Sunday, May 31, 2009

accidental bullets, sentimental reverends

This girl keeps walking around the room mentioning that we should have a séance while kate is collapsed on the couch and someone keeps lighting candles and as soon as they do I blow them out and that perfectly resembles the only thing that ever happens in this room, one person moves one thing somewhere and then someone else moves it back to where it was before again, so we never really get further than the doorway before we decided to turn around again. And whether or not I decided to sit on the kitchen floor or walk into the basement and stare into the dark does not alter the fact that, there is one person on a loveseat, sucking the air out of a sketchbook, and there is a third voice that I respond to the next morning in the shower, as I say, "I don't know who you want me to be, but as far as I can tell, your asking me to be someone besides myself, and I'm not going to be him, just so your comfortable" and then a moment later she is on top of kate on the carpet straddling her back and smiling as she crushes the spine of the lady on the embroidered floor. Someone walks in and stands next to the table with things clinking off her clothes saying that the debate she saw on the television (neon glow) was only half-worth the price of her evening, not nearly her soul ($296 dollars at least) and that it made her less aware, stupider, presidents are just a consequence for our inability to adapt, she said, a species that has already out grown it's head, she said. Meanwhile a man who only has two expressions on the side of his face walks around the dragging sound of the record player saying this song is so heavy, this song is so heavy man, and he plays the drums he says that he knows how to play the drums and I nod my head and say hello.



I read a great deal of books, I have them

Piled in the backseat of my car and I read

Them all and all of them are often read.

That is to say, I suffer, I suffer rather often,

Because all of the books always end and then

Well, unless I begin to read another, then instead

I end up wondering why none of the books were

Written about you, and why none of this, for one

Reason or another, has ever let me know where you’ve

Been or how you are.

(because the books are filled with knowledge, you are all I need to know)


Often, I feel you might have died

Without leaving any words for me to hear, perhaps you are

Still lost somewhere out there but I am beginning to have my

Doubts. I do not check the newspapers anymore, scanning every line

To see a picture of someone I’ve never seen yet I still ask

The mailman to check the bottom of his bag to see if any were any

Letters Left over but none of this makes any sense because I am always

In bed and the mailman is outside and I do not know his name.


I did not expect you to be a part of this piece that I am

Writing because I am angry with you, my arms crossed and

Every bone is never hard, hard enough to crack myself against

The glass. Earlier today I wondered how sad it would be for

Someone to have to return all of the library books I left in

My car after I drove my car off of the bridge in the middle

Of a Saturday afternoon near the beach and all of the books

Would be wet and ruined, wet and ruined, wet and ruined so

I decided I would drive a little slower until I lied.


You know how long its been since someone’s done that for me, lit two cigarettes at once?