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| fig.8) et randy libertine... |
All of the houses that I've ever known have burned down too the loose sand that was beneath them. Since, James Baldwin has continued to magnify the essence of those I've loved. Surrounding myself steadfastly and without regret, those who have assured me or amplified what I am or have hoped to find inside myself, have only done so by turning away and becoming another soulless asshole that I've had to walk away from. I pull my fingers out of my pants and they're still bloody.
I walk into the store and ask for my gun back, but they laugh. I ask for my money back and they hand me liquor instead, cheap booze that has an acrid smell. Then when I walk back inside and ask for more, they look at me with suspicion.
I remember being young and disrupting technology, rather then interrupting the whole operation or getting anywhere with the system, we hiccupped. Missing the bed by just a second, being sweaty and still wanting for more. Now, I'm home and I'm shoving all my firecrackers into the battery compartment before doing anymore math.
When it's done, I'm going to look for sandwiches. In a haze, bottlenecking. Talking with strangers, talking about paper goats in the sands of rad. Resting my head on the grass, while trying to explain the importance of moving slowly. Before I begin, breath it all in and then stretch out before it happens. I can see where my clothes stacked in the corner.
I tell myself that it's a long song, that it can't sing itself to sleep in this low bed; that I should get started. Wiping my hands on my blouse, my clothes are on the chair now. But my ribs ache like old fingers. They've worked some distance between now and forever and somewhere, my sense of joy went missing. I think that its following behind me like a camera. When it gets tired, I can hear it explaining gently, instructions are almost always in their hiding, dig digging away? There's this Artist and they have a theme; art piles up before it's spent, until we're done or something real happens. Then quiet as Saints in the backseat of a car crash, all the architecture moves around the corner.
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