25 Dec 2007

the true meaning of something

something that churns, burns the sensitive nerves, preys on weakness - when you think you've got it pegged, it slips back into the dark, gives you a running start... you tire of running, walk, sit, lie down, relax, think you were scaring yourself for nothing, then it gets you in your dreams, you wake yourself up, shake yourself off, look in the mirror and it's still there, but there's no word for it, and you've got to go to work, a panacea - it may be your boss seven levels up the hierarchy, but you can't see from down where you are, so you're safe in your peon pit during business hours, as long as you work hard - except when hard work reminds you of how ugly your priority hierarchy is - how you wouldn't lift a finger to make a christmas card for your ever so generous family, but you would get up, on one hour's sleep, to work the holiday shift

was the big picture really pretty once upon a time? how could that ever be a comfort? gotta take it day by day, even though the day is gray, at least it isn't pitch black - what's with these stupid color metaphors? i thought i was better than that - well, at least i dropped the second person bullshit

the first person complains that a dull ache and a vague burn is the end of everything, the decay of all organic matter, and the furnace still fires, and the electrical grid's online, and these words i type will be saved in google's vast archive and made immediately accessible to all, all who matter - i tempted fate so many times, and it never called my bluff - i keep writing my floppy pre-apocalyptic verse - cut my hair, had an electric razor made for me in china, quality - let the zen fools maintain their motorcycles - too clever by half - a fourth - an eighth - a fabrege fraction - wait long enough, and it'll be like old times again - maybe even wavy and gravy, maybe even a borrowed guitar lick under a simple beautiful female vocal i could notate, cause it's one of those things that stuck in my mid-term memory synapses, which are not photographic, just barely phonographic, a tape overdubbed in triple figures, all forming a synesthetic holograph like psychedelic sandpaper, which sounds more interesting than it actually is, and i guess that's the point of writing this, if you can believe that - uh oh there's that second person again, sorry

"black curtains" was an important dream fragment, like a series of commercials following a Jeopardy! segment, which was a megadeth song title and lyric, which was a stately contour on a face of the ur object too cool for you - you can tell the hallucinations are getting contrived at this point - contrive is a chauffeur, he drives me in the limousine of limited vocabulary down the freeway of freewriting to the parking garage of inspiration where the drop of hoffman's elixir in every 6th wine cooler from the backseat minibar kicks in and suddenly i have the divine right of kings, all of them in aggregate, or individually if i want a monochrome frame to lend an edge to my monarchical rampage, to the pentecost coast, to christen a mote in a modern shantytown, in a good facsimile of formal samuri function, the one quasi quadratix, of the order of the proper name, could never anticipate

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cutoff - Cutoff from nothing, it's okay, there was nothing there anyway - wallfacer, door closing, wallfacer project... let's cut ...