by practicalspactical

the late night insomniac madness | the light always on, glowing | screens | screens | what year is it? | how did I get here | are there channels in my mind like the empty wadis of Mars? | Dug deep by endless-pain and longing and suffering | where do dreams go when they die? | The Last Play of William Darcy — the play I’d never written — Kate and Darcy — Elizabeth Trueheart, Lovely and Wise — who will I be, what song will I play for you | David and the Nightingale, teaching songs to each other | Old Stern Midianite, with Fire in Your Belly | Pinchas lusting after Midianite Women | The JudeoChristian AllFather With Stern Judgment and Morality | Where now is the God Who Loves? Are we Serpent’s Seed or Adam’s? Old Mother Eve, she lived in her bonnet, eating her curds and whey | Put put Old Mutt | What I lack is control and formality — the old way of speaking — hooked on phonics worked for me — laughing at the dumb ones — but they are not dumb, just slow, just beautifully mercifully slow — staring across a table at the new girl who I’m about to fall in love with — I want to see her breasts — what are these what are these | Two second aphorisms | Thirty minute shortstories | Characters are not characters they are not real I could give them names like Tim Leary or Will Darcy or Ron McCrae or Steven Barry or Edna Millay or Soren Jorgenson but what do they mean they’re not real, they don’t have fathers and mothers and little half-remembered childhoods like I do like they do — you walk into Elsewhere and you go play a game, the game is called “I have that” it’s a memory game, but it’s sacred because it’s your memory | Oh stop the changes | I lying in bed, but it’s a different bed than my old bed, my poor old single twin side bed | I am not back there, in 2002, tripping my face off, thinking I’m a soul trapped in a troll, praying for another chance, to go back to the beginning — “May I return … to the beginning … ” lovely — a trip to New York City in 1994 — a walk through the tenement museum — I will be a writer I say — I will be a Supreme Court Justice, I say — the Constitution is a book – it is my book it is my holy book I love the law why do you love the law — Justice Justice Pursue it Pursue it Justice — Marian the Librarian — Blech a blech on both your houses — the endless dying — true dying — not dying — the living that feels like dying but isn’t dying — the horror — Chinese food for dinner in my apartment — rain — a cockroach — horror of horrors strange worms, small insects crawling — a forest , deep underbrush , where do we go where do we go five years since college I feel like I am nearing the end of a long journey — JImi was dead by now , I don’t want to be dead I want to go on and on and on and on and on and back to Europe and over to Asia and other places too — always a student — pay back my loans? How — -a book about Rasputin and the Dying Past? Could write it — yes — the decadence — and then write another book about Godless Lenin — Shadow Country and Seminole Wars and Andrew Jackson and the forgotten history of this great New World where our fathers bled and died and raped and pillaged — great ugly White Masters — black slaves — distrusted Jews — Oh my fathers, I remember you all, you wonderful Americans of These American Centuries — I will dance with you on you 300th birthday, America, and then I’ll bid adieu, Frenchwise, and spend my last few days in glowing neon late 21st century Paris, capital of the hip-avant-garde — the world moves on without me even now — tied together with fiberoptic skeins — who are the spiders crawling on the webs — Shelobs or Charlottes or something else, Nobodaddy or Somodaddy, Soma or Germ — oh great machine would I trade places with you and trade this mushy mess for ones and zeros ? we are all electrons, strange loops in spacetime, curving and deforming, reducible, yes reducible, to multivariarate differential equations — representations of change, they say, the name of my book, my book, is the Book of Changes. Loveliness loveliness loveliness mindless sex and wonderful sex and being held by a woman by a girl by a woman by a girl different woman unique and precious diamond as you are a diamond I give you a diamond and make my house with you on the hill — who shall who shall come with me, who shall stand with me — the death is subdued it has returned to the ocean it is now ground and I am the figure I no longer dramatize myself write myself into strange stories I am simply the narrator, the eyes, two eyes, stereoscopic yet still not avoiding the parallax problem James Joyce is dead — he said — James Joyce is dead — language you wonderful robe — language learns from me and I learn from language and God breathes his breath across the water and I breath back and there is something something something special unique eternal I am the only one reincarnation is death-denying a way of death-denying, heaven is the same and death-denying is life affirming and is therapy the answer maybe what’s wrong with me why can’t I enjoy myself this is no longer psychonaalysis this is a pyschotic break what happened to me staying up all night and tracing the skeins of causation in my own life, leading forward and backward to an evening in my childhood bed when reading a large oversized book (either thinks that go or Richard Scary or the Little Engine that Could) I closed the book on my penis which I assumed accounted for the slight angle I found in it during pubertus pubertus which I assumed would render me unable to have sex — I wonder how long I carried that with me that strange thought idea — everyone thinks that they’re broken — I thought I was broken — wonder why and how those strange feelings those strange hormones driving me crazy absolutely and utterly crazy and yet I am crazier now right, why the satisfaction or the frustration or what or what or what or what 1000 words have I painted you a picture, my guineas clink in my pocket as I amble my way down the cobblestones of Tortuga, searching for a ship to take me there — dark Tortuga — in the old days before the world changed — pirate freedom, they called it, the Free Cities — nothing left is free, all is Organized and Synchronized, where is the Great Wide Open Fields, the Great Endless Freedom of Possibility — Laws are fences — terrible fences — I hates it, I hates it, I hates it — I shall do nothing with this law degree, nothing with this law degree, nothing with this law degree it is not my path it is not my choice it is not my passion false passion gotta do something gotta do something I’m not convincing anyone urggha I sound disingenuous — what shall I do? what shall I do with it? I thought this was what I wanted