Sunday, April 27, 2014

a title (throwback)

a title
December 28, 2012 at 8:31pm

I almost got angry or something. I almost fell in love with a French Canadian.

Now hold on just a goddamn minute there, I said almost. And I said that motherfucker three times.

Counting that one.



I had something ponderously sad and morose to write in a line by line (albeit flowing) format that



                                     precariously

         balances on top of an tetrahedron

     of prose,poetry and fiction (the fourth side is the ground, you dick),

but I started listening to some weird instrumental shit and it totally sapped the hate right out of me. Really. I swear. I was going to type away clickity-clack (those are keyboard keys, do it fast, I type fast) and reference a night sky or an ocean or allude to some girl I'd seen or met or fucked once (maybe not, or maybe more than once). I might write  worry about leaving a legacy, or about clouds, or rolling waves, or the edge of a green eye into a pupil abyss, or fuck, see? I can't just talk about it, I have to draw from whatever vast and latent source of words (although clearly manifest, at the very least minimally) I choose.



I wanted to make masked and oblique references to loneliness, confusion, and failure. I wanted to allude to and maybe even exaggerate a loyalty I may or not feel to you in the future. Maybe about you (oh fuck here we go) and me on the opposite ends of the park bench (or a couch) or the earth - And how you hold your hands in a square to frame a picture you'll never take or paint (saves us all the time of you fishing your camera out of your purse).



I wanted to launch a career high of obscure word usage and bathe in the vague allegory to self-marginalization. I like words about words and writing them.

I like words about sailing ships and horizons and pale blue skies (Rayleigh scattering) and I like hiding a hope in them when they seem helpless and hapless

and sad and cynical and dark and over and over and I write them again and I like it.



I like ink and ink droplets on my pockets and I like leaving lighters in my jackets (because I didn't quit smoking) and I like the cold night air and fuck Texas for that, but I it love here (I have two jackets.) So when I finish emptying out my mind from front to back, I'm going outside with a jacket and a cigarette and leaving you and my phone inside.



I decided I'd forgo and forego the use of words tonight. I decided all the ghosts and screams and vapors and fingers and flames and eyes in violet skies and airplanes and all the land beneath them would have to wait, just for tonight.



Just for tonight, while I try (doing this shit even now) to forget format and the signature way this shit might leave you sighing.

Just for tonight, while I am actually mentioning me more than you (who the fuck are you?)

Just for tonight, while I gather all my affirmations.

Just for tonight, while I sail around the world and forget all the words my mind has made to mean me and my loneliness.