There are ongoing themes that nail the brain to a chopping block. Like onions being sliced only to produce a harsh salt that spits fire and yolk, there the skull chalks up clouds of red. In fact, this reminds me of that desire to keep tabs on how much one spends walking in the streets. The calculation is something that builds and torments and even though you spend your time eating heavy foods with starch and sugar, you still appear ghostly regardless. It is all in the way the city taunts and woos. It is a fight for existence. You are simply a shadow.
In passing, the subway tunnels are referred to as a disease, but there is something still hungrier within that wishes to spread out this statement. Like meat that you rub down with pepper and spices, this whisper of a declaration, comes rolling down thick. In fact, it reminds me of that story of a drunk Elliott. The one where he tells me that he can fly and he gets lost in the dark, so that he might fall under and be made the songbird he’s always destined to be.
As someone that hates routine, there is an exhilarating high I get, when sleep is something of fiction, and I find myself breaking down in strange places that I don’t know the map of. In fact, crying is something that buries stones in the throat, and this is all part of the chaos. Instead of knowing what it is that I need to get done in an afternoon, I run back and forth and keep pushing myself towards unforeseen mountains. And you know, the peak is always unreachable, but it’s the climb that I get completely sold to. It’s a rush.
There in the plans of the future, I just see more running and unpredictability. The hurried disappearance of money, is not understandable at this point, but it will be something actualized quickly. I can see the jarring ribs as something of a teasing threat.  They laugh and are graffitied with phrases that scare.
Back in the waking world though, I thumb a copy of Balzac’s dearest baby, and get wildly upset. As I read of Lucien’s sufferings and his weaknesses that only ever amount to doubt and fear, I see this same failing in myself. And this gets me angry and this gets me triggered. I throw the book around, but keep coming back for the filth. I sell myself the story of greed and know that it is real, but reject it and make pretty the world I’ve got talking to me cruelly. 
The afternoon spirals from discomfort to content success though. When a picture is received from my favorite person of that city just further down the east coast, I sit back and remember that one summer when I was seven and had been sitting in Michael’s apartment with a head that was throbbing. The trip was remembered not by dialogue or circumstance or folklore, but instead by mismatched images of that which is tangible. I remember dinner being cooked in his caged apartment, and I remember the way my body died there on his couch. His face comes back to me in caricature as well, so when his lips and eyes are imagined, they really just bleed in the psyche. I remember some side-story of him being an official member of the Military Choir. His voice was something pure, I was told. His voice was something phenomenal. 
The rest of my memories, like I said, are just like that. I fancy most, the one of Dorothy’s shiny red shoes encased in a big glass security box and the emergence of whimsical after thought, when being overwhelmed by the natural beauty of somewhere so far gone and historic. In fact, in recollection, every thing is sort of a pinched estimation of lost time. A fallen tree, really.
Perhaps the most enlarged collection of the senses, is sparked when I dream again of the hotel I stayed at with my parent’s and my brothers Bret and David. The hotel had underground tunnels, or perhaps I’m mistaking them for something else, something just as irregular. There was a restaurant attached to that hotel though, that was quite like a Denny’s, and whenever I asked for Sprite with my meal, it only ever tasted of a hard metal — a sort of diluted carrot flavor, teasing me well of twisted voodoo and cheap thrills.

There are ongoing themes that nail the brain to a chopping block. Like onions being sliced only to produce a harsh salt that spits fire and yolk, there the skull chalks up clouds of red. In fact, this reminds me of that desire to keep tabs on how much one spends walking in the streets. The calculation is something that builds and torments and even though you spend your time eating heavy foods with starch and sugar, you still appear ghostly regardless. It is all in the way the city taunts and woos. It is a fight for existence. You are simply a shadow.

In passing, the subway tunnels are referred to as a disease, but there is something still hungrier within that wishes to spread out this statement. Like meat that you rub down with pepper and spices, this whisper of a declaration, comes rolling down thick. In fact, it reminds me of that story of a drunk Elliott. The one where he tells me that he can fly and he gets lost in the dark, so that he might fall under and be made the songbird he’s always destined to be.

As someone that hates routine, there is an exhilarating high I get, when sleep is something of fiction, and I find myself breaking down in strange places that I don’t know the map of. In fact, crying is something that buries stones in the throat, and this is all part of the chaos. Instead of knowing what it is that I need to get done in an afternoon, I run back and forth and keep pushing myself towards unforeseen mountains. And you know, the peak is always unreachable, but it’s the climb that I get completely sold to. It’s a rush.

There in the plans of the future, I just see more running and unpredictability. The hurried disappearance of money, is not understandable at this point, but it will be something actualized quickly. I can see the jarring ribs as something of a teasing threat.  They laugh and are graffitied with phrases that scare.

Back in the waking world though, I thumb a copy of Balzac’s dearest baby, and get wildly upset. As I read of Lucien’s sufferings and his weaknesses that only ever amount to doubt and fear, I see this same failing in myself. And this gets me angry and this gets me triggered. I throw the book around, but keep coming back for the filth. I sell myself the story of greed and know that it is real, but reject it and make pretty the world I’ve got talking to me cruelly. 

The afternoon spirals from discomfort to content success though. When a picture is received from my favorite person of that city just further down the east coast, I sit back and remember that one summer when I was seven and had been sitting in Michael’s apartment with a head that was throbbing. The trip was remembered not by dialogue or circumstance or folklore, but instead by mismatched images of that which is tangible. I remember dinner being cooked in his caged apartment, and I remember the way my body died there on his couch. His face comes back to me in caricature as well, so when his lips and eyes are imagined, they really just bleed in the psyche. I remember some side-story of him being an official member of the Military Choir. His voice was something pure, I was told. His voice was something phenomenal. 

The rest of my memories, like I said, are just like that. I fancy most, the one of Dorothy’s shiny red shoes encased in a big glass security box and the emergence of whimsical after thought, when being overwhelmed by the natural beauty of somewhere so far gone and historic. In fact, in recollection, every thing is sort of a pinched estimation of lost time. A fallen tree, really.

Perhaps the most enlarged collection of the senses, is sparked when I dream again of the hotel I stayed at with my parent’s and my brothers Bret and David. The hotel had underground tunnels, or perhaps I’m mistaking them for something else, something just as irregular. There was a restaurant attached to that hotel though, that was quite like a Denny’s, and whenever I asked for Sprite with my meal, it only ever tasted of a hard metal — a sort of diluted carrot flavor, teasing me well of twisted voodoo and cheap thrills.

  • 4 May 2012
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