2. When?*

*This question exists independently. I have rinsed the sand / licked the seaspray off the first question.
____tin









http://revolutionstartsathome.tumblr.com/ by L U C A


(just a thing. that is. over there. like... there. see it?, right).

when there is no more time room or patience for poetry, a person has nothing left to do but sit with a lamp on. close to his head. so that it warms the side of his ear a little.
__when that happens i can't decide-on what music to listen to. and i skip manically from song to song, unsatisfied with familiarity, or with newness. but god it is pleasant with the warmth on my ear.

when there is no time left, when you walk too fast and don't want to say hello. when there's no point, when it's just the last thing on the list- or the list is soo long and you don't know where to start- it's the same. just tasks. first this, then that. and after that, then this again. the night is a touch warmer. just a touch. not much, but it's sensible. yes yes. warmer skies are ahead. god help us.

but i don't care about that. don't care at all. i want to talk about the bottom of the well. or the grass at my ankles when i walk, i'm talking about when that happens, when there is no poetry left. when there is just what you see. what you say. what you can touch with your eyes. when things feel only good, or bad, and you have no better words for it than just that. (when you don't need better words for it than that, because those suffice just fine. no need for greater specificity than that. good. bad. let's go).

when it ends we are always soo sad. doesn't matter what the story is. makes no difference. i can't manage endings very well. i'm always the last man stumbling. the last man clapping. the last man loving. that's just how it goes. i'm an echo of a human. always a few steps behind everyone. maybe i just like to look at ass. just maybe.

the corollary that follows (naturally) (or not). (unnaturally), is that there is no ending that i know of. that nothing ends. that everything follows everything and causation is really just an Adam & Evie re-telling of all of everything going back to when i was a drip on a penis that found itself in a warm spot of tenderness and love and for just a few moments, happiness. maybe.

when we are mistaken, after about 24 years, we find we are mistaken in the most serious way- eff me silly, there are endings and there are things that end and end soo brutally, so unchangeably... i found it confusing. when it happened i couldn't fathom it. that it was an ending. like the last page of the Grapes of Wrath. like... welllll... what happens now? (now) it is not like life, which is an open parenthesis- (which starts and then mumbles along in a long chain of verbosity and reticence, one moment silence, another hilarity, but always groping it's way on.
not like that. i'm talking about the end. with a big spot at the end. when that happens, i never know what to do with it. i sit usually. and just feel it. try and grasp the scope of it. it is a thing with boundaries. with borders. in time. in circumstance. it is clear. four-sided. 10-sided. whatever. and yet, being such a concrete, solid object, still, still still still despite that, it is impossible to put in its place. to contemplate. that it could be such. so.

when it comes to this. to that... i don't ever know. no metaphor is useful. words are limp. inefficient. purposeless. a word on a page has never gotten me laid. never gotten me a job. never gotten me a friend. they just sit there, like oranges under trees. that sickly smell. when i walk amongst them, in the desert in Israel this is, it's summer already, and warm as a mutha-f*cker, it's in a garden, out in the middle of nowhere nowhere... i don't even want to kick them.

in times like these, where's poetry gonna get you? and if you don't have poetry in life what have you got? jeans? dirty shoes and empty tea-mugs with a darkbrown stain? the sound of yourself breathing under lamps. just... life. last man stumbling. the name of the month.

when it is december i change all my online statuses to 'a long december'. when it is april, i change them to 'april is the cruellest month', even when they are pleasant. but december is always long. and april is always cruel.

and when is not a story about time. or circumstance. it is not a proposition of certainty, or a challenge about validity. i'm not sure what it is, other than... the unfolding of pieces of paper. the recieving of letters. bills usually. sometimes junkmail. about meetings and goings and comings. in mouths and through mouths and on mouths. things people say. just... put it out there. things you nod to. things you just stare through. yeah, know whatchya mean.

when we are old, we will remember today better than we have lived it. and when we were young, we lived it better than we remember it. when we are nothing, we will make more noise. now that we are everything, we are soo silent. we are just silent eyes reading. silent fingers and silent flacid sexualities. we are tongues curling around each others' fingers in our mouths. when we are driving, or sleeping- what difference is there? when we are dreaming or gasping for air, when i have the hot-water too-hot and let it scald my skin a light pink and don't move and just clench my jaw like some masochistic masturbation called Tue 10:44pm- when do we get over that? when do we find a poetry that deserves to talk about geraniums and babyies lips and the softness of cats?

when can i be that again?

the last word should be obvious now. the answer to all the unquestions. the unabsolute truth. the only thing that (does)n't matter. the sigh at the end of the sentence it's not even a word it's almost just a sound not even a sound just some squiggles on a page no one i know of deserves to have wasted a second reading this just step back and go away now you know the ending the score is nil each team who gives a cares a sucks a, the last of the final of the conclusion summary of the unnothing uneverything is of course that

when,