You have watched this movie countless times. You've memorized the dialogue and the actors' actions. You know how the story ends, but every time you view this film you lock your eyes shut and wish for a different outcome.
This is the magic of the movies: for 90 minutes you can forget yourself. Become something else. Lose yourself in some foreign world of Technicolor and beauty, a world in which good always triumphs over evil. This is your own personal Oz.
So just lose
Yourself.
You lock your eyes shut and wish for a different outcome. Maybe this time, you tell yourself, things will be different.
But no.
The hero must always pay a fatal price for saving the day. The hero has to sacrifice his life to rescue the damsel in distress.
And you know what happens next.
Under the glow of flashbulbs and news cameras, the police apprehend the villain. And a few blocks away, hidden from the hoopla in a darkened alley, he is there. The dying hero. She cradles his mortally wounded body. Her tears swell from the corners of her eyes. They glisten in the pale light. And he struggles to speak.
And you know the words that will crawl from his lips.
"Please, Marie, don't cry. I... I knew I had to be willing... willing to die to save... to save... you. Sometimes a price must be paid... for love. Don't worry... don't worry about me. I'm going to die a happy man because... because I know you will go on... start a family... and be happy. My only regret is that... I... I won't be there... with you. Always remember, Marie, that... I... love... you."
A final breath.
Her fragile body collapses while cries fly from her mouth.
And you. You've watched this movie countless times, and every time you relive the tale you close your eyes and hope for a different ending.
Maybe this time, you tell yourself, the hero will get the girl and live to see another day. Maybe this time... things will be different.
xx
Showing posts with label no_label. Show all posts
Showing posts with label no_label. Show all posts
30 August 2008
11 July 2008
audiolog one by william rockford
The following is a transcript of William Rockford's first audio journal.
Well, I've decided to begin a journal. A record of my feelings, thoughts and observations. I've chosen to record my thoughts to audio tape instead of writing them in a traditional journal because my mind tends to race beyond the pace of my hand.
Why have I chosen to begin a journal? Well, this is a difficult question to answer. I suppose we all seek to be immortalized in some fashion ... document our existence to prove we once occupied a moment in time. Like a photograph. Like initials carved into a tree or etched on the plastic wall of a telephone booth.
Will anyone hear these audio tapes? Will anyone hear my voice? I do not know, but I feel some strange desire to record ... to record my life ... my experiences. Perhaps I will return to these tapes and attempt to reconstruct my life into something ... something meaningful. Perhaps I will find a resolution -- salvation if I'm lucky -- to the unsolved issues ... the wounds from long ago that haunt me to this very day.
I awoke this morning from a dream. Actually, it wasn't even a dream. It was a flash of a face that rattled me from sleep -- the face of a nine-year-old Kelly Johnson.
As time passes, faces change ... the memory converts the hair, the eyes, nose, cheeks and lips into something intangible -- a moment, an experience.
It was the third grade and Kelly was nine, I was eight and she was my first crush. I was a shy boy and never revealed my "love" for her, but somehow she discovered I liked her. It was the third grade ... recess ... and Mrs. Wright, my third grade teacher, was on recess duty. I was playing kick ball when I heard Kelly yell, "Hey, William! Come here!" I removed myself from the game and, nervous as hell, approached her. "Let's go behind the shed. I have a secret I need to tell you. Quick. Mrs. Wright isn't looking."
"Um, OK," I replied, my belly boiling with butterflies. I made sure Mrs. Wright wasn't looking -- we weren't allowed to leave her sight -- and hurried to the shadow of the shed.
The janitor's shed contained a lawn mower, tools, paint and other things. I had never been behind the shed, but I had heard the stories: first kisses, sixth graders smoked cheap cigarettes, girls gossiped. Many myths were born behind that shed. I can recall the shed's appearance as if it were yesterday: white paint peeled from the rotting wooden walls, the shingles were in disrepair and a rusted padlock secured the shed's contents.
"So," she said. "I heard you like me."
My hands were buried in my pockets. My feet were restless. "Um, I don't know ... I ... who told you?"
"Have you ever kissed a girl?" she asked, ignoring my question.
"Um, yeah. Maybe ... yeah," I lied.
It's so much easier to lie. Just bury yourself under a blanket of falsehoods and fabrications ... sheets that will keep you warm from the cold truth ... the reality of your circumstance ... your reflection. And these days, this age of Wikipedia and online profiles, it's easier than ever to construct a make-believe reality. With just a few keystrokes we can change history, distort the facts. If we don't like who we are we can recreate ourselves in cyberspace via an online profile -- a new name with a false shadow. But I digress ...
I admitted I had never kissed a girl and she said, "Well, I'm going to show you how. I know you want to kiss me, William."
I couldn't look her in the eyes. My eyes were bouncing. I remember the sun glistening off her pink jellies. The PVC plastic. Her tiny toes. I thought I was going to piss myself ... so nervous. I was about to kiss Kelly -- my first crush. A preadolescent infatuation ... empty and baseless.
"Close your eyes," she instructed me.
"Um ... I ... I don't know. Mrs. Wright might catch us," I said.
"C'mon, William. Don't be a loser. C'mon, it'll be fun," Kelly reassured me.
"OK ... OK." I closed my eyes and I could feel her presence getting closer and closer until her lips met mine. She began to kiss me. My lips imitated her's.
A kiss.
A kiss.
A kiss.
Her breath tasted like strawberry bubblegum.
And then she ... I felt her hands on my waist ... hands moving to my belt buckle and through our connected lips I said ... a whisper, "What? What are you--"
"Shhhh, this is part of kissing."
She ... she unbuckled my belt. She unbuttoned my Bugle Boy jeans. Her hand reached inside ... her hand ... inside my Superman underwear ... fondling my private parts. And her breath tasted like bubblegum ... the flavor of strawberries. Our heads and lips were frozen. Still. Like department store mannequins. But her hands ... her hands were very much alive. And I ...
I tried to bury myself under that third grade sun. Make-believe. Pretend this isn't happening.
Flecks of white paint clinging to the decaying walls of that god damn shed.
Her pink jellies.
Her artificially flavored breath.
A preadolescent crush, shattered.
Me, clinging to ... myself.
And then a whistle and Mrs. Wright yelling, "OK, kids, recess is over! Form a line in alphabetical order next to the water fountain!"
And without a word, without a glance, Kelly scurried away ... from the shed ... from me, unbuttoned and unbuckled. Embarrassed. Ashamed.
I quickly collected myself and followed Mrs. Wright's instructions.
That ... that's all for now. End of entry. April 23rd of 2004.
End of transcript.
xx
Well, I've decided to begin a journal. A record of my feelings, thoughts and observations. I've chosen to record my thoughts to audio tape instead of writing them in a traditional journal because my mind tends to race beyond the pace of my hand.
Why have I chosen to begin a journal? Well, this is a difficult question to answer. I suppose we all seek to be immortalized in some fashion ... document our existence to prove we once occupied a moment in time. Like a photograph. Like initials carved into a tree or etched on the plastic wall of a telephone booth.
Will anyone hear these audio tapes? Will anyone hear my voice? I do not know, but I feel some strange desire to record ... to record my life ... my experiences. Perhaps I will return to these tapes and attempt to reconstruct my life into something ... something meaningful. Perhaps I will find a resolution -- salvation if I'm lucky -- to the unsolved issues ... the wounds from long ago that haunt me to this very day.
I awoke this morning from a dream. Actually, it wasn't even a dream. It was a flash of a face that rattled me from sleep -- the face of a nine-year-old Kelly Johnson.
As time passes, faces change ... the memory converts the hair, the eyes, nose, cheeks and lips into something intangible -- a moment, an experience.
It was the third grade and Kelly was nine, I was eight and she was my first crush. I was a shy boy and never revealed my "love" for her, but somehow she discovered I liked her. It was the third grade ... recess ... and Mrs. Wright, my third grade teacher, was on recess duty. I was playing kick ball when I heard Kelly yell, "Hey, William! Come here!" I removed myself from the game and, nervous as hell, approached her. "Let's go behind the shed. I have a secret I need to tell you. Quick. Mrs. Wright isn't looking."
"Um, OK," I replied, my belly boiling with butterflies. I made sure Mrs. Wright wasn't looking -- we weren't allowed to leave her sight -- and hurried to the shadow of the shed.
The janitor's shed contained a lawn mower, tools, paint and other things. I had never been behind the shed, but I had heard the stories: first kisses, sixth graders smoked cheap cigarettes, girls gossiped. Many myths were born behind that shed. I can recall the shed's appearance as if it were yesterday: white paint peeled from the rotting wooden walls, the shingles were in disrepair and a rusted padlock secured the shed's contents.
"So," she said. "I heard you like me."
My hands were buried in my pockets. My feet were restless. "Um, I don't know ... I ... who told you?"
"Have you ever kissed a girl?" she asked, ignoring my question.
"Um, yeah. Maybe ... yeah," I lied.
It's so much easier to lie. Just bury yourself under a blanket of falsehoods and fabrications ... sheets that will keep you warm from the cold truth ... the reality of your circumstance ... your reflection. And these days, this age of Wikipedia and online profiles, it's easier than ever to construct a make-believe reality. With just a few keystrokes we can change history, distort the facts. If we don't like who we are we can recreate ourselves in cyberspace via an online profile -- a new name with a false shadow. But I digress ...
I admitted I had never kissed a girl and she said, "Well, I'm going to show you how. I know you want to kiss me, William."
I couldn't look her in the eyes. My eyes were bouncing. I remember the sun glistening off her pink jellies. The PVC plastic. Her tiny toes. I thought I was going to piss myself ... so nervous. I was about to kiss Kelly -- my first crush. A preadolescent infatuation ... empty and baseless.
"Close your eyes," she instructed me.
"Um ... I ... I don't know. Mrs. Wright might catch us," I said.
"C'mon, William. Don't be a loser. C'mon, it'll be fun," Kelly reassured me.
"OK ... OK." I closed my eyes and I could feel her presence getting closer and closer until her lips met mine. She began to kiss me. My lips imitated her's.
A kiss.
A kiss.
A kiss.
Her breath tasted like strawberry bubblegum.
And then she ... I felt her hands on my waist ... hands moving to my belt buckle and through our connected lips I said ... a whisper, "What? What are you--"
"Shhhh, this is part of kissing."
She ... she unbuckled my belt. She unbuttoned my Bugle Boy jeans. Her hand reached inside ... her hand ... inside my Superman underwear ... fondling my private parts. And her breath tasted like bubblegum ... the flavor of strawberries. Our heads and lips were frozen. Still. Like department store mannequins. But her hands ... her hands were very much alive. And I ...
I tried to bury myself under that third grade sun. Make-believe. Pretend this isn't happening.
Flecks of white paint clinging to the decaying walls of that god damn shed.
Her pink jellies.
Her artificially flavored breath.
A preadolescent crush, shattered.
Me, clinging to ... myself.
And then a whistle and Mrs. Wright yelling, "OK, kids, recess is over! Form a line in alphabetical order next to the water fountain!"
And without a word, without a glance, Kelly scurried away ... from the shed ... from me, unbuttoned and unbuckled. Embarrassed. Ashamed.
I quickly collected myself and followed Mrs. Wright's instructions.
That ... that's all for now. End of entry. April 23rd of 2004.
End of transcript.
xx
11 May 2008
limp
I lost my job today. Supervisor Maxwell told me had grown tired of my habitual tardiness and poorly groomed appearance. His fat stubby finger pointed to a dark stain on my pants and a missing button on my shirt.
"I mean, Jesus Mark, do you ever look at yourself in the mirror?"
I gathered my belongings and left without saying goodbye to my co-workers. I never liked those people anyway.
The drive home was lonely and depressing. The sky was gigantic gray and swallowed the darting birds and soaring planes. I thought about all the people in the jets: the passengers, the pilots and the neatly dressed flight attendants.
Departures and arrivals.
Moving from point A to point B.
People constantly moving. In the sky. On the interstate. All around me.
The man on the radio warned of an approaching storm. "High winds and heavy rain are likely, so stay tuned to 104.7 WCRI for the latest on this developing storm."
Seek shelter. Find a safe place. Take refuge from the unknown. Hide. If you pay attention, you'll find these warnings everywhere: In the eyes of a passing stranger, in the voice of the newscaster, on the face of the terminally ill. This great trembling, the fear. It's everywhere.
I parked my car and an apartment maintenance man was changing the locks on the unit opposite mine.
"They say one helluva storm is headed our way," I said to him. He didn't flinch from his work. Perhaps he didn't hear me, I thought. "I said, one helluva storm is --"
"Yeah yeah, I heard ya the first time," he replied, obviously agitated.
"Oh . . . OK . . . Well, have a good one."
He grunted and sneered at my words.
The soft hum of the refrigerator greeted me as I entered my apartment. Through the front door I heard the maintenance man tapping and hammering. I peered through the blinds and observed him. He was at least 50 years of age. A wedding band was absent from his left hand, and I wondered if he was a lifelong bachelor. I doubted it. Men who are good with their hands and mechanically inclined rarely are single. Women appreciate men who can repair household appliances and perform minor car repairs. This breed of man sit atop the food chain.
I'm not one of them.
My father died when I was just six years old. Games of catch with weathered baseball mitts . . . Learning the rudimentary components of an automobile's engine . . . I do not know such memories. My mother remained a widow until her final breath, so I had to teach myself to be a "man."
I failed miserably.
Had this man fathered any children? I saw his rusted face and it read like a book: Years ago he had met a woman in Georgia. An unplanned pregnancy made their courtship a brief one. With a ratty suitcase in his hand and a Marlboro in his mouth, he stood in the darkened doorway and gave her sleeping body one final glance. She looked so peaceful, so innocent. An innocent victim. And he was gone, off to Tennessee. The following morning she awoke to an empty bed and a one-page letter on the cluttered dining room table. One page to justify a departure. One page to construct an apology. Eight months later she gave birth to twins, two baby boys, bastards by no fault of their own. And now, somewhere in Georgia, a mother and her two children struggle to survive. Government assistance. Secondhand fabrics clothe malnourished bodies. A dilapidated trailer home with faulty plumbing. A single-parent family drowning in poverty. A single-page letter of vowels and consonants -- just words.
They are slowly dying while the estranged father, the maintenance man of Forest Park Apartments, spends his evenings eating TV dinners and watching sitcoms. Television programs about happily dysfunctional families and funny mishaps. But he never laughs, doesn't even crack a smile while microwaved mashed potatoes dribble down his crooked chin. He watches commercials about products and services designed to make like easier and more enjoyable.
"A happy family life . . ."
"A good loving companion . . ."
"Vacations in the sun . . ."
"All of this can be yours . . ."
These slogans, these 30-second advertisements, these flickering families of prime time are reminders of what his life could be.
But it's not.
And it won't be.
He is a maintenance man. A man struggling to preserve a property. A life. A man battling the reverberations, the cycle of time. Preserve a structure while a crack crawls up the wall of apartment 213. Preserve the structure of your life while another wrinkle slowly carves itself into your face.
Cracks.
Breaks.
Leaks.
Deterioration.
Preserve.
Fight.
Preserve the facade.
Fight . . . time.
Every day.
Every moment.
You'll do anything to stave off starvation. The emptiness. The desolation.
As I watched him a fear began to churn in my belly. His lonely life. The regret. Opportunities missed. His futile battle. A life that awaits me in the curdled blood of the future.
I turned away. I turned away from the window to attend to my five fish -- five creatures that relied upon me for their perpetuation. I prepared to feed them but it was pointless. Atop the rippling surface all five of my beloved fish floated. Expired. Passed away. All of them. Now just dead things. Objects beyond saving, preserving. They had become articles to be disposed of. Buried. Flushed. I let the departed castaways float. They no longer had coordinates, direction. I was struck by their frozen state, their profound beauty: They had defied time and eclipsed the ever-passing moment. Regardless of our attempts to scavenge the now for permanence, nothing can be saved. Time is the perpetual victor.
I turned away. I turned away from the aquarium and checked my e-mail. Nothing but spam promising high-powered pharmaceuticals without a prescription, a bigger penis and hardcore pornography.
The slogans. The advertisements. Tantalizing promises of an easier, more enjoyable life. Just forget the present and become the future. Take a pill to cure the pain. Feed the fetish to silence the desire. Erase yourself. Just delete the moment.
I clicked the link for "Hot Hot Hardcore Action!" and was directed to a website that displayed naked women, close-ups of penises plunged into vaginas and assholes, and short video clips of men and women engaged in a variety of sexual acts. The video clips were brief and looped endlessly.
Over and over.
In and out. In and out.
Up and down. Up and down.
Ejaculation. Ejaculation.
A moment.
Repeating.
Over and over.
For $29.99 per month I could have access to thousands of pictures and hundreds of videos featuring "filthy whores" and "barely legal teens begging to fuck!"
You'll do anything to stave off starvation. The emptiness. The desolation.
I entered my credit card number and within seconds a wealth of pornography was just a mouse click away.
The emptiness. The desolation. Just forget. Erase the now. The ever-passing moment . . . it's burning in your belly like a raging ulcer. Just cure the pain. Become the future. Become the invisible.
I clicked on the video "Gina Gets Gang Fucked." The video began with Gina naked on a bed. She was rubbing her vagina while three naked men surrounded her, all of them stroking their penises. I stared at the colors. The images. Gina's naked body. I undressed myself.
"Think you can handle all three of us?" one of the men asked. She nodded seductively and began to suck one of their penises.
Within minutes her body was smothered by the three men. The predators were penetrating their pray. In her mouth. In her vagina. In her anus.
I gazed at the pleasure points. I stroked my penis. The men uttered ecstatic cliches of sexual gratification. Gina, with a penis crammed into her mouth, barely made a sound.
And I stroked myself, attempting to get hard.
Faster.
Faster.
Stare.
Fantasize.
Pretend you are someone else.
Chase the feeling. The moment.
And I continued to stroke my penis, waiting for blood to flood blood vessels.
Faster and faster.
But nothing.
The video continued and I began to separate myself from the moving images, the flashing screen. I stopped stroking my penis and just stood there with my dead cock in my hand, watching people -- nothing more than digitized images trapped in time -- copulate. A crooked scar was carved into one of the men's thighs. Below Gina's navel was a poorly inked tattoo which read "Daddy's Girl."
Who were these people, these strangers?
I watched the four bodies not as a group performing abhorrent sexual acts but as individuals. Real people who breathe. Eat. Sleep. Exist -- somewhere. And it suddenly seemed bizarre that I was watching their twisted figures. The sweaty meat. The penetrating organs. The violated holes of flesh. I was watching four strangers fuck.
And in my right hand lay my limp penis.
"Oh yeah baby, are you ready to take this?"
And one after one the men ejaculated onto Gina's face.
"Mmmm . . . yeah, I like that," she said.
You'll do anything to stave off the emptiness. The desolation. If only you could erase yourself from the present, the moment. Become someone else.
And the video ended. The soft hum of the refrigerator filled all the empty spaces. The maintenance man was gone, at home with the sitcoms and lukewarm mashed potatoes.
And I was naked. In my apartment. Alone with five dead fish.
"Do you ever look at yourself in the mirror?"
I walked into my bedroom and stared at myself in the silver glass.
My brown hair -- oily.
My green eyes -- vacuous.
My torso -- well-defined clavicles.
My penis -- a sex organ.
My legs -- pale and thin.
Me. Naked. Stripped.
What do you see?
I was a passenger in a soaring jet.
I was a voice on the radio forecasting rain.
I was a co-worker preparing useless documents.
I was a maintenance man changing the locks of a vacant apartment.
I was a dead fish floating without direction.
I was a scarred man fucking Gina.
I was Gina, and I was once a child of innocence.
You'll become anyone and do anything to stave off starvation. The emptiness. The desolation. Just preserve. Maintain the facade so the future will be recognizable. Leave a dent, a mark. Leave something that will prove you existed. Fend off ugliness. The scabs. The scars. Uproot the weeds. Paint over the holes. Bury the bodies, the objects. Fuck until dopamine floods your brain and everything is temporarily erased. Just minimize the damage. Cure the pain. Become a slogan, an advertisement. Smile for the camera.
Because it's all vanishing.
Floating across your eyes and tumbling through your fingertips into that immense abyss -- the vacuum of history.
A flash of light sparked the sky. Thunder rattled the panes of glass. A great rain fell from the heavens.
And I walked outside. Naked. Not as a man but as a creature of the past, present and future -- the now.
And I walked outside. Naked. Not as a man but as a creature of the past, present and future -- the now. The rain soaked my hair. The water trickled down my chest. The drops dribbled from my limp penis. I was a drenched beast who had accepted the brutal testament of time and its bittersweet fruit -- the beautiful futility of existence.
xx
"I mean, Jesus Mark, do you ever look at yourself in the mirror?"
I gathered my belongings and left without saying goodbye to my co-workers. I never liked those people anyway.
The drive home was lonely and depressing. The sky was gigantic gray and swallowed the darting birds and soaring planes. I thought about all the people in the jets: the passengers, the pilots and the neatly dressed flight attendants.
Departures and arrivals.
Moving from point A to point B.
People constantly moving. In the sky. On the interstate. All around me.
The man on the radio warned of an approaching storm. "High winds and heavy rain are likely, so stay tuned to 104.7 WCRI for the latest on this developing storm."
Seek shelter. Find a safe place. Take refuge from the unknown. Hide. If you pay attention, you'll find these warnings everywhere: In the eyes of a passing stranger, in the voice of the newscaster, on the face of the terminally ill. This great trembling, the fear. It's everywhere.
I parked my car and an apartment maintenance man was changing the locks on the unit opposite mine.
"They say one helluva storm is headed our way," I said to him. He didn't flinch from his work. Perhaps he didn't hear me, I thought. "I said, one helluva storm is --"
"Yeah yeah, I heard ya the first time," he replied, obviously agitated.
"Oh . . . OK . . . Well, have a good one."
He grunted and sneered at my words.
The soft hum of the refrigerator greeted me as I entered my apartment. Through the front door I heard the maintenance man tapping and hammering. I peered through the blinds and observed him. He was at least 50 years of age. A wedding band was absent from his left hand, and I wondered if he was a lifelong bachelor. I doubted it. Men who are good with their hands and mechanically inclined rarely are single. Women appreciate men who can repair household appliances and perform minor car repairs. This breed of man sit atop the food chain.
I'm not one of them.
My father died when I was just six years old. Games of catch with weathered baseball mitts . . . Learning the rudimentary components of an automobile's engine . . . I do not know such memories. My mother remained a widow until her final breath, so I had to teach myself to be a "man."
I failed miserably.
Had this man fathered any children? I saw his rusted face and it read like a book: Years ago he had met a woman in Georgia. An unplanned pregnancy made their courtship a brief one. With a ratty suitcase in his hand and a Marlboro in his mouth, he stood in the darkened doorway and gave her sleeping body one final glance. She looked so peaceful, so innocent. An innocent victim. And he was gone, off to Tennessee. The following morning she awoke to an empty bed and a one-page letter on the cluttered dining room table. One page to justify a departure. One page to construct an apology. Eight months later she gave birth to twins, two baby boys, bastards by no fault of their own. And now, somewhere in Georgia, a mother and her two children struggle to survive. Government assistance. Secondhand fabrics clothe malnourished bodies. A dilapidated trailer home with faulty plumbing. A single-parent family drowning in poverty. A single-page letter of vowels and consonants -- just words.
They are slowly dying while the estranged father, the maintenance man of Forest Park Apartments, spends his evenings eating TV dinners and watching sitcoms. Television programs about happily dysfunctional families and funny mishaps. But he never laughs, doesn't even crack a smile while microwaved mashed potatoes dribble down his crooked chin. He watches commercials about products and services designed to make like easier and more enjoyable.
"A happy family life . . ."
"A good loving companion . . ."
"Vacations in the sun . . ."
"All of this can be yours . . ."
These slogans, these 30-second advertisements, these flickering families of prime time are reminders of what his life could be.
But it's not.
And it won't be.
He is a maintenance man. A man struggling to preserve a property. A life. A man battling the reverberations, the cycle of time. Preserve a structure while a crack crawls up the wall of apartment 213. Preserve the structure of your life while another wrinkle slowly carves itself into your face.
Cracks.
Breaks.
Leaks.
Deterioration.
Preserve.
Fight.
Preserve the facade.
Fight . . . time.
Every day.
Every moment.
You'll do anything to stave off starvation. The emptiness. The desolation.
As I watched him a fear began to churn in my belly. His lonely life. The regret. Opportunities missed. His futile battle. A life that awaits me in the curdled blood of the future.
I turned away. I turned away from the window to attend to my five fish -- five creatures that relied upon me for their perpetuation. I prepared to feed them but it was pointless. Atop the rippling surface all five of my beloved fish floated. Expired. Passed away. All of them. Now just dead things. Objects beyond saving, preserving. They had become articles to be disposed of. Buried. Flushed. I let the departed castaways float. They no longer had coordinates, direction. I was struck by their frozen state, their profound beauty: They had defied time and eclipsed the ever-passing moment. Regardless of our attempts to scavenge the now for permanence, nothing can be saved. Time is the perpetual victor.
I turned away. I turned away from the aquarium and checked my e-mail. Nothing but spam promising high-powered pharmaceuticals without a prescription, a bigger penis and hardcore pornography.
The slogans. The advertisements. Tantalizing promises of an easier, more enjoyable life. Just forget the present and become the future. Take a pill to cure the pain. Feed the fetish to silence the desire. Erase yourself. Just delete the moment.
I clicked the link for "Hot Hot Hardcore Action!" and was directed to a website that displayed naked women, close-ups of penises plunged into vaginas and assholes, and short video clips of men and women engaged in a variety of sexual acts. The video clips were brief and looped endlessly.
Over and over.
In and out. In and out.
Up and down. Up and down.
Ejaculation. Ejaculation.
A moment.
Repeating.
Over and over.
For $29.99 per month I could have access to thousands of pictures and hundreds of videos featuring "filthy whores" and "barely legal teens begging to fuck!"
You'll do anything to stave off starvation. The emptiness. The desolation.
I entered my credit card number and within seconds a wealth of pornography was just a mouse click away.
The emptiness. The desolation. Just forget. Erase the now. The ever-passing moment . . . it's burning in your belly like a raging ulcer. Just cure the pain. Become the future. Become the invisible.
I clicked on the video "Gina Gets Gang Fucked." The video began with Gina naked on a bed. She was rubbing her vagina while three naked men surrounded her, all of them stroking their penises. I stared at the colors. The images. Gina's naked body. I undressed myself.
"Think you can handle all three of us?" one of the men asked. She nodded seductively and began to suck one of their penises.
Within minutes her body was smothered by the three men. The predators were penetrating their pray. In her mouth. In her vagina. In her anus.
I gazed at the pleasure points. I stroked my penis. The men uttered ecstatic cliches of sexual gratification. Gina, with a penis crammed into her mouth, barely made a sound.
And I stroked myself, attempting to get hard.
Faster.
Faster.
Stare.
Fantasize.
Pretend you are someone else.
Chase the feeling. The moment.
And I continued to stroke my penis, waiting for blood to flood blood vessels.
Faster and faster.
But nothing.
The video continued and I began to separate myself from the moving images, the flashing screen. I stopped stroking my penis and just stood there with my dead cock in my hand, watching people -- nothing more than digitized images trapped in time -- copulate. A crooked scar was carved into one of the men's thighs. Below Gina's navel was a poorly inked tattoo which read "Daddy's Girl."
Who were these people, these strangers?
I watched the four bodies not as a group performing abhorrent sexual acts but as individuals. Real people who breathe. Eat. Sleep. Exist -- somewhere. And it suddenly seemed bizarre that I was watching their twisted figures. The sweaty meat. The penetrating organs. The violated holes of flesh. I was watching four strangers fuck.
And in my right hand lay my limp penis.
"Oh yeah baby, are you ready to take this?"
And one after one the men ejaculated onto Gina's face.
"Mmmm . . . yeah, I like that," she said.
You'll do anything to stave off the emptiness. The desolation. If only you could erase yourself from the present, the moment. Become someone else.
And the video ended. The soft hum of the refrigerator filled all the empty spaces. The maintenance man was gone, at home with the sitcoms and lukewarm mashed potatoes.
And I was naked. In my apartment. Alone with five dead fish.
"Do you ever look at yourself in the mirror?"
I walked into my bedroom and stared at myself in the silver glass.
My brown hair -- oily.
My green eyes -- vacuous.
My torso -- well-defined clavicles.
My penis -- a sex organ.
My legs -- pale and thin.
Me. Naked. Stripped.
What do you see?
I was a passenger in a soaring jet.
I was a voice on the radio forecasting rain.
I was a co-worker preparing useless documents.
I was a maintenance man changing the locks of a vacant apartment.
I was a dead fish floating without direction.
I was a scarred man fucking Gina.
I was Gina, and I was once a child of innocence.
You'll become anyone and do anything to stave off starvation. The emptiness. The desolation. Just preserve. Maintain the facade so the future will be recognizable. Leave a dent, a mark. Leave something that will prove you existed. Fend off ugliness. The scabs. The scars. Uproot the weeds. Paint over the holes. Bury the bodies, the objects. Fuck until dopamine floods your brain and everything is temporarily erased. Just minimize the damage. Cure the pain. Become a slogan, an advertisement. Smile for the camera.
Because it's all vanishing.
Floating across your eyes and tumbling through your fingertips into that immense abyss -- the vacuum of history.
A flash of light sparked the sky. Thunder rattled the panes of glass. A great rain fell from the heavens.
And I walked outside. Naked. Not as a man but as a creature of the past, present and future -- the now.
And I walked outside. Naked. Not as a man but as a creature of the past, present and future -- the now. The rain soaked my hair. The water trickled down my chest. The drops dribbled from my limp penis. I was a drenched beast who had accepted the brutal testament of time and its bittersweet fruit -- the beautiful futility of existence.
xx
12 April 2008
a letter from sarah
Dearest William,
I hope this letter finds you, and if it does, I hope you are well.
I'm writing you in a time of need. I wish this weren't the case. Why are we compelled to seek out the friendly faces from our past during moments of distress? Perhaps we long for something familiar . . . a desire to relive an invulnerable moment in time and hide there, take refuge in that sacred memory . . . a snapshot from the past. But unlike photographs, people change, such is the pull of time, and we never find what we are searching for in those faces. We collect scars. And the scars metamorphose us. Eyes change. Personalities transform. It's the pain that changes us. Not the contentment. Not the joy.
I hope the weight of time hasn't significantly changed you, William.
As for me . . .
My head is a hive of wild bees that refuses to settle. Their plastic wings flutter and flap, and my brain flashes like Xmas lights. A man dressed in white -- he smelled like a dentist's office -- prescribed me some medications to address the thoughts (and actions) that landed me in the hospital. He said that the meds and therapy would make me happy. Normal. Like everyone else.
(Little did he or those Nazi nurses know, I never took a single dose of their fucking medication.)
Because of my "positive attitude" and "eagerness to participate in group activities," I accumulated enough "points" to leave the hospital every other day. Yesterday I visited an old friend who lives downtown. I took the bus, and as I stared out the window, everyone looked like actors. Costumes and scripted lines. Stage directions and a well-lit set complete with authentic props.
I got off at Michigan and Tenth and joined the afternoon bedlam. The people, the actors were everywhere. The smell of cotton candy and the distant sound of music wafted over the lunchtime chaos. The carnival must be in town, I thought. But the carnies and Ferris wheels don't come here. Not anymore.
A well-dressed man reciting biblical passages stood at a street corner. He spoke of the Antichrist. Serpents and seven seals. Sinners drowning in a sea of flames. He was waging a holy battle against the forsaken. His weapon was his words. His shield, a weathered bible. A gold-plated cross swung violently around his neck as he pointed east, west, north and south. He fervently condemned the transgressors of god's word -- and the trespassers were everywhere. Stoplights turned red, yellow, green. Turn signals flashed left, right. ". . . So avoid hell and repent today!"
A businessman squawked indiscernible orders into a cell phone. With a look of contempt carved into his clean-shaven face, he waded through the crowded sidewalk. His hair was perfect. Fingernails clipped and clean. An immaculately pressed business suit was his uniform -- a symbol of status. Leather wingtips and a leather briefcase -- survival of the fittest. He was a general commanding troops and dollar signs, fighting to maintain his financial position. ". . . He'll have hell to pay if he doesn't close that fucking deal!"
Two denim-clad teenage lovers passionately embraced in front of a vacant office space. Her arms were folded over his neck. His blind hands scoured her body, searching (quick and fast) for the simple sensation of contact. Their lips were one: an organic device exchanging passion, love, the ineffable force of the cosmos. Car horns screamed. Street vendors shuffled. Pedestrians passed. The teenage lovers' obliviousness was holy and profound. They were battling against an unstoppable force: time. ". . . Wish we could stay here . . . forever."
I got lost among the actors and before I knew it, my two hours of freedom had expired. I was supposed to catch the 42 bus back to the hospital, but I decided not to return. (I walked to Richard's, that old friend I mentioned earlier, and this is where I'm writing this letter.)
I learned something from watching the preacher man, the businessman and the two lovers: we're all fighting, battling against something greater than us . . . an objective none of us will achieve. We fight others. We fight time. We fight faceless forces that lack meaning and therefore do not exist. And, as is my case, we fight ourselves. All of us are engaged in an unending battle. So how am I different from everyone else? Why should I be institutionalized and fed medications? And contrary to what that psychiatrist said, there is no happiness. No sadness. No normalcy. Just the act of existence and the experience of collecting memories.
I haven't forgotten you, William. Maybe someday we'll see each other again . . . someday soon, I hope. Despite the passage of time, I can still taste you. Feel you. Smell you. The psychiatrist and therapists told me to forget you, move on, build a new foundation and start anew. I tried. I tried to erase you. But some things, some people can't be erased, regardless of your attempts.
And maybe you shouldn't erase the snapshots of your past. Our history is our life. We don't live in the future. And we don't live in the present because the moment is always escaping, slipping though our fingers. Our history is our life. This is why we keep journals, diaries, home movies, souvenirs and photographs. These things remind us of who and what we are. This is why grave markers bear our name and lifespan -- to remind others of who and what we were. We are products of our past; our past is a product of our existence. It's this symbiotic relationship that makes us human.
Some people touch you. Kiss you. Or simply look at you. And it's over. That person becomes an intangible memento in your mind. A forever floating particle of your past.
A scar.
A blemish.
A mark you will cherish until your memory evanesces and your existence evaporates.
Forever Yours,
Sarah
XOXO
xx
I hope this letter finds you, and if it does, I hope you are well.
I'm writing you in a time of need. I wish this weren't the case. Why are we compelled to seek out the friendly faces from our past during moments of distress? Perhaps we long for something familiar . . . a desire to relive an invulnerable moment in time and hide there, take refuge in that sacred memory . . . a snapshot from the past. But unlike photographs, people change, such is the pull of time, and we never find what we are searching for in those faces. We collect scars. And the scars metamorphose us. Eyes change. Personalities transform. It's the pain that changes us. Not the contentment. Not the joy.
I hope the weight of time hasn't significantly changed you, William.
As for me . . .
My head is a hive of wild bees that refuses to settle. Their plastic wings flutter and flap, and my brain flashes like Xmas lights. A man dressed in white -- he smelled like a dentist's office -- prescribed me some medications to address the thoughts (and actions) that landed me in the hospital. He said that the meds and therapy would make me happy. Normal. Like everyone else.
(Little did he or those Nazi nurses know, I never took a single dose of their fucking medication.)
Because of my "positive attitude" and "eagerness to participate in group activities," I accumulated enough "points" to leave the hospital every other day. Yesterday I visited an old friend who lives downtown. I took the bus, and as I stared out the window, everyone looked like actors. Costumes and scripted lines. Stage directions and a well-lit set complete with authentic props.
I got off at Michigan and Tenth and joined the afternoon bedlam. The people, the actors were everywhere. The smell of cotton candy and the distant sound of music wafted over the lunchtime chaos. The carnival must be in town, I thought. But the carnies and Ferris wheels don't come here. Not anymore.
A well-dressed man reciting biblical passages stood at a street corner. He spoke of the Antichrist. Serpents and seven seals. Sinners drowning in a sea of flames. He was waging a holy battle against the forsaken. His weapon was his words. His shield, a weathered bible. A gold-plated cross swung violently around his neck as he pointed east, west, north and south. He fervently condemned the transgressors of god's word -- and the trespassers were everywhere. Stoplights turned red, yellow, green. Turn signals flashed left, right. ". . . So avoid hell and repent today!"
A businessman squawked indiscernible orders into a cell phone. With a look of contempt carved into his clean-shaven face, he waded through the crowded sidewalk. His hair was perfect. Fingernails clipped and clean. An immaculately pressed business suit was his uniform -- a symbol of status. Leather wingtips and a leather briefcase -- survival of the fittest. He was a general commanding troops and dollar signs, fighting to maintain his financial position. ". . . He'll have hell to pay if he doesn't close that fucking deal!"
Two denim-clad teenage lovers passionately embraced in front of a vacant office space. Her arms were folded over his neck. His blind hands scoured her body, searching (quick and fast) for the simple sensation of contact. Their lips were one: an organic device exchanging passion, love, the ineffable force of the cosmos. Car horns screamed. Street vendors shuffled. Pedestrians passed. The teenage lovers' obliviousness was holy and profound. They were battling against an unstoppable force: time. ". . . Wish we could stay here . . . forever."
I got lost among the actors and before I knew it, my two hours of freedom had expired. I was supposed to catch the 42 bus back to the hospital, but I decided not to return. (I walked to Richard's, that old friend I mentioned earlier, and this is where I'm writing this letter.)
I learned something from watching the preacher man, the businessman and the two lovers: we're all fighting, battling against something greater than us . . . an objective none of us will achieve. We fight others. We fight time. We fight faceless forces that lack meaning and therefore do not exist. And, as is my case, we fight ourselves. All of us are engaged in an unending battle. So how am I different from everyone else? Why should I be institutionalized and fed medications? And contrary to what that psychiatrist said, there is no happiness. No sadness. No normalcy. Just the act of existence and the experience of collecting memories.
I haven't forgotten you, William. Maybe someday we'll see each other again . . . someday soon, I hope. Despite the passage of time, I can still taste you. Feel you. Smell you. The psychiatrist and therapists told me to forget you, move on, build a new foundation and start anew. I tried. I tried to erase you. But some things, some people can't be erased, regardless of your attempts.
And maybe you shouldn't erase the snapshots of your past. Our history is our life. We don't live in the future. And we don't live in the present because the moment is always escaping, slipping though our fingers. Our history is our life. This is why we keep journals, diaries, home movies, souvenirs and photographs. These things remind us of who and what we are. This is why grave markers bear our name and lifespan -- to remind others of who and what we were. We are products of our past; our past is a product of our existence. It's this symbiotic relationship that makes us human.
Some people touch you. Kiss you. Or simply look at you. And it's over. That person becomes an intangible memento in your mind. A forever floating particle of your past.
A scar.
A blemish.
A mark you will cherish until your memory evanesces and your existence evaporates.
Forever Yours,
Sarah
XOXO
xx
01 March 2008
shelly is an artist
You're in the front passenger seat of a 1976 Oldsmobile sucking some strange man's cock for $20 when it happens again. With your eyes closed and your head bobbing up and down, faster and faster, another strange memory seeps into your skull. Strange because this memory is far removed from your current reality of blow jobs and soiled cash. Perverts and the stained upholstery of their automobiles. The fevered rush of narcotics swimming in your bloodstream.
Last night you recalled the six-year-old, so beautiful and innocent, who lost her mommy in that giant department store. Towering aisles of products bleeding colors. A million burning fluorescent lights like heaven's kaleidoscope. Tears streaming down your ruddy cheeks. And mommy nowhere in sight.
A memory. A fragment of someone's childhood -- your childhood.
What happened to that stranger? That little girl? That person? What's happened to you, Shelly?
And this is tonight's memory (lucid and striking):
You are nine-years old and it's a beautiful Saturday afternoon in May. Everything is in bloom. Your hair is clean. Pigtails and Barbie dolls. Miley, your beloved kitten.
Father asks you, his sole daughter, if you want to go to Jack's Pizza Shack for lunch. Of course you do. Every Saturday afternoon you, your mother, father and brother eat at Jack's. The weekly tradition is one of those suburban rituals -- a ceremony in which father wears the mask of the all-American dad and mother dons the dress of a happily married wife. A rite of denial. But, as a nine-year-old, you are ignorant of this fact.
You're in the backseat of the family minivan when father looks at your tiny face in the rear view mirror and asks, "Ready, kiddo?"
You nod, giddy with excitement.
Mother's tremulous hands (her hands were always unsteady) light a cigarette, and the smell of her cigarette and perfume fills your nostrils.
Brother rhythmically smacks his legs to the music in his headphones.
You hold onto this moment.
This flash of light and memory.
A point in time and space when everything is in its proper place.
A postcard of tides and sunshine.
A Polaroid of perfection.
But you know what happens next. And you stop.
You stop sucking.
"No . . . no, baby, don't stop . . . don't stop," the strange man moans, forcing your face down into that ugly darkness.
The memory, like footage from a home movie, is oblivious to your desire and continues to roll. So you suck . . . suck. A rite of denial.
You've tried to forget this incident, this accident (It was only an accident!) but it's ineffaceable and forever. The more you attempt to abandon this memory, the more vivid it becomes. And once your consciousness latches onto this memory, its rightful conclusion cannot be denied.
Mother and her shaky hands. The cigarette smoke and perfume.
Brother and his blessed oblivion.
Father shifts the minivan into reverse.
And then that sound . . . horrific.
The sound of pain.
A grievous injury.
It's the sound of a mortally wounded animal.
A cat.
Your precious kitten, Miley.
And your eyes are closed. Up and down. Faster and faster. And the man you're sucking off for $20 -- just enough for your next fix -- is moaning. This strange man who smells like hamsters and wood chips is quivering. Getting closer.
"What the fuck was that?" father asks. His hushed tone masks the terror throbbing in his gut. He quickly shifts the van into drive and lurches the vehicle forward.
"What . . . what's going on?" brother asks as he removes his headphones.
("And the oblivious shall no longer be oblivious once they have seen the light and felt the power of Almighty God!" a man of fire and brimstone shouts from some distant temple.)
You hurriedly climb over your brother and exit the van. Mother remains in her seat and takes a drag from her cigarette. Fingers tremble.
You rush to the rear of the van.
You see Miley. (No.)
You see blood. Dark blood. (No.)
Shiny, glistening tissue. Pink and pulsating. (No.)
Miley is squirming. (No.)
That agonizing sound. (No.)
You don't know what to do. (What could you do, dear?)
Your mind refuses to register what your eyes see. (Deny. Deny. Like mother.)
Your memory struggles to recall the ensuing events.
A flash
You are in your room, alone, buried in My Little Pony sheets. A pillowcase soaked with tears.
A flash
Mother is speaking to you. She strokes your hair with one hand, a cigarette burns in the other. Her lips move but silence is the sound. You refuse to listen to the words. Deny. Deny. Like mother like daughter.
Another flash
Through a window you see the sun reflect off the stem of a rifle. The aim. The target. An act of mercy. (No, this isn't happening. Not again.) POP!
A flash
You're alone. Somewhere.
As the strange man ejaculates, he moans in ecstasy and the tip of the condom suddenly floods with warm goo. You quickly leave the man's car. Through yellow teeth and a crooked grin he says, "Thanks, baby."
And you're alone. Somewhere.
You've become a blow-up doll of real flesh and tangled hair, a temporary vessel men use for erotic delights.
And you're empty on the inside.
You wish you were nine-years old again. That magical age when you would close your eyes and pretend to be everything. A ballet dancer. An actress. The sky. The stars. A moment in time of pigtails and Barbie dolls. Mother and her cigarettes and perfume. Father and his warm smile. Brother and his headphones. Miley asleep on your lap.
A postcard of tides and sunshine.
A Polaroid of perfection.
Now you are an artist walking the streets of midnight, a sculptor chiseling your masterpiece -- denial.
xx
Last night you recalled the six-year-old, so beautiful and innocent, who lost her mommy in that giant department store. Towering aisles of products bleeding colors. A million burning fluorescent lights like heaven's kaleidoscope. Tears streaming down your ruddy cheeks. And mommy nowhere in sight.
A memory. A fragment of someone's childhood -- your childhood.
What happened to that stranger? That little girl? That person? What's happened to you, Shelly?
And this is tonight's memory (lucid and striking):
You are nine-years old and it's a beautiful Saturday afternoon in May. Everything is in bloom. Your hair is clean. Pigtails and Barbie dolls. Miley, your beloved kitten.
Father asks you, his sole daughter, if you want to go to Jack's Pizza Shack for lunch. Of course you do. Every Saturday afternoon you, your mother, father and brother eat at Jack's. The weekly tradition is one of those suburban rituals -- a ceremony in which father wears the mask of the all-American dad and mother dons the dress of a happily married wife. A rite of denial. But, as a nine-year-old, you are ignorant of this fact.
You're in the backseat of the family minivan when father looks at your tiny face in the rear view mirror and asks, "Ready, kiddo?"
You nod, giddy with excitement.
Mother's tremulous hands (her hands were always unsteady) light a cigarette, and the smell of her cigarette and perfume fills your nostrils.
Brother rhythmically smacks his legs to the music in his headphones.
You hold onto this moment.
This flash of light and memory.
A point in time and space when everything is in its proper place.
A postcard of tides and sunshine.
A Polaroid of perfection.
But you know what happens next. And you stop.
You stop sucking.
"No . . . no, baby, don't stop . . . don't stop," the strange man moans, forcing your face down into that ugly darkness.
The memory, like footage from a home movie, is oblivious to your desire and continues to roll. So you suck . . . suck. A rite of denial.
You've tried to forget this incident, this accident (It was only an accident!) but it's ineffaceable and forever. The more you attempt to abandon this memory, the more vivid it becomes. And once your consciousness latches onto this memory, its rightful conclusion cannot be denied.
Mother and her shaky hands. The cigarette smoke and perfume.
Brother and his blessed oblivion.
Father shifts the minivan into reverse.
And then that sound . . . horrific.
The sound of pain.
A grievous injury.
It's the sound of a mortally wounded animal.
A cat.
Your precious kitten, Miley.
And your eyes are closed. Up and down. Faster and faster. And the man you're sucking off for $20 -- just enough for your next fix -- is moaning. This strange man who smells like hamsters and wood chips is quivering. Getting closer.
"What the fuck was that?" father asks. His hushed tone masks the terror throbbing in his gut. He quickly shifts the van into drive and lurches the vehicle forward.
"What . . . what's going on?" brother asks as he removes his headphones.
("And the oblivious shall no longer be oblivious once they have seen the light and felt the power of Almighty God!" a man of fire and brimstone shouts from some distant temple.)
You hurriedly climb over your brother and exit the van. Mother remains in her seat and takes a drag from her cigarette. Fingers tremble.
You rush to the rear of the van.
You see Miley. (No.)
You see blood. Dark blood. (No.)
Shiny, glistening tissue. Pink and pulsating. (No.)
Miley is squirming. (No.)
That agonizing sound. (No.)
You don't know what to do. (What could you do, dear?)
Your mind refuses to register what your eyes see. (Deny. Deny. Like mother.)
Your memory struggles to recall the ensuing events.
A flash
You are in your room, alone, buried in My Little Pony sheets. A pillowcase soaked with tears.
A flash
Mother is speaking to you. She strokes your hair with one hand, a cigarette burns in the other. Her lips move but silence is the sound. You refuse to listen to the words. Deny. Deny. Like mother like daughter.
Another flash
Through a window you see the sun reflect off the stem of a rifle. The aim. The target. An act of mercy. (No, this isn't happening. Not again.) POP!
A flash
You're alone. Somewhere.
As the strange man ejaculates, he moans in ecstasy and the tip of the condom suddenly floods with warm goo. You quickly leave the man's car. Through yellow teeth and a crooked grin he says, "Thanks, baby."
And you're alone. Somewhere.
You've become a blow-up doll of real flesh and tangled hair, a temporary vessel men use for erotic delights.
And you're empty on the inside.
You wish you were nine-years old again. That magical age when you would close your eyes and pretend to be everything. A ballet dancer. An actress. The sky. The stars. A moment in time of pigtails and Barbie dolls. Mother and her cigarettes and perfume. Father and his warm smile. Brother and his headphones. Miley asleep on your lap.
A postcard of tides and sunshine.
A Polaroid of perfection.
Now you are an artist walking the streets of midnight, a sculptor chiseling your masterpiece -- denial.
xx
01 February 2008
passage
Take your pills
And smoke another cigarette,
Sip from the glass marked by your fingertips
And let the spirits slip down your throat
Until they churn and erupt inside your stomach.
The sun is gone
And the cold moon is shrouded by shifting clouds,
You stare at the clock
Hanging on the naked wall,
The tick
The tick
The ticking of seconds sail from your room
And vanish into the night
That treacherous night
Where street lamps burn for no one
And snow slides out of the sky
And the footprints of strangers silently speak to the vacant streets:
"I was here
I occupied this space for a fleeting moment
And then I slipped away . . .
Somewhere."
Like time.
The past is a digression
An incidental remark that etches itself inside . . .
Somewhere.
The past is a stained reflection in the mirror
Its permanence, startling
Staring
Unmoving.
The past progresses
Relentlessly burying the casualties of withered seasons
And these are the artifacts of the absent:
A tombstone
A phone message
Restroom graffiti
The lover's letter
A forgotten photograph.
Take your pills
And smoke your cigarettes,
The future is the last bus departing the depot
Slipping into that unstoppable night
Taking you . . .
Somewhere.
xx
And smoke another cigarette,
Sip from the glass marked by your fingertips
And let the spirits slip down your throat
Until they churn and erupt inside your stomach.
The sun is gone
And the cold moon is shrouded by shifting clouds,
You stare at the clock
Hanging on the naked wall,
The tick
The tick
The ticking of seconds sail from your room
And vanish into the night
That treacherous night
Where street lamps burn for no one
And snow slides out of the sky
And the footprints of strangers silently speak to the vacant streets:
"I was here
I occupied this space for a fleeting moment
And then I slipped away . . .
Somewhere."
Like time.
The past is a digression
An incidental remark that etches itself inside . . .
Somewhere.
The past is a stained reflection in the mirror
Its permanence, startling
Staring
Unmoving.
The past progresses
Relentlessly burying the casualties of withered seasons
And these are the artifacts of the absent:
A tombstone
A phone message
Restroom graffiti
The lover's letter
A forgotten photograph.
Take your pills
And smoke your cigarettes,
The future is the last bus departing the depot
Slipping into that unstoppable night
Taking you . . .
Somewhere.
xx
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