tongue-sword unsheathed, doing battle with a number of grendels
��������� �����go back one. it's another entry of tonight.<<(*#&@(
i miss poetry. i miss writing, the sleek feel of pens or pencils against my hand, the windows in the creative writing classroom, not being so afraid to say something metaphorical and be made fun of for it. or to get a blank stare (worst of all, haha) or something equally inane.
tonight i read 'the stranger' by albert camus, if it's not albert, it's alfred and i don't want to move right now so you get to choose which camus is right for you. i rhymed. i miss springafternoon in the EO smith secondfloor, windows that only open halfway to discourage thoughts of suicide. the books that pile up, bad ones and good ones side by side and below the big corkboard of the G level kids' samples. drawings, like second graders, of "home" and "happiness" - photocollages ridged with glue from the back of the snippedout words, all on white posterboard. describing a scene from romeo&juliet, if you will. the scrawl of words and images on the whiteboards. a smell of dryerase market. words jumbling together. an old teapot and a hand-mirror with a poem written on it by sarah gardner. who had the most beautiful red hair i've ever seen in my life. other than this girl jessie from 'the silver lining.' it shocks me how inert i am, how my tongue lies flat in my mouth more than often now, barely quivering in the death of all metaphor.
reading back over my old poetry tonight. in the chapbook i made for myself. and others. i have two copies. and one of my really old shit. which i don't touch. reading the sunken garden anthology. cassandra faustini writing 'tokyo three' cass in borders and we listen to thunder and the imagined voice of lawrence ferlinghetti in our skulls. paging through poetry. i in sandals and she in a persian-print dress and her peculiar toned-voice. somehow always on the upswing, starting with a sparkle in the eye and a grin on the top row of teeth.
thinking now even further steve dyer. who was 13 or something. went to a highschool in connecticut, i knew him from "dream on royal st." lent him a copy of clive barker's "the thief of always" and i never got it back. which in a way makes me happy. that he'll have it, open it up and see my name on the front page. unless he got rid of it or lost it somewhere. white jean shorts that kid wore, with blond hair and green eyes and grins, too. a dog and two cats, a little brother and sister. laundry baskets and baby-fences. pennants and videogames. a thirteen-year old's room. i remember walking in and feeling so much older, even though i was only 16. and i looked 13. so it was okay.
a collective spiral of thought and memory, whizzing down through my head. it's 4am, i'd planned on sleep by 1am, and i look out the blinds. pull them apart. the night suddenly seems so much closer to me, a brother, a friend, as opposed to something behind glass, to be admired and looked at. i invaded it and came out alive, something i'd conquered. the hierarchy of power. i'm going to reread now. kerouac. dhalgren. justine. balthazar. house of leaves, the magus, the maltese falcon, mr cogito, tremolo, yeats, beckett, the world doesn't end, bukowski, faustini, faustini, taylor, all the paper-lined chapbooks in a fray on my bed right now, sheets yanked back furiously.
maybe this is the revision time of my life. maybe this is when i should realize that this is life, and when i die, that is death. and so tomorrow, beach. the focal point of both. the closeness of something infinite. like a statue on one leg / poised to finish the jump
hurtful. like a reticent heartburn, a dim headache that refuses to be concieved. dali pinned forlornly to the wall. fears of pretention, recessed ability and counterweight of anger and frustration. sick of being made fun of by everyone i know in my head for the things that i enjoy. reddened face prognosticated and snide looks of "what the fuck are you talking about" before i even open my mouth.
fucking christ. submerged. i need to get out more. peter says "you've dried up because of a lack of new experience" and then i listen to something inspiring, write, and think i've plagiarised it -- then realize i didn't, after all, how many people write poems about phone booths and rain and stuck-tongues? developing a spine? heavens no. only for the moment. a weak fizzling candle that burns too bright because more wick has been exposed.
talking myself through it, out of it. this rampant spiral of horrible self-rejection and rationalisation. the rotating fan on my printer that belongs to jason, the sour acrid taste of lemonade lingering like a raincoat across my teeth, the tired pulse of muscles in my thighs and calves. the emotions rocketing through my skull,
the planets rushing overhead, astrology wheeling on a fulcrum around and around --
and oh for god's sake don't leave this entry be ... say you were here, mark a handprint, comment, guestbook, i don't care. you read, you sign. new mandatory rule! an affliction of my deluded psyche, attention deficit disorder, hypertension, social dysphoria, bipolar, manicdepressivebutmostlydepressive,
shutting the door & going to sleep to dream of red cardinals, tokyo buildings, plums, dead limbs, sunrises, clouds on a solid sky, inertia, beltloops and tigers framed in greenery, Xs all over, play find-the-hidden-images game -