Little Room No. stream//conscious//stream
Grey matter don't matter.
Track your personal history through dead reddit threads and unread facebook messages. Hear ashley hutchings pluck steel strings like a mutant octopus on speed while vocally assaulting a weeping woman and know intrinsically in your heart that your potential has always had a crushingly low ceiling - this is both devastation and elation. No good man has ever grown a goatee. Dark ones are suspect and sandy ones are villainous. Another speaks of their greatness and replicates DADGAD tuning. He has painted his fingernails and is clean shaven to show you that he is not that except that he is all of it and I am none of either and this thought shows me that I am worse than both.
My digital headstone. My unshaven smooth face. Twenty years old. You don’t know me then, you don’t know me now. I must travel to Norway. I must drive the Pacific Northwest and ride a train across Canada. I must drink salt from the Pacific until I vomit and then piss into the Atlantic. I must eat fish and feel their bones menacingly tickle and scratch at my weary esophagus.
This hour will never happen and I have missed the last fifteen years. What must I do to be assassinated or crucified or spit into the eye. Without this have I earned love or hate or nothing at all? The world is sitting on top of me and all I can hear is the muffled fluttering of banjo strings. And now you’re gone and I will worry.
Pull back the curtain and reveal the hot summer, where oases melt and wave on grey black highway into dashing yellow lines where I lay and sizzle like back fat from freed deadstock - sweep up my teeth and put them in a maraca then sift through the goo to find if there ever was anything in there. You’ll know it when you see it.
Shake me for each burst of stars you need to emerge, sixteenth notes to contrast the black sky and pierce holes through forever and ever until you can see past the veil of reality and keep shaking until the moon rotates just so. You will feel it when it’s right. Let it fall down on you like your grandmother’s afghan that still smells faintly of cigarette smoke and lilacs and red rose tea. The air will wash you clean and the sky will whisk you off and the shake will make sure it goes on forever and it will feel bigger than it ever has before. That’s where you will find me again.
poetry, kid
You’ve got something here