if not in the nothingness…

if not in the nothingness of these
desiderata- these parades
of claimants to the dubious distinction
of precedence, then in what
will we commemorate
what has always begun?
i dream that lions have eaten
my windows, and now i
must look through lions i dream
that my dreams are memories, and
now i have remembered to forget
i have nightmares that my
doubt has become precise, that
whenever i am hungry
i have already eaten.

First Love and Other Stories

The smell of food. A haunting air on an
out-of-tune piano. What's it like outside? It is
raining.
The portrait i paint will be of a little boy when
I am done, with the soul of an unborn foetus. His
fear brings him courage, his emptiness fills him with
the lovely quietude of extinction, with the triviality
of self-awareness and the dignity of a force of
negation that prides itself on being without
foundation. It is raining outside and the water
ishitting the the earth like little fists.
What if we love the mystery and can't get back?
SHut up. Evaluate. Leave the child alone. The
beautiful world, let it sleep. Fight that which keeps
you from trembling and the pleasure will eat itself.
The truth is no excuse. The truly angry have
abandoned anger...
The misfit I am is born again with every word,
and the word is love, and cannot bear scrutiny.
I went to get cigarettes. I looked foolish, I
look foolish always, like a mother fretting over a
dead child. I walked a couple blocks for a pack of
Camel Lights. I don't expect to entertain you with my
attitude. Fuck you. When the time is right I'll find
a girlfriend. The voice is doomed to comment on
itself and perpetuate a drama of self-indulgence that
is fierce in its asceticism. The sleep of innocence.
The sex of death.
Mighty fine. Self-satisfy ironically decline-
NO BOSS PIG! sLURP soup with jeezus in the kitchen...
In the beginning, i wantto make the words
responsible for themselves, with the wilfullness and
fragile evil of children who construct the universe in
the ritual of their play. It is not indifference that
holds me immobile, but mistrust. I am the god who
acknowledges the possibility of making a mistake. I
am the father who is child, and the child who is
father. Image will enslave image, and they will curse
their interdependence. Blood needs somewhere to flow.
Hunger will feed.
It is about itself, and time is your heart
beating. This is the event. Not much going on, is
there? Well, there you have it. Where is the
frontier? It is what is always about to happen, and
as such it is nonexistent. Time is your heart
beating. THat which exists in name only is a
perversion of actuality: For the nominal to pose as
actual it must become consumptive in a dramatic way
like a burning house. It is in such a way that the
burning house is a burning house. The drama of
identity as vicious circle, etc. THe actual
extrapolated by way of perpetually misreading the
text. We don't need no water.
I think about suicide almost all the time. I see
it as my fruition. The thing that keeps me from doing
it is the same thing that makes me contemplate it in
the first place: the awareness that i'm a total
fuck-up. As such i mistrust my instincts. So, so,
so. I'm missing the point. Who will hang in my
stead? The blue sky. I, i, I. Contemplate the first
place. Be sure of yourself. Don't forget to flirt
with the girlies.


I live with my fatherandmother in one half of a
two family house. I am five years old. I am six
years old. My mother babysits afterschool a girl in
my school. Her name is Xxxxxx Xxxxxx and I love her.
Sometimes we played in the yard, in the back of the
backyard was an old wooden toolshed, it even had
windows. She would say she heard something, that she
saw a man in the window of the toolshed. We must
approach the object of our fear. We were children.
We knew we were playing. To project our fear onto the
man in the shed, this we knew was arbitrary, but to a
purpose. Because we did not believe in him. In this
way we approached fear itself, by way of calculation.
But I told her that I didn't want to play with her
anymore, and that from now on she couldn't ride my
bike anymore. And then she cried.
We played in my room upstairs. It had bare
floors of varnished wood, and a big closet with
sliding wooden doors. From the tracks in the floor
where the closet doors slid she would pick out the
straight pins that had fallen in there. She would
pull down her pants and her underpants and insert or
let me insert the straight pins a little way into her
vagina. She would then induce me to let her insert a
straight pin into my urethra. She swore me to
secrecy. We slept in my little bed at nap time, side
by side, in our clothes or in our shirts and
underwear. We had pillows at either end of the bed,
with our heads to the other's feet. Today at nap time
I told her I didn't love her anymore. When she cried,
I knew that I had lost her forever.

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