Something keeps on reaching out anyway.
Reading signs — in the emptying sand, weaves shadows into meaning, and comes alive, at stunning visual distances. Lives for it, loves for it. Something irreparable keeps me there. Searching for surface of love.
But what, what am I reaching for — what what??
For reach. Reach itself is after reach.
Evil go weevil, loves after making me reach, to have cause to reach for it? It’s not madness nor even pretense. It’s some sort of shared resolve that has to be acknowledged for it to exist.
Silence rings with frantic revelation, doubt fingers at the shine on the hood, reveling in paint and horror and fascination —
For what? for what friendship is? — and isn’t?
Out where the windows blow open — And Shakespeare shakes out a dirty shirt as the laundrywoman speaks, speaks with laughter of nobles’ virtues.
It’s constructed on urgencies for theatre what makes a magic flute turn sad with envy.
My friendship ring is a fire, it is just that — a fire. In a lonely isolated wood. Prairie birds circling wider wider over head, eyes like little red bullets.
Socks vibrating — somewhere hibernating — with Leo de Vinci and his quandary of night and the end times. For all his invention. He was a world ender.
Yet everything starts with invention! Mona Lisa’s maker shaking a duck-headed stick at the melodrama.
Wheezes then waves a fry pan, pointing at it, mouthing — everyone into the fry pan, watch the grease pop with implacability, never finishing anything is it? always starting off new? thats all, thats all.
It only gets worse? Pessimus as nails across the Nile, to reach articulation. Every station on cross is a stop on the circuit for v for voodoo for vortex for vampire for voltage.
So why fight this tender fever. As it has a crispy, bidding, heavenly (loving it) tender side too.
Someone screams: Gawd I love to write. Thanks to vous.
Veg and void whim vim skin and vat, the vortex and the vat, the trigger familiars. The undead.
Howl at exploding moons.
Want to do riff on who are the undead. Carefully. A serious piece. Start with Burrroughs. What — how — how does that make sense? Joanie remember hanging out with Joanie? How the undead travel from ear to ear and heart to heart, it all gets under the skin. Undead come alive right at moment surface divides.
Doubtless, one will have to reckon with “bloodline” of images —
Wild downturned face-painted clowns ganging on with their joyous rants.
Beckett turns into tin man with a steel jaw, says “set your boundaries.”
Not me. I was born from snake and sword — my bloodline vomiting up silence and death.
Is that all, silence and death? No, no — a lot of it was sweet as hellfire poured over the mystic as a wishing well tomb.
However darkness got foreboding. Beauty arose reaching (however bathetically) for surface of love.
Talking to Clarice Lispector about philosophical question-marks retooled as bathroom fan — turns on moment you walk in. So busy making lists, reading, taking notes. Feel like Syvie.
Last night —
Last night read Lydia Lunch’s So Real It Hurts published by Seven Stories Press. Love the book design. Love how paperback cover folds inside, cover can be opened out double the size (great for keeping notes in…). Lydia comes screaming out of box. Screamers. Are part of the pox.
Caroling crisis barreling over the falls over the falls. Into Love Canal. Rochester girl. Thats nearby where I come from. Tons of dead mean tons of undead.
Like Colette in a way. Surrounded by death. Surrounded by death?
Everywhere pictures of striped pajamas behind prison gates screaming run run run. Get away get away. Get away. Cherish the dead.
Did not want to stay there. Couldn’t. Matter of curiosity and what was at stake. Everything. Every night and day.
Old blue something new. A ferry, contrary, sob and gob. All my love, to the back house mob.