2008-08-15 - 12:55 p.m.
women huddle like white knuckles in one world while men float like seltzer bubbles to the surface to meet the atmosphere in a pop. why-eyed women weep together like flour and water and eggs.. until their tears and bloated pink necks and self-inflicted starstuck eyes mix into a runny batter; he used you again, he died on you, he’s changing his habits, he’s growing up, he’s dying of emphysema. like a sweaty sideorder cook wiping his work off, he's wiped you off with a dirty-shirted glare, developed from three to four chronic dates a week with attractive regrets that always seem to arrive at least 15 mins. late...
.. and you longhaired mosaics hustle around the city in a cross-legged trance, sad powdered-on warmth, hard verbose independence, rubbery thick skin, watching from an eagle's eyes hoping to see everything at once... and not being able to see yourselves looking scientifically at airplane and movie ticket stubs, at long played poker hands full of your favorite photographs, handwritten letters, extra large button-down shirts.
this might be the frivolous investigation of the century. the criminal has committed crime. and not only left unhurried, but disappeared into another woman‘s nest, laying down on a couch, watching the window, glancing into and diving out of a newspaper, preparing lines in a speech from a crisp lettuce head of sacred words, all over again..
and there you are... still trying to imagine the horror of his disappearance, the train wreck that must be going through his mind...
...these men blend into your indecisive lives like corrugated cardboard signs helping direct countless brand name women out of their brand name jeans. out of school and given the big push: "flap your wings" and pretend they're not arms.
these are the faces that eye each other with agricultural silence thoughout the day, no closer than arm's length. women tout an ambitious strain of tolerance, an educated and cordial acceptance of all things human, identified by the supporting shoulders of an effeminiate culture and incessant peer review-- approved, graduating from a full scholarship in love to a career in molding platitudes.
i drink from a water fountain where the pressure isn’t strong enough to clear the surrounding metal caveat. i rob from my future thirst like an unscrupulous borrower letting the thought of quenching replace the urge for touching the feminine-- surfaces so foreign to the dynamic of real language that the age and bacteria signatures growing on it is likely derived from mars .
i cannot offer an explanation for why its possible to ignore the persistence of things that nobody wants to be see..
