a __________
two entries in one night.aren't you special.
gary jules, no poetry. [there's no poetry between us, said the paper to the pen. something's burning in the attic that a tongue will not defend - through the arc of conversation, past the teeth, behind the smile, down the miracle mile - ]
i am sitting here at 6am, having finished "dangerous liaisons" and having enjoyed it most thoroughly. i turn the blinds up slightly and realize just now the superfluousness of the lamp. click. [could we go downtown, to the middle of the world] a great quote from the movie - "Those who are most worthy of love are never made happy by it." had to rush to a paper and red pen as it was said. sad old woman at michelle pfeiffer's bedside. tilt open the blinds a little bit more, and squint at the sunlight. [blame the miracle mile] - this song makes no sense. but i imagine the Miracle Mile to be what the sun traverses every day. to the azimuth. at noon, and swinging back down. if the world were a snowglobe with no snow, and just the sun swinging erratically like a wild pendulum. shadows would be schizophrenic. most would go blind, and the blind men would laugh. and the one-eyed cats would switch their tails and grin.
the row of empty cans has gone down by two, inadvertently knocked over by my sleepy hand. remnants of an insomnia-painted night. a plastic spoon on its side, an empty bowl. a lamp, hot to the touch. paper scattered, in a vain attempt to write something. the trite, traditional writer's conundra spinning about my head like fractals, unsolved questions like pieces of half-eaten cake settling about on various plates. a box filled with oversized clothing. so much of my life is surrounded by this material ... errata, in boxes. one corner of a poster flaps up - a tack was lost to the tapestry which was tugged down inadvertently earlier tonight by a visitor.
speaking of visitors. hello sun.