Out here/in here
cradling the air. Hugging its hot pissy whatever. Something to hold onto something to grasp. This is maintenance at its most base level. If I let go I will be scooped up again, a helpless dollop in timepsanning batter and crunch.
The batter both bleached and midnightlike, a doughy hellacious mountain that heaves and collapses and asks no questions.
Dough don’t talk.
Manna be mouthless.
Mum’s the word.
Silence carves and underscores the wafting arabesque spirals of piss n vinegar hook-tugging my nostrils cartoonesque. This world a bloodbath tombtub filling up with dark mysterious matter.
Some unnamed is nasty and known. Some unknown. I name things as fast as I can. Mania is my talent and bane.
Like blowing air into ruptured balloons, again and again, never-ending rounds of air thinning out and in out and in, blowing nowhere fast. In other words, I can’t name everything. In other words, the same as these words yet somehow different, I can’t name everything.
Variations and classes fail yet nobly attempt. There is a twist to all this. In mirror only we show off our chromosomal ache. Here our minds are slow to realize the fast-track phantoms and grails barreling through and through. It is like looking down the eyetooth of a loaded shotgun, one of them kapow blooey jobs that leaves brains staining audible walls and ears ringing.
I call for someone or something or some other thing. It is some other thing I’ve always wanted, some other thing the red-eyed night-hawk circling above my head, and circling, in predatory orbit. I keep calling. If only is my mantra and cruciform. They warned me not to long. Do not long, they said repeatedly. It is the surest road to misery. We possess no antidote, no cure.
In this respect my roads have grown weary of want. Footfalls scuffed and worn. Distances close in on distances and we grow minutely claustrophobic. Subtitles become our cinema as we speak no more or very little.
Do not question or long, they warned. I grow anxious and name things. There is a false quality of forever in this naming. The naming is not memory. It is the opposite of memory. It is fable and mercy applied tenderly to mirage-making. I long to return to all things sublime, to move beyond fallout and shrine. But, no, you cannot, you are on a mission. I hear this in my head again and again, you are on a mission, the gospel-hissing voice reminds me. You are not here to piss on walls or piss off. Your mission is something else. The original instructions and directions have been lost. Or perhaps erroneously misplaced. No matter the score, you must carry on with this thing that’s been named mission. The mission could rate anywhere from high priority to utterly delusional, but you must carry on, go on naming, go on longing (even though we warned you), and understand that you are not falling, you are miming the slo-mo descent of someone else falling, in-and-out of love with live theater perpetrating both the absurd and highly realistic, it’s a swing-thing that requires staying tuned all the way through and around.
