dark, it’s always just at midnight or just at dusk when these moments carry themselves over my head through my flailing logic and out like haunted ghosts scared of their own chains and reflectionless reflections.
ah, yes, so insects smashed upon window (a wisconsin delicacy) turned to in sex turned to having sex turned to sacraments to the goddess in sex.
he speaks in that prophet confident way that freaks the shit out of me but calms and immortalizes his words in one breath-take of fear and admiration. of white dragons forming in his chest and in his third eye and from his dreams and yes, of course, it spirals and it’s chaos and it’s that moment of perfection that can only exist because it cannot. and yes, of course, i see these “patterns” too. and yes, i have dreams and delusions and dragons eating me from the inside out.
i do not think i am special anymore, though, and i do not want to be remembered as such.
history is what makes us immortal nowadays. and god is everthing we cannot see but want to in pin-pricked, penetrating the mother universal hole. as his old unrequitted desire would speak to him in poetry and i would listen through the cracks in social networking: “if a hole is filled what does it then become?”
i don’t know, my desire to answer rhetoric a nuisance to myself but i know she pokes holes within my flesh, only a lover’s old flame can. espceially when contrast and compared and idealized.
i’m afraid of heights still.
he tells me of mercury poisoning and capitalist grazing and the absolutely unbiased, unchallenged fact that mercury (a kind that is so many times more toxic than the original element found on the periodic table, the most toxic of the natural elements) is a regular perservative mixture for most plastics, cars especially, and in fact if one were so observant or privy to liberal independent literature (as he, of course, is) one would know that the fog upon car windshields, the new ones sitting so gloriously sheened and waxed and molded to be slick phallic dreams, is not cooling, condensing, car-cabin morning pressure; it is actually a strange chemical awakening and our reintroducing to more hidden deaths by short-cuts for capitalist American profit. as in, because mercury is the cure-all cheap perservative, it leaks from the new plastics and from the old cavity fillings and makes life twice as profitable as before. when you buy a new car you breath mercury a bit of mercury poison, oh so slowly so no one will ever know. it reminds me of a tale i heard of midieval wives that gave their husbnads poison in the morning and the antidote at night to keep him close to home. the GNP goes up when someone is diagnosed with cancer, you know. lots of jobs filled.
yes, yes, and he builds his lexicon towers on these, these so many sorrows, hereby irrefuted and dismissed as bleeding heart hippie liberal hog wash. people have exuberantly tolerant bodies here in america, didn’t you see that on tv by now, you’re not convinced? and if not doctors and businessmen will have an easy way out, at least you won’t feel it or look it. metal fever, heavy metal accumulation, disappearing fisheries and ecological gaping wounds, our metaphoric western bullet holes right down the thought throat of our own parents who never taught us better or who died trying. where are you , my celtic mother, my warrior father, my loyal brothers? where did all your meaning go? in this american melting pot everyone gets boiled alive. anitbiotic over-use, pharmaceutical abuse. cows, dead cow eyes staring at me as Seazon obliviously hands it some dandelion grass. don’t, little stupid child, they only eat their own kind now, antibiotics and hormones and ground dead cow muscle and i have the urge to take the cut-off baby chicken beaks and stuff them in farmer’s glazed, government subsidy-silenced eyes. humans get it worst because we’re at the top of the food chain (of course we do, we did it). i eat it in glorious indulgent, ignorant buffets. mmm, petroleum wax fruit and metal fever decay. meat, adam, i eat meat without a conscience (or the biggest one, why do you think neither one of us can sleep at night?) and i have the balls to mercy kill your philosophical indulgence just as soon as i figure out why you’re horribly wrong, yet so horribly right.
i brush his fingertips. and, of course, this is all indirectly about sex and foreplay and tension.
i massage his dog’s willing ass instead of his hand, and sport medicinal-induced aphorisms, “don’t underestimate the dog.” she knows and lays by me because she likes comfort and attention and specialized petting indulgence, humans give it to her.
all i can tell him is the sunset is still as beautiful as it was from its unknown beginning. and the fact that i can see it and appreciate and somehow live through that beauty is more than i can take and everything else is subservant. yet, i know in his eyes i am at the other end of the titter-todder we both rub our baby legs upon, bruise our little innocent white butts on, both jump up and down and up and down, rock the boat back and forth, back and forth.
ah, the sustained living festivals, the hippie dancing parades, the repetitious pentatonic scales that only few can hear, how cheap and simplified it has all become. i just want to sustain desire for beauty a little longer without being a cheap advertisement.
200 hundred years of scientific apotheosis and we have now found out we are not god. what a let down. what an extinction.
adam smith, the first man, the last man, the originator of the “wealth of nations”: the captialist torah, the ultimate common man, a man of the people, a boy tryin on his father’s big work pants and realizing they don’t fit quite yet. annika: all it means is beautiful. that’s all i can give him. and that is never enough when we’re all starving.
at one hour and fifteen minutes past midnight he tells me in so many indirect creative, fanatical words, he still doesn’t know why we have never had sex in the years since we “should” have, in those starry-eyed nights when we sat by grand ave and thought it was beautiful, the fast cars the yelling teenagers we would one day be. when i told him, no, i would not go out with him and then didn’t speak to him for days then months then years. and it is driving him happy-hippie-crazy to the point where he has ordained sex as yet another sacrament to the abstract mother goddess, that every woman he makes love to now is a holy god infested rite at night like sprite. bubble its contents to the breaking point and watch it burn itself to the ground. what a role swap, i have the key to this boy’s chastity belt.
i always have my doubts. for if his cock in mother earth is god than my skeptic is king of the crazy boat sinking balance and we’re all rocking to our own deaths. or fear thereof. i fear him, i fear fucking him, i think after this long it would be quite anti-climatic. i think his god is frivolous and fleeting and comforting in doubt like any other religion, he wouldn’t think twice to dump my sorry ass when the moment of perfection is over. find another perfect moment, another precious doe-eyed girl, another kodak lightbulb flash. he can’t now, i’m too much of a green light across the bay he can’t seem to reach. you, you conquering fool, and even as he promises to protect me, even as he tells me he can explain why apophenia will not let me go, i can see his eyes invert, turn around stare himself down a double barreled shot gun, blinded by his own god, his own reflection, his own mirror. i tell him i don’t need his protection, i stand on my own and that’s alone if need be. i am balanced, i do care, i don’t need god to barr the doors to my perversions, i don’t need god to make life meaningful, i don’t need science to give me foundation. I DON’T NEED YOU. i just care about you. even if you have my heart right now, adam, you won’t have my soul.