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They march into the present, my drunks out on the bridge, their flight into the slow brown river, ker-plunk, ker-plop, I know what happens: surfacing, they’ll laugh like little kids.
I say: "The process is alive, displays itself and waits for us to change, to apprehend then to survive" or, "rivers with their rusty railway bridges, summer rivers with their never and agains"
until it doesn’t matter because swimming for the shore they'll laugh like little boys, like side-effects, like supplication: shown the instruments we all confess the beautiful, survive
the process pushing us into ourselves, the counting footfalls into prayer the nothing out in front of us, and all that you can do is this.
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Really, it was just the end of love. The broken things too broken, the lost too far away, and all the words we made to help explain what happens. You say: "There are words for this." But no one's left to hear them; the parking lot is empty, it's hide and seek but no one's left to find you.
One breath, one step to carry you in darkness.
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Really, it was just the end of love: the broken things too broken, the lost too far away, and words we made to help explain what happened.
You say: "There are words for this," but no one's left to hear them, or "The parking lot is empty," and "It's hide and seek," but no one's left, one breath, one step in darkness.
The little hand ran down the twine until the tack that should have held the sweet pea up zipped through the chubby palm and carved a gaping grin right to the bone that filled with blood and sunlight.
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The situation of the the child, particularly 'our' child, as the referential nexus of all that might be right about the world, or, at least, that could be right about 'our' world.
Vampires. Our instrumentalization -- more the recruiting-- of childhood into a complex rhetorical system that expresses their fundamental hopelessness as our primary source of hope.
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Sleepless now for more than sixty hours, racing through another explanation of a gamer’s half-life manifesto, finger twitching in anticipation of the headshot or annihilation’s spasm in the bedroom’s timeless twilight; spawned again into a grey-lit desert where they come for you in herky-jerky two-step until you slump down dead again into your sickly body, exhausted by the deathless metabolics; alive to lifelessly await the Counterstrike.
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Look, get out of your Jacuzzi, for a minute. Swizzle or swallow that Martini's cherry, wonder where'd you put your housecoat? Naked's not too bad on you, still snow's a-piling, bending boughs in silence, except you'll just stand there, dripping until (dropping) you're not more than a trickle to any people anymore.
The Jacuzzi crowd prefers the sweet martini so they can place the cherry in between their moistened lips and languorously slip into their silk pajamas, perhaps to grip that cherry, for a moment, with their perfect teeth.... And if and if a little dribble tickles at their chins they know somebody’s always willing to lick it off; being of the rivers to their people
Looking out over the lip of his Jacuzzi, limbs adrift in the boil, our a.k.a. Mr. Linguini, from that fetid broth, lifts a steaming finger, or two: his signal beyond those planks of Douglas Fir, wallows no further; the gurgling water has swallowed him under; thinking Martin Sheen (from that Apocalyspe) though his muddy Mekong would reflect the dreamsung air-strike. (so thinking: perhaps just a little mouthful of that sweet Chilean sea bass.)
“What dwells on our periphery, part animal part instrument? Drawn by domestic gravity, what moves and breathes in unison? Who, lured by our human fire, dreams the dream of origin?” Mais, mon cheri, c’est de vous qu’ils parlent a la tele! (les filles disent toujours “Oui!” a M. Jacuzzi.) And, pray tell sweetie, how can I say more in French? Encore?
"...to set oneself a chore, and then to do it...a relapse," he thought he thought our Mr. J'accuse!-y, whose finest moment, ex-aqueous, found him frying trout and sky grey mackerel in the same pan (Incroyable! les Anglais ne savent pas manger...) to feed the beastly older woman, dream undone he'd tried to order pizza and instead now found himself in bed, or soon to be so. Foreign tongue tastes best confused.
"Dah-Nile!" He was into it up to his arm pits, under covered; Monsieur Jacuzzi, at last, exposed to darkness & the fishiness of darkened things. To reach, to squeeze, to raise the hemistichal stream. Snow sloughed off an over laden bough and slapped its spot of sunlight: this would be afternoon would be. He rose. "Enfin, Cheri." (That would be the dream.) M. Jacuzzi took stock of things just as they are and plopped.
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What a sky. So white, so under the impression that to go to left to right too primitive to the distinction; to say more, to make heaven, again, heaven; or to fall full filled (filleted)(stop)
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You say you remember, but you don't. You can't get it right. I know. I was there too. And there was only one bird, one dirty gull, and he floated there, staring. You burned the paint with a blowtorch, remember? Harrowing the surface. Caustic. Uncovering. If you scratch deeply the trace remains, the gesture. Lamentations.
The place was empty, like here, at first. Dazzling white. And voices, yes, and you and you and you, but still as a graveyard. You could breathe.
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I've broken down and visited SR. On one hand, it made me sad, because HR is still the place I'm drawn to, although it's not the same anymore for everyone. On the other hand it made me smile, because of comments like those above.
I just want you to know Tante that your comments are fun to read, especially those following deerpark's deep thoughts.
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Now, just hang on a minute...can you feel that? Close your eyes and go inward. There. How about that? It's not all yelling and screaming, you see? Sometimes just a little nudge or a churn.
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Alone, on a gurney, swaddled in bandage... No. Wearing a hospital nighty, the patient, No. with no prospect either of the park or on the morning, Yes. raised a brittle finger to the dawn and uttered Yes. a little word: "See!"
Tubes and clips chimed on the railing and whispered over the covers.
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These legs are strong These legs are strong Just like my mother's How many miles How many miles Are left to climb? Carry me O carry me Up on the mountain Too many miles Too many miles So far behind.Posts: 10 | Registered: Aug 2002
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True, there may be a...darkness. Thought of one, anyway, for no eyes here. No eyes! No darkness! (Nor light!) No light. Writhing seeing.
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If it ain't old ponyhead. I feel compelled to drag myself out of obsolesence to address the matter of your reincarnation. To my left, way up, the moon. Compulsion to tell your truth. Once upon a time, when mice were fast and cunning, whatever goes for "you" (these days) built a procedure and left it on. Simple math. "On" as sufficient condition. And yet...
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Safe. At last. I almost told about the crying. It just wells up, and I know it's joy, or love, in the beauty in things. And I ask myself, never looking in the mirror (oh no!) because then the games begin...no, I tell myself right there, tears on my cheek, a sobbing of sorts: "Yes."
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She simply grabbed a suitable stick and tromped into the woods. In her wake, a cloud of blackflies mustered and flew into the pungent slipstream of her discontent. Her unhappiness was met by a signifigant bit of uphill grinding and an excellent view of the turbulent shiny roots that crisscrossed beneath her every footfall. The flies weren't biting, merely crawling into every available crack and orifice exposed to their attentions. She stopped at the fork, closed her eyes and waited until she blended into forest. "Hello?"
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I, of course, responded with my usual vigour. Really. A little creek tinkle, a whisper in the pines, a distant crow caw, riding the thermals...even, when she cheated (opening the left eye just a tiny, eyelash filled crack) a beam of sunlight straight into the eyeball. To little avail. To very little avail at all. Unavailable.
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I remember running you down, when my snow tires were still fresh. I could feel them gain traction on your pointy head, steering wheel transmitting every nuance of each broken bone to my trembling hands.
I remember stopping and marvelling at the stain, my little skid mark, in the rearview mirror, and then slapping her into reverse for another caress, and you, yes you, before impact, lifting a scrawny finger to admonish me. I could still hear your voice echoing in the wheel well when I floored it and sped away to the secret rendez-vous, wipers on high, little bits of you gathering in that spot beyond the reach of the blades.
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"then, pulling the ripcord of his trusty poopchute, he drifted down behind enemy lines..."
But wait. As I lay there, flattened like a nightcrawler on the I95, vital juices pooling around my noble head and foam-flecked muzzle, limbs a-twitch in what could only seem a parody of my temporal-spatial miscalculation, I remarked upon the vermin. They were in the blood, little calico swirls, rudderless yet bound for ontological status, if I were able to survive long enough to bark out their ineffable nature.
Alas, I could only muster a quack, a gurgle, and a friendly final pant or two, tongue lolling on a crack in the asphalt.
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"Oui, t'en a des cheveux, et c'est pour ca que je te dessine" I'm not japanese, sweetie--plus, it's NEVER your turn....Unless you speak english. "Je veux le faire!" Ya, but in English. "Quoi?" (Sigh, cough.) Look. I'm writing. "Nooon, laaaaa, s'il te plait....allerghty yh ffbwdsxV"cwsaqwdw3efdgt
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I know, I know. I do. Really. But why do you run so fast, if you're not a babysitter? Why do you stand on my favorite stool, breathless, gasping the words for it? I can see, with all my eyes, that you've stepped on my painting. We could match feetprints, but why bother? They all lead to you! To you! Your little feet! And yet, you claim you are not a babysitter. Well, what then?
You'll never make it. Never, never. I've already taken the pickles and vodka from the fridge. We've got all night.
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So, I jump up to see what it was ! There's this two foot long rocket stuck in the ground, right beside my empty dish. So, I go apeshit tear over in full on attack mode, forgetting about the short chain attached to the old wooden stake. YaouyaouyaouyaouyaouyaKOYP. Man, that hurt. I can hear them, over the fence, except somthing's broken in my throat and my wagger's got a mind if its own.
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So, there's this paper on my desk, with writing. I mean hand writing. Like from before. They left it for me to see. Open. It's proof: my mother was a tap-dancer. I suspected as much, what with the brush-step-hop-step-step carried up from the basement through the ductwork and conduits, day after day, when I was young. Her time-step was exhilarating, at least so it says. I recall confusing it with rain. (And when I finally went down, only a wall of mirrors and an empty chair. She'd slid a wood veneer panel from the wall and gone in. What a day!) All this is made clear in the writing. I daren't turn the page. Yes, there are two of them.
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O, the Tickle Girl put down her broom and her vacuum cleaner to wash your hair and push your head under the deep bathtub water where little toes wiggle in the underworld tra la l'air le loup. Who broke your fingers?
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