best of: November 2003 Archives

& now what pleasant paralysis colors these afternoons a blur ablaze in lassitude bathed in lightspeed wasted? & then when it ends blended across the edge, that last almost but not quite infinite retrospectacular technicolor flash when the eyes go final wide with perspective for once & once only perfect, what then? what now will be seen as having been regrettable then? what if it is more or less the opposite of the purposeful pull of this guilt what if every dutiful rational act that felt right like sacrifice is what should have been done different when all's said & over? what if none of this matters because i am only approximately the seventeen billionth soul to wonder something suspiciously like this only minus most of this fancy bullshit? what if my numbers are way the fuck off & only a handful of us punkass flakes ever bother with this wondering? what if there is no way to know now what will have been wasted then, what if these afternoons spent blissful indolent spinning words across keys with hands that dance vivid with wistful grace were spent precisely how they were meant to be, making these vague misgivings misguided at least & at worst an obscene waste of some thing i cannot tell you what it is however i do know i don't know what it is & also i must admit it is not even afternoon anymore in fact it is now months & miles from where i spilled the first words of this & still.

still.

sometimes the world is small & a perfect photograph meaningless & pure. sometimes the world tries to kill you eyes first & you know you know you can never translate the image this is not technology this is not science this is art & perspective tells you things it tells no one else, this is your secret yours & yours alone alone all

all by your own self.

& you take the picture(s) anyway & know meaninglessness yes & also you know some other things, things you will never convey ever to any one else mostly because they are also meaningless.

& it doesn't make any difference.

so you have taken these things, these pictures, this life. you have taken this life & you have run it through photoshop seven enhanced contrast saturation sharpness because life is best lived contrasted saturated sharpened. you upload the bloody things knowing it makes no difference & yet life changes in spite of this, it is an improvement small & a perfect photograph.

you wish they were better pictures because you like this text you've prepared for them. isn't the frame part of the art? doesn't matter, this isn't. it's just life.

i want to want something bad enough for it to matter. i want to sell my ass for cigarettes but it's too easy to quit. i want to will my will to science but it's too easy to sell my ass for cigarettes. i want to take two & call you in time but the distances always close in by then. do *not* attempt to ask me what i mean i have had a little too much too late & cannot complete

the scale in the women's bathroom is set to four pounds under zero. it tells me i weigh one hundred fifty pounds (fully dressed heavy shoes included) (the fact i felt i needed to tell you that last bit should tell you something). the scale in the men's bathroom is set to zero tells me i weigh one hundred forty pounds. i suspect this might (at least metaphorically) explain almost everything not covered in the manual.

i have what has to be done
& isn't yet
& that's all i have
what i want doesn't matter

i flow smooth from sober to warm i am radiant with the feeling burning with it alight aglow & achingly lovely as a result i assure you though you will have to take my words for it there are no witnesses i am alone all alone is all we are.

indirect contradiction exists in the matter of this inadvertently bitten lip but what's a little broken skin between a girl & oblivion? aglow alight aflutter aflame & failing to fall out of love aside from that & this slight taste of blood fine fine awake aware alive oh fuck yeah.

the words which exist because of this are pleasure pure suggesting this exists for the words would a girl fall in impossible love just because the words it leaves her she will treasure forever? what if her only forever is in her own words what if this is enough what if it isn't?

do i write my life or live my words? what if the answer is yes & yes? what if writing them causes in me this trembling sense of something approaching significance which might as a matter of fact exist only within my self all alone is all we are goes hand in hand in this solipsistic existence in which i am to my self beautiful true made of my own language what if this is enough what if it isn't?