Empty Letters from Nowhere

07 June 2009 @ 11:42 pm

What the hell?
Watch everything you know cru

crru
crumPPle dammit
Crumple.
Crumble.

Fall apart.
You know, a ---- part. Watch your childhood become meaningless. Watch emotions get betrayed. Watch TV. Watch a soap opera. Watch your life. Watch other kids' stories become your story. Watch the screwed up senselessness you never dealt with become something you're dealing with. Watch you deal with it. Watch you don't. Watch this.

But I don't want to. In a freefall, with DRDoom calling in his prescription at every damn opportunity (phone's ringing, better answer), I don't want it. Wish I could call in a prescription. How about a prescription of "Wake up, dammit!" Or, "Go back to sleep, dammit!".

Anyway, answers are for assholes. The rest of us pretend to know something, think we know nothing, and actually know too much. Guess the truth isn't so essential. The only guy to realize that died of it... "all this buttoning and unbuttoning".

Watch shit fall apart. A ---- part, you know?

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12 March 2009 @ 09:25 am

(no subject)

Perfumed farts
make this place stink something aweful
Noxious, thick odors driving us to the walls And it's a shame the windows don't open

Pressed khaki, plaid, pants suits, and discreet little emissions
(this clan is silent, but sweet jesus, the horror of their smells is haunting)
Important meetings, but amongst

each other

they live is a world of safety. Blessedly
white and safe.
That's where the fear spawns.
That's where the air reeks
and where my stomach flips.
I'm getting out of this.

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27 August 2007 @ 05:33 am

(no subject)

Standing there, facing the table. Unsure of exactly where I am, so freshly deposited. In my blue Saint's jersey (blue?saints?). Or maybe my Charger jersey. Facing the table.
Eying each one, knowing that we are less than slowly about to revolve around something major. Knowing I am its center.
And then there are strings. And there is violence. Kinetic violence waiting to lightening down around me. The air has grown thick, the tension unavoidable, the apprehension more solid than ever before. Strings, dissonant and high, building. My director is planning, he's climaxing. And I'm facing the table.
"Durk, Durk, Durk" I say, tauntingly. He looks at me bewildered. My lifelong friend, who I do not recognize but know, comes to me. Empathizes. And ignores. (ofcoursetherearestringsofcoursepatonthebackitsok)
They're missing the unbelievable hugeness of this.
There are strings. wake- There is violence. wak- Here it comes.... wake u-
And in a rush of blood, or realization, or consciousness.......
WAKE UP

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09 June 2007 @ 11:47 am

(no subject)

Packed in like
sardines
in a tin
can

We all stood around, sweating, laughing, grimacing, scratching our noses, our asses, our arms, drinking our overpriced beers and cocktails, our waters and sodas, hydrating, dehydrating, spiraling spiraling spiraling
drip
drip
drip

And across the room I catch her eye, and then his. They pull me out, and I'm moving, standing still, but moving nonetheless, waiting for some order, a beer, a drink, a cup, a smile, who knows... But I notice them, they notice me, and I know

- maybe we know -

that something isn't right.
And slowly my awareness expands, taking in the men and women, girls and boys crowding the place, and I know that there is no connection. Lots of words and expressions, eyes meeting, fingers brushing arms, hands slapping backs, but no one makes a connection.

This crowded place is empty.

And they're all props. Cardboard cut-outs done well, but not well enough, and the smoke sometimes blows right through them. Props. I guess I probably am too. Seems silly to leave God alive, afterall. Only a shattered perspective, less real than the reflections bouncing around creating the illusion of movement, of happening.
Somewhere, someone is dancing. Probably a lot of people, connecting, after all is said and done, to something. Something syncopated. Something driving. Something that makes sense. Or not. And maybe someone says, "Great song" and another touches her cheek - a gesture a scratch whereareyouGeertzzzzz? And they all float on.

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28 May 2007 @ 08:11 am

(no subject)

substanialTOOTHtextanditsnotquiteready we break fall fall fall and we're spinning glad to have been of some assistance and there's no better formatting for this maybe random page breaks P's you know with the paragraph double lines, (paralellism?)(spelling?)and i'm compelled so i do it, the only reason, ever only the reason to be -FLOAT ON- and here in the big house, the house of small things and tiny people (tinier if we could) there's no madness to this reason, and it's unfortunate; break; and we're not really sure whether we're growing or shrinking, hate the damn reference points

that you once thought you had

they never made sense, or maybe they did and we just didn't question them, or maybe we questioned them and they just didn't answer, and does it matter? Probably. Not. Probably not, I mean to say, although with added emphasis the questionremainsupforgrabswhosethebigtimewinner? mememememememememememememememememememememememememe

Raise your shakey little hand high and remember to smile and maybe the whole reason you did so was to shatter

I MEAN ESCAPE

the confines of an existance laid out ([{thought}you]were) quite nice([{ly}]) and boyyyy we're

rockin' and rollin'
rocking and rolling
rock and roll, baby, rockandroll?
Haha, Curruthers. Curothers? I hear the rattle of gravel under bone, or the crunch of stone under tire, incoming, minimize and act important, busy, talented, social, skilled, studied, learned, well bred, compassionate, clear headed, sober, rested, informed, balanced, and fucking oh-s0-pretty. And who knew? forcedmountainsholdnomeaninguntildescendedfromtrailsbledintoplainsandgivennewMEANING.
Meaning... that we should assign some?
I hate unformatted.text. Better stare it down and get used to it.
What's the story, baby?

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16 May 2007 @ 09:28 am

(no subject)

.don'

t tr

y to

o ha
rd.

The lone minstrel plucked frantically at his instrument,
a deluge of dissonant chords, asymmetrical scales, and discordant wanderings issuing forth from
its hollow
In passing, most heard noise
While some complained of his untrained ears and hands
others described his insanity
Yet he played away, seemingly oblivious to his audience
In passing, a few heard chaos
While some noted structures too elaborate to be purposeful
others described his misguided rationalism
Yet he played away, seemingly oblivious to his audience
In passing, almost none heard calculation
But some noted carefully orchestrated complexity
and others deconstructed his dense methodology
Yet he played away, seemingly oblivious to his audience
In passing, but one saw the truth
that while some talked of noise and others of chaos
and a few even of calculated infinity
There simply was no ~~minstrel~~.

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15 May 2007 @ 12:14 pm

(no subject)

Ash born of a bitter end

La ceniza nacida de un fin amargo

~~La cendre née d'une fin amère~~

Пепел, рожденный коренным концом

La cenere nata di un fino in fondo

Asche die geboren ist von einem bitteren Ende

dne rettib a fo nrob hsA

.

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11 May 2007 @ 03:29 pm

(no subject)

I'[m] going home

                                                                                           (~~California)~~

          which now [happens to be in Alaska]


                                  A huge burd[e]n has been lifted


                                                           and the future is bri[g]ht and shimmering

What's it mean to be home?

                    Everything.

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09 May 2007 @ 01:59 pm

(no subject)

When
I am finally in that place
where grasping takes leave
     - but not for sake of the Bodhisattvas -
I will have her to thank,
for she'll be in arms reach
     waking me with her turning
     comforting me with her smiles
     defining soft, smooth planes for me to trace. . .
long, dark, and perfect
     she now waits in the periphery

And soon she'll turn digital
                  (then paper thereafter, to be sure)
flat images, reminders of her structure
      that rarely delve deep enough
and I'll wear them thin and dry
and will tick away the days
138137136135134133132131130
straining for the presence to breath

Then
finally the Distance closes
the Gap collapses
and the days no longer matter
Home Home Home,
now out of site, but clearly held in mind,
we will pick up there, where the wind is clear and clean
And it will be our wind, carrying us away
The path finally narrowed
The Boy and Girl at peace, hands clasped tightly, fiercly, knowingly
I will see you there

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