried to retrieve it, you'd only find a blackening grave with land turning to illuminate your dismay.  His cordial massacre of my heart.  In his reverent memories and moon pie dreams.  That box of sun, no more.

She stands out like a pedigree, legs out, tight thighs lusting forward.  Turning out, turning on.  Sit her in a crinkle wrapper turning up, folds of lavender and crinkles.  She stands in her potential and her potentially black eyes, turning a neck in private.  Forget the batteries, let's go.  Locked up Angels, dried-up rivers and life vying for more life.


May 18, 2008.
The alacrity of his stare.  It was perverse, a selfishness; taking his fill, putting me in his pregnant eyes.  How dare he throw those demons on me across the gallery floor?  I wanted to run and vomit, but running and vomiting doesn't go that well together.  I only did what I could – pretend not to notice his vulgar sloppy eyes. 

Her arms were as long as centuries.  Look at these young boys, these old boys.  All men.  All now.  I'm in a smiley room of yarmulkes and rules.

Broad-chested, puffed up with confidence, this was a bird who never thought he could be brought down.  A chicken bird, impervious to his own, who spread a jam of self-deception all over himself.  Ingredients: arrogance, vanity, the selfish slur of superiority, candor and the raw fat boast of fame.  Stir it.  Love it.  Lick it.  He was shameless.  But the more he stirred and puffed, the more shapeless he became.  Insignificant and ridiculous, a walking blunder of his white washed ego, pathetic.


May 26, 2008
Impossibly skinny, she looked evaporated, like storm clouds had curled over her and taken her away.  Away to some vacant land where only wisps and waifs could live – wintering skeletons and sickly white candy sticks in their smoky pallor, strings from swamp trees in the dangling haze in such stillness as only stillness would have it.  All about her was to match, as if her slight frame weren't to be hugely remarked, she had slight undertones of disdain.  Hiding her hate inside of her thin body, her skinniness yet could not hide her despicable fake politeness.  Those diabolical terms of endearment – what lies!


May 27, 2008
These milky thoughts and sullen dreams of motherhood.  They get me in the shower, and places that don’t matter.  They get me in the presence of myself.  The infamy of love, in my rattled state of salvaged self…I look at a row of yesterdays, humbled.  What I’ve been through, what I’ve survived…my love, my indecent love, obsessions, and blatant dismissals.  I am the one to blame.  The long tongue looking to clean my jowl, the piked tip of my splendid ludicrous tongue….that doesn’t even speak.  The silly pink of me.










Oct. 22, 2012
Jesus.  Am I glad it's not 2008 anymore.


Shelter Island


E. Kelly's Spiritual Journey on "Mistaken":
"You have mistaken me.  You thought I was Love.  But I am really Hunger.  And this is my companion Gratification.   The latter touched me gently, in farewell, saying Don't feel badly- we are often mistaken for those others."

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