saboteur internale #2 [-]

(09/26/09 19:37:38)

ezOP

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she wanders into the forest again, trees bend
over her head, waiting for sun to penetrate
in stippled light with monet airbrush.

she comes from autumn fields, where rows of black
plastic are ready for berries, and onions ripen layer
upon layer, mostly water and scent and peering eyes.

Out the window, begins/gets up, this
Treble self; one part doomed to
Be scraped free, another part distanced enough
to be okra, grown too large, so we harvest the seeds.
mix it with some tomatoes
steam it in rain on a summer sidewalk.


the justinius sleeps in the double futon
dreams of childhood days Back when cracker jack
prizes actually meaned something.
Back when actual time had been spent in real sunlit
forests, where water was close and civilization
was just a short walk back, to the farmhouse
where she watches from behind the curtains
over the porch at your approaching form, walking in from
the hot fields to your cool home and her comforti..




he wakens, falling from the futon, drags the cushion
the pastel blanket with him. stumbles into her room
to find a light. she is talking hydrogen cars, solar panels,
foolish drug choices. the justinus stumbles out. he and jacobus
discuss oblivion strategys and spice up their keeps. she is outside
with her friends and the bottle, trades stories of children
with the tatooted waitress, small silver hoop in her lower lip, three boys
and the middle one tells her to get the loaded potato mom
you deserve it. the tatoo on her arm says love is a battlefield. that's after i
kicked my husband out for cheating on me. after she leaves
sylvia dons her mom's hat, disaproves of the girl taking her break
while she's serving. my mom would be shocked i don't
really like it, slyvia's mouth going wide as a dog
that just took a nice middle class robot server tude
from its owners plate. elle hears something like
djuana when she sang the song can ask
There is that aura
of asking again.

sylvia is working up to going home again
back into the cave she's carved. it's not
easy doing drive by coupons and dealing
with the things the news says about
why larry's out of work again and how no one
goes out anymore you're going to leave her
that much tip? well it's twenty percent
says elle and shows her the reciept i think
she was a good waitress.


back at home the lyric breaks out in you and i acne.
the metaphor takes off its clothes, walks around nude
begging for cover of bits. bytes. sugar calls.
she thinks about offerings, bargains. is he so cold
that things blew up or so hot they melted?


a message on the phone she will not answer.
he still doesn't get it. she's gone.

~

u can be here2


~

she has to remember to block messaging.
she's done driving that bridge.










the dream contained rebels who knew they were about to lose so they go out and set off a nuclear bomb in the artic zone. you gotta wonder tho, if perhpas their strategy would be more effective if they'd used threat before it got to the point of not caring what happened. the enemy is always from within, snatching defeat from the jaws of victory. david foster wallace wrote his majestic novel infinite jest mostly in the third person. however the entire thing is to be read as if from the inside of the main narrator, a young man unable to communicate with his world in any way except thru the sport of tennis, where he is a beautiful, if flawed, player. so the whole exercise is an alternate reality type of thing for if this narrator had been able to type a coherent sentence then he wouldn't have been in the quandary in the first place. and since of course, dfw did write a work of fiction, the narrator can do whatever is necessary for the story to be told. he can even betray his own character, rendering it false by embuing it with enough reality to exist as a mannequin for actual reality. metaphors, rain o'er me. at least one third of you is a faded cohen song. the other parts spill white blizzards of gnatsong and memories Freshness, if not cultivated, not as they are fertile,
but as they are free."