261014A
------------
My mouth is sewn shut.
I try to make the words come
from my fingers,
only to find they cannot express anything
that really makes any real difference.
The wrong dots keep connecting
with the wrong lines.
The way random collisions occur
in intergalactic space,
destroying any of the destinations.
Life in reductio ad absurdum,
to balls bouncing off of bumpers,
but the game never lights up,
before going tilt and restarting
back to its beginnings again.
Time lurches forward
a shuddering and reluctant engine,
in between instants of system reset,
when the screens go blank
leaving nothing to chance.
It is all about failure to make contact
with any sexually satisfying aliens.
The kind that can play on one's nerves
without emptying one's wallet
with pretexts about having a good time.
I heard that she hopped on a starship
and left this city long ago.
Another way to become out of touch,
because anything touching is so forbidden,
as if it would spread its infection.
------------------------------------------
261014B
-----------
The approach of winter
always makes me more and more aware
of the emptiness of my hands.
It brings that ever increasing sense
of a severe excess of solitude,
that casual friends never understand.
A restless kind of despair,
that is the only thing that ever arrives,
with the coming of the coldest season.
-----------------------------------------------
261014C
-----------
The strings of information unraveled,
as another corpse fell to the ground.
Bits of information
gone into quantized rigor mortis,
to be picked up, or not,
in some distant galaxy,
of trying to put the puzzle back together.
Cryptologists trying to decipher
ultimate intimate meanings,
before their brains explode,
fragments of skull:
pot shards of vessels once suspected
of being used to smuggle
various illicit kinds of civilization.
The planet was raided,
where a few brave souls were plotting
the end of the universe.
At least the end of it as we knew it.
Another indication of the injunction
that no one ever escapes,
by any means that they can imagine.
--------------------------------------------
261014D
------------
You were never in the same place,
that I chanced to wander into.
It is the way that life was contrived,
as a kind of solitary confinement
among various other people.
We would have known each other,
if we had ever met.
That is the way that it always is,
when that sort of thing happens.
Never really by any sort of chance.
I have given up wandering in,
long since then.
It only made me excessively restless
in the middle of conversations
as to how others were confined.
Everything else is strung along,
as if it all eventually leads somewhere,
and there are those who specialize
in reading meaning into random patterns
of entropic disintegration.
--------------------------------
171114A
------------
The hypocrisy of monuments
to never having been,
as and in the here to for of whatever was,
that they wanted to be or become,
as carves those failures into stone.
There is always another obstacle,
to getting around what is broken down,
making invisible invalids of the living
as they bury sundry assortments
of whatever happens to be dead.
Bucking for any sort of discharge
from the military that no one is in.
Driven to contriving new forms of insanity
and disguising them as prayers,
slipped in between the black and white.
Life is all about one's own image,
and there are some that never look right
no matter what the angle is.
They never look like they are anyone
to anyone who knows someone.
There is the perpetual movement
to regretting not being another instance,
and not having found a better dream
to use as an improved mechanism of escape
from everything else that never is.
No one ever brought any offers of freedom,
and the others only chose to watch
anything that was being worn away and down
as though never having anything else to do
other than lip sync the running commentary.
It is all about various sorts of magnetism,
and trying to sort out multiple poles,
to get some sort of near fatal attraction.
If you can get as far as that goes
you might actually get pulled in to something.
If it all fails, as things usually always do,
there might be a chance at being thrown
into being torn apart and consumed,
after being over stuffed with useless information,
and various lies about the immanent future.
-----------------------------------------------------
171114B
-----------
You never really wanted what I was,
and you never really wanted anything
that I could have let myself become.
That typically takes care of both sides
of any of the possible stories.
You left me to searching everywhere
for one or another sort of available damnation,
the way a vessel searches
for somewhere that it can run aground,
so that its dead can litter the shores.
There you could scavenge the corpses,
for anything you thought to be of any value,
leaving their bones for some other day
when they could be gathered together
to find what they say about the future.
Put what there is of me in a sack and shake it,
then see what chances to fall out.
It might all come together in some new way
that can hope for at least a modest approval
as to the arrangements of various parts.
They say that you can bury the past,
but it will always inevitably return
giving an unfortunate sense of immortality.
Someone kept saying we would meet again,
but I know that the geography has changed.
Your new territory is too well guarded,
and I could never slip through those lines,
into your enclave, and past the deceptions.
I would have let you take me as your prisoner
but that would have meant your wanting me.
I tried to use that ladder but it ended in the sky,
and that meant falling down each time.
Too many broken parts for you to want,
to have to try to splint and bandage.
At least Icarus could boast about the sun.
All that I can bring to you is the darkness,
because that is where falling always takes us.
If there is nothing that you can make of that
then there is nothing more that I can offer.
The others all left, and went away into the light.
----------------------------------------------------------
171114C
-----------
If you promise sincerely,
that you will never try to make me better,
I would let you hold onto me
as if I am a paralytic,
completely unable to turn away.
You could nurse me out of health,
so that I would always have to love you,
as your very own personal invalid.
We would never talk of the accidents
that led to our sordid state of affairs.
We know it is that kind of world,
no matter how we try to fix it.
Trying to fix it is only another crutch,
that we end up leaning on.
Only the dressings change on the wounds.
Perhaps I need the perfect torturer,
who knows exactly how to torture me.
Heresy should lead to some pleasures,
in its efforts to stave off the end,
as though stretched on the rack.
----------------------------------------
|
|