from: succubus in my pocket

I wonder if I turned off the gas


I look and before me all I can see has become something else that will never be seen as anything else than what its not. it will always be an image of image stuck in a web of begging hysteria, begging for another tomorrow and definition to call its own.

I can barely see it, my velocity has increased, no one will hear me scream beyond the furniture, or beyond the future. the foundation of the house is beginning to crumble. maybe it is begging to crumble, square oily clouds form above the house, without asking lighting bolts strike the surrounding area. the area strikes back and loses.

what www didn't know was that in the middle of this hail storm my body and my mind were being stilled to a calm sheet of glass floating the dead sea; a natural state, a precursor to spontaneous combustion and absolute stillness at the same time; instantaneous rest in continuous motion. in the middle of this mid-weather torrent the world vacated the premises -

sometimes I like to go to the ends of movies, such as -some like it hot-, where jack lemon is riding in a boat with joey brown, off into the sunset, saying; -you can’t marry me, I’m a man- and joey brown responds with something like: it doesnt matter, none of us are perfect. sometimes when I go and stand in front of picassos guernica, just stand there as a deaf mute during a blitzkrieg, with wave-after-wave of bombers dropping relentless screams upon scream, surrounding the atmosphere, I can do nothing more than sit in a blank moment, freeze to death and repeat none of us are perfect.

sometimes I just have to leave and go to the land of nobody, where no rumplstilzskin riddle is the gate keeper, no shoe size is one size fits all. the heat is always above my head and there is never juice in a box. it is the perfect place to play switch the camels back, where an electrician leaves notes in advance of things needing fixing and they never-never get fixed. language is made up that way, on the spot, releasing all surface tension, before it happens.

the tree never quite turns from dissolvable summer foliage to the lacy cusp of fall but hovers in-between, with warm-cool days and cool-warm nights. I sit in the morning chill and feel the warmth, sipping my black coffee, reading the latest journal on aerodynamics, free birth and deep text analysis. after a cup of coffee, I either stroll though the park that has been subdivided with prior claims of association or the random unmarked grave.

it was a tuesday like any tuesday, or any day that is tuesday, except sunday, which usually hangs around the calendar like a cerebral syrup ready for insurrection. tuesday or any day that is a tuesday, is a day when days begin at dawn, or any day like that day, that end at dusk. before and after certain days that dont seem to mark an end or beginning. tuesday, a third day or you could say, a second day, since sunday’s never existed as a day, more a state of mind. tuesday or any day was my favorite day. each tuesday or every day was marked with a red star on all-in-one-calender from before time to the end of the flash light batteries.

I always notice the trees stood straighter, minds were sharper, there weren't as many random shootings. I know that by wednesday or thursday no one was considered a human being, no one was allowed to explore hidden potential, the courts had ruled on that years ago.

I always took the news paper on tuesday even though it was always monday’s news and always looked forward to wednesday to find out what happened on tuesday. I was always confident the world would never end since I would always hear about it a day late. the tuesday news that came wednesday always had an expose on how to say the right word at the right time and dress for it. I always distrusted the right place at the right time and the thought of spending days climbing a ladder to the top, just to sit there. I knew it was nothing more than the neighborhood leaf association handing out awards for leaf raking.

there must be something without resolution, something where the liquid at the edge spills onto the copper heating element causing sparks to fly and mass confusion.

I say, no more to instant mash potatoes, no more to frozen peas...
it seems useless unless I start my own form of revolution,
create a compound sentence that goes on for days, add my taxes wrong, change my cellar structure, turn my chromosomes into a byproduct of my own desire, I will become some kind of silly carbon copy, I could recite random integers when asked for a phone number, I could point to the nearest black ice patch. I could flood congress with absurdly punctuated manifestos. I need to do this before the everlast batteries fail. I must find some way to to send a message to the world. I’ll go as a clown, and wear the best clown outfit money can buy, a bright red clown costume and spread the word. I will leave the fluorescent green room and never come back.

just as I was about to leave, something, I don't know why, maybe it was to make sure I turned the gas off, or wondering if I'd taken tuesdays paper in or not, but I turned about to a while ago, sucking in all of my life reflected in a house of mirrors.