if we are living we are not made of stone. our bones are not broken yet. we’ve made our houses in the shade and our blankets are dry for now. we dream of drinking light and our shadows turn to bricks with which we construct new libraries and all the books are made of our best stories our best shelves
puddles splash forever light crawls into pores the sun is only softness and never shades of brutality.
all business dies. all business dies. and the curse of commerce is lifted
She’s asleep in bed dreaming of charging demons and sugar plums or whatever it is she dreams
I’m a night creature now to escape the demands of the day where all the sickness of the sun swelters clammy flesh to stinking and the garbage takes on new molecular forms to perfume the neighborhood with coffee grounds and dead diapers I’m allergic to the ultra-violent Texas rays
In a few hours the solar climb begins skyward and I will climb into bed where I will dream of cities made entirely of dumpsters I can’t stop dreaming of trash. It washes in– tidal and soils everything pure.
you never question the character of a mountain until you’re on top of one. You realize that up here is just like down there, only higher, and you feel like you should experience something more profound than this.
So maybe you post a picture on instagram of you meditating on the mountain to give the impression of the profundity you think you should feel.
You get lots of likes and people think you’re profound and you let people think that because it makes you feel good and it gets you laid sometimes.
It doesn’t matter that you’re a fraud because so is everyone else.
Because nobody feels what they think they should on top of a mountain. It’s all propaganda put out by the mountain industry to keep people hiking up listless climes.
Nowadays I write with exacerbation trying to goad an apocalypse to some fruition. It happens around 2am or 12:30 or 4am whatever the time it has to be dark and I must be alone.
I make the coffee and read some Don Delillo or Wanda Coleman just a few pages to get my brain horned up for words.
I smoke many cigarettes I drink many coffees I don’t masturbate or think of myself as a martyr I use the bathroom I think of things in my day and how they relate to everything else in the world I rarely eat
Sometimes there is bad music playing in my head. Sometimes it’s Nu Metal from the early 2000s. This is bad for business. I listen to good music or the words don’t come.
I swaddle myself in cocoons of creation. I am a shimmering wizard throwing ideas against walls and making them stick.
Before I know it a poem appears.
I read back over what I wrote and live forever in my hollow magicks.
leaving the house means surrounding yourself with a subdued panic and wrapping yourself in plague and all the people who were anonymous before now look the part with plague masks and burial dreams and we’re all just wondering is there a point at which all of this breaks into a crescendo and rolls back? is there a climax to this story? and the tragedy is that it all just rolls on