Friday, October 8, 2010

these words are not what i mean /\ i do not mean these words

untitled, heimdalsgate

these words never had any purpose , words in books and articles and published in the Paris Review stand proud , pretentious nose-uppity words those words have a place to go home to at night , rest in a comfortable bed and consort with their wives and with the eyes of soo many mistress's eyes , these words are vagabonds. a jumble rattle-bag of flotsam and jetsam leftover on the coffee-shop table train seat bus stop and soo left no one bothers to pick it up , these words are homeless with their hands in their pockets ideas in search of heads to live in and paper to live on and these words are miscast in the sentences they star in and the paragraphs are no better than our divorced and divorcing parents .

/ / / / / / / /____<-- this is to represent that it's raining right now
////// // / / //

if you were here i might kiss you . if for no other reason that to keep you from talking to me.

_*__ *__
/\___\\____ __<-- this is to represent two people leaning towards each other to kiss

i speak to a girl in a black dress who plays with her hair. i walk away, shout across a courtyard, when i turn i see my teacher who asks how i like assignments in equity, and i tell him about a competition, i unsuccessfully argued restitutio in integrum (he tells me i was right ,
____but now i'm jogging in the rain , my sweater is heavy , i feel gravity is flirting with me
___and what good is being right when you are old,
__(old and olding)
_before that i read.
before that i woke up sweaty from dreams i couldn't remember.

then it is evening.
but then, it is always evening.

what are you having for breakfast? he asks.
relief, when i rejoin air.
a banana. sometimes cereal.
highly caffeinated energy drinks and amphetamines.
either my hands shake, either that, or they can't be moved.

my essay has a name, all it needs now is a soul.
'Whose Invisible Hand Is it?: Ethical Taxation and the Price of Carbon'.
if i die before i wake,
carve it into my tombstone. _put QED under it. _if they cry remind them i was an asshole.

then it is evening.
i consider pills , decide instead on tuna. substance over form as they say. each day grows from the last. there are thursday's vines in my friday. wednesday's light is trapped under your eyelid. ssshhh, hear that? the thin buzzing is from tuesday. if you stand on one foot in the kitchen wearing a green shirt you can hear it really loudly.

these are the words i have that have no name. and which describe things that have no name. and which are about things that aren't ready to be confined to thoughts yet. passings and goings. throughing and throughings.

::____ _ _::
::____ _ _::_______<-- this is to represent the things we do not know.
::____ _ _::__________________(it is not to scale)

i don't know when things end anymore.
i'm concerned. my concern is that things never end.

1+2+3+ ... + ∞______<-- this is not to represent its true mathematical meaning, but rather: tick tock

the reason why this concerns me is in the box (see above)
i have knocked, but it has not granted me audience ,

when i look up it is the sort of 11pm that feels like 4am [or is that a metaphor for youth?]

but what do you write about? i am presently concerned with the conclusion of youth.
and what does that mean for you? (see above, box)

she plays with her hair, a thick bunch of it. twirls it. kinda rough.
i commend her for wearing a dress.
equitable assignments.
something or another about tax.
woke up sweaty , pills for breakfast , pills for lunch , insomnia for dinner
jogged in rain
but what do you write about? __[the end of things that do not

then it is evening.
but then, it is always evening.

No comments: