Great Expectations

Moving. Tonight, tomorrow. Sorry. I haven't updated as much as I'd like, and that's unacceptable. No excuses, only reasons. I've been rather engaged in self-destruction lately, and just haven't had time. No really. My bad karma has been added to at such a disgusting pace, that I wonder that I haven't been plagued with locusts.

I need the world to change. I always have.

Cancer

I suppose what broke me was this: I gave up more than I ever wanted to. I used to know where to draw the line, how to build Maginot lines. I can't describe how I love her, or her, or her. I can only tell stories. That's all I ever had. I can only measure my love in what I've given for it, and the more I give, the longer it takes for me to exist outside the late night emails, the descriptions of how I've fallen from what I was.

I destroy myself like I was a talisman of love for you. I sully, I desecrate. I fuck till dawn on coke and I don't apologize for transgressions, for the bruises left. I'm a tease and a flirt, an empty vessel. I gave this up for you. I gave up myself, and until there is someone worth my being the innermost, and best, part of myself, I will fuck and drink and pursue reckless emptiness with all the passion that I once showed you, in the early morning, on a single bed in JP. In the common. In the arboretum, when all I could do was hope you didn't see me staring at your ass through my book.

I can only hope that something comes along to bring out that innermost, that best part of myself; or that you come back, or that I finally through sublimation achieve the complete destruction of the good, so that I can live, and fuck, and drink as one not plagued by the gross responsibility of time.

Paris in Winter

"I bought my first tv set about a week ago. So far I've seen a Nova program about Mars- it was magnificent- and Monday Night Football. Both great."

-John Cheever, 1976

Questions of Importunity

You searched through my poets
from Sappho through to Auden
I saw the book fall from your hands
as you slowly died of boredom

I feel tired. I'm exhausted. I'm a scientist.



Live it out, walk off the differences and believe for a few minutes. Don't care what it might mean for your dignity. Five months and nevermind. Treat the past like the sterile, dead thing it is. Wake up.

Embrace empty-hearted appeasement, leave be. Cancel subscriptions and take your coffee black. Don't wait until 4 July to shoot your rockets off.

Swine flu, and the increasing meaninglessness of fear. I just want to thank you for going insane.

Encode the difference in how you hold your cigarette. A little less expectation. A little more fancy free, a little more fanatic fantasy. A little more alliterative alteration; memory becomes narrative, memory narrative, and the world gets a little smaller.