if I remember well, my life was a feast where all hearts opened
and all wines flowed. One evening I seated Beauty on my knees. And
I found her bitter. And I cursed her.
Forced into poignancy by a reflex, I think I am beautiful
in sorrow, but Laszlo says no. So, I can't win that either. We share
lipstick. I would die if you caught my feelings again - death, she
whispers wistfully. No, it's the broken refrigerator of my dreams,
and I can soar above it.
At least, I am not a medieval monk.
Sometimes, things don't gel, and how many times have
I turned over that tarot card? My lips turn blue. I look
into boxes and revel in their emptiness. Beer helps. I raise the
shade and frown into the sun and desire coffee. Desire is fun. It's
a parlor game, a thing to gloat over on long winter nights. Neverending.
Torment is its friend. They dance together, naked, in replicas of
Stonehenge and stick their tongues out at me. Gosh, I love life.
People in torment write mysterious things on the
Just an aside.
I live in a bad novel. I knew it when I got into
the cab, and the cab driver was French, and he was playing a tape
that sounded like Edith Piaf. But it wasn't. It was someone I didn't
know. And the cab driver said, "It is a love song." What bloody
hell else would it be? Especially at that time of night when my
mind reeled with my displeasure.
They say they want nice, but they don't. Threatening
is more fun. What makes the blood pump best is never the healthy
I would surrender but my white flag is soiled.
Health becomes a defense mechanism, a cause to take
up because everything else is done. People have fallen, their lips
still wanting a touch, their touch still wanting a reason. There
are no reasons in the netherworld, only questions, and the cruelest
demon is the one who answers "Because" every time you ask why. I
would travel with that demon. I would pretend the answer "Because"
was Zen, or Tao, or something else that is meaningfully passive,
but passivity is a tree bending, a knee bending, a head bending
over the executioner's block. True action comes harder. Most movement
comes from desperation when movement is a reflex and an euthanasia.
Let's talk about euthanasia. Let's talk about television.
Let's talk about slow euthanasias where nothing is kind about it,
where the maggots feed before the corpse is even dead. Those hungers
are nothing new, but I see them twisted into new Leggo sculptures
that tower into the sky. They pretend to be about progress. But
no. Movement isn't linear. For every step forward, the same trees
The World is My Oyster. I shall not want.
But I do. Yearning catches the sides of my eyes and
radiates out over the world. I catch my breath and dignity and sit
down again. Unconsummated mysteries haunt me.