He is stupid, that is all I know, and if I was a woman with something that thought was self I would have left him in the dust a long time ago, I got gas pipes in my lungs, I got Africa on my shoulder blades, I don’t have time for a James. I don’t have time for his wife. She looks good in pink.
There I am in the car again and I have running through old conversations that I don't want to be talking about right now, and I don't know why, but I can't stop it from happening, almost as if my brain has a gift for digging up all this old shit and jumping into it as if it were a swimming pool, as if it was a cold ocean, a rough sea. And I am arguing now with my father, over and over again, thinking of all the things I should have said, then ad-libbing his response, then arguing the response. Then I am thinking of all the conversations I have ever had, and the ones I am going to have, a verbal assault upon my brain. Maybe somewhere there was a murder, or an accidental death? This stuff happens all the time. But I am there and I am suspect. A detective, an older black guy that looks like detective moose from the Washington DC sniper shootings, he is questioning me about the death, the one where I woke up in the morning and found a dead man in my living room. I didn't know what to do so I called the police, but then on the phone, for some reason I thought "hey what if they are recording this?" and maybe my tonality changed, but thought right away, this must be weird, me on the phone calling the police about a dead man in my living room. How should I sound? Should I sound scared, calm, angry, and devoid? And then my voice taking over, and for some reason I sound nervous, and they think I am the one who killed this man in my living room. Although there isn't any sign of struggle, there isn't any broken glass, with no sign of burglary, the doors are even locked until I open them up to let the police in. my wife and son, their away somewhere. The cops begin trying to piece it together. Detective Moose begins piecing it together, and being the perverts they are they immediately think that the man is my gay lover, they imagine an argument breaking out, maybe the gay lover wanted to confess his love to me, maybe he wanted to tell my wife and kids, but I put an end to it all, I stopped that from happening didn't I? No I didn't, but this must be what they think. The truth is I just woke up in the morning and there was a dead man in my living room, so I called the cops... and now I'm the one being interrogated, but I don't know anything, so soon they are going to have to release me. And I don't say anything. But I am down right pissed off that they think I am gay... because after all, I am not, I am just a guy driving to work.
thinking of all these things going to work, as my wife says good bye, so long…
Detective Moose.
Sometimes I think about nothing more than just your feet. Like this sort of world where I could just take your feet in front of me and love everything about them like all the books I love and maps and globes and worlds… your feet…
They should be that way to me. I should know your moles like constellations, the hair upon your head, your arm, hell all the hairs you try to take away… I would like to know them… but I couldn’t pick the back of my own hand out of a line up…
There is this weird thing I do, when I think of the past late at night when I don’t want to think about the past, I roll over and pray to god, about five seconds after this conception I reach my hand out and rub it upon your sleep shoulder.
You always seem so hot and I seem so cold, cold, cold.
I spoke in my sleep last night. This is a big deal. I share my bed and my words are not falling on deaf ears. For me there are no bootless cries. Barefoot and innocent I am not, I can't even move without incrimination. These were sneaky, deceitful cries trying to give me away. Cries that sound like "I want more, I want more", repeated twice in my sleep. Who was I talking to? What did I mean?
Need more what?
More blankets, more sleep, more time, more friends, more lovers, more money, more sweaters, more work, more vacation, more experiences, more you, more me, more blood, more sex, more rum??
And you are falling into me. Scraping my insides as you go. Clawing at my guts as you try to get a grip on what the fuck is happening here. I wish you could fit yourself inside of me. We could hold real still and nobody would see you. But I think your shoulders are entirely too wide. Maybe if you just left a tiny piece of yourself behind. I could carry it around inside my uterus. It could attach to my wall and cling to me there like a barnacle on the side of a boat. I would feed and water it the way I feed and water my plants at home. Only I would be it’s home. Not you succubus then, incubus? No incubator. I will be an incubator! A life support system. I could be supporting your life. How strange is that? Me, a goddamn life support unit for someone else. Supporting his little oyster, stuck to my wall, it sounds freakish. Disgusting really. Like something out of Frankenstein. I can hear the mad doctor now "It's alive!! It's alive" and it's coming out. One minute I could feel it pawing at my insides, rolling around, wiggling its webbed toes and now it is turning my insides out. Ripping away from my body, my walls, as I am crumbling, folding inwards to release you again. Opening up as your wide, wide shoulders push their way through me as the last shred of our connection slides to the floor in an iridescent sack where you created a home. How could I survive that? Everything says its natural but it seems so unnatural. He has re-created himself inside me. And all I have left are these stretch marks on a body that was once so full.
There I am in the car again and I have running through old conversations that I don't want to be talking about right now, and I don't know why, but I can't stop it from happening, almost as if my brain has a gift for digging up all this old shit and jumping into it as if it were a swimming pool, as if it was a cold ocean, a rough sea. And I am arguing now with my father, over and over again, thinking of all the things I should have said, then ad-libbing his response, then arguing the response. Then I am thinking of all the conversations I have ever had, and the ones I am going to have, a verbal assault upon my brain. Maybe somewhere there was a murder, or an accidental death? This stuff happens all the time. But I am there and I am suspect. A detective, an older black guy that looks like detective moose from the Washington DC sniper shootings, he is questioning me about the death, the one where I woke up in the morning and found a dead man in my living room. I didn't know what to do so I called the police, but then on the phone, for some reason I thought "hey what if they are recording this?" and maybe my tonality changed, but thought right away, this must be weird, me on the phone calling the police about a dead man in my living room. How should I sound? Should I sound scared, calm, angry, and devoid? And then my voice taking over, and for some reason I sound nervous, and they think I am the one who killed this man in my living room. Although there isn't any sign of struggle, there isn't any broken glass, with no sign of burglary, the doors are even locked until I open them up to let the police in. my wife and son, their away somewhere. The cops begin trying to piece it together. Detective Moose begins piecing it together, and being the perverts they are they immediately think that the man is my gay lover, they imagine an argument breaking out, maybe the gay lover wanted to confess his love to me, maybe he wanted to tell my wife and kids, but I put an end to it all, I stopped that from happening didn't I? No I didn't, but this must be what they think. The truth is I just woke up in the morning and there was a dead man in my living room, so I called the cops... and now I'm the one being interrogated, but I don't know anything, so soon they are going to have to release me. And I don't say anything. But I am down right pissed off that they think I am gay... because after all, I am not, I am just a guy driving to work.
thinking of all these things going to work, as my wife says good bye, so long…
Detective Moose.
Sometimes I think about nothing more than just your feet. Like this sort of world where I could just take your feet in front of me and love everything about them like all the books I love and maps and globes and worlds… your feet…
They should be that way to me. I should know your moles like constellations, the hair upon your head, your arm, hell all the hairs you try to take away… I would like to know them… but I couldn’t pick the back of my own hand out of a line up…
There is this weird thing I do, when I think of the past late at night when I don’t want to think about the past, I roll over and pray to god, about five seconds after this conception I reach my hand out and rub it upon your sleep shoulder.
You always seem so hot and I seem so cold, cold, cold.
God
Sometimes I find myself in between all the things I seen.
I was just trying to think of Chris coming out to Seattle out west and see the sun set so
My father this huge ship, his ship his boat, one that we sailed upon.
Do you see the sun set so?
Chris rolled himself up in the back seat and pulled himself out upon the lantern night late at night.
My son, my father, in between
A conflict, and chris filmed it all. The in between, he got it. He was listening to the new stokes album and I don’t know what was going on his head.
I was just trying to get it from A-to-B
But now I listen to it and it sounds so sweet upon my ears
Like nails like god.
God
all the things that drip out of my skin...
|