Tuesday, April 6, 2010

what to do in case of an emergency

reciprocation, you see, is a funny
thing. just when you feel
what you think it is-
just like
you don't have it anymore.
it's just a hesitation
in the voice;
the brief
the slight
paralysis of the vocal
that's the same moment in which
you can feel the
interest fleeting in the other.
not visible per se, but watch
her. like
jackrabbits she's here until
someone tells you she was
real in the first place.
i heard that the only
good reason to hold your chin high
is to make sure
when you pull the trigger
that your prefrontal cortex ends up on the
ceiling. i suppose that's the
fastest way to lift your spirit.
hard to say
but if i had to guess
whether or not to let your guard down
i'd say go
for it. sometimes the thrill of the pretty
girl is worth the
pain that she'll undoubtedly
leave you with. that's the truth.
don't worry
you'll be nursing the wounds
like open cuts in
like the suns glow on the
shameful asphalt.
i don't feel her tugging at
my fingers the way
you might expect one to.
i remain the tide that rolls in a bit too often
& she is the unaffected shore;
the dry sand
with the razor clams scattered
this is going nowhere.
like all things good, there's a catch.
two types of catch:
to capture.
to snag, to be unexpectedly caught on.
the second meaning is a nuisance.
she caught (captured)
my attention but she caught me (that
is, i was snagged) on her
upper lip.
it's odd to feel desired but
not really at all.
like i said;
reciprocation is a perception
severed by a
weak &
i hear the feeling causes the nerves
to tense up &
peel away
& there's
a brief
(a slight)
hesitation in the voice;
in the fingers, like similar poles of
a magnet, repulsed-
like a wave retreating towards the atlantic
& the
palms like cool streams of air
quite unnatural.
it is standard as far as i'm concerned.

telekinesis: "coast of carolina" (great song) much better than my ramblings.

"I’ll close my eyes
and recall this room and everything in it:
My body is estrangement.
This desire, perfection.
Your closed eyes my extinction.
Now I’ve forgotten my
idea. The book
on the windowsill, riffled by wind . . .
the even-numbered pages are
the past, the odd-
numbered pages, the future.
The sun is
God, your body is milk . . ."

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