Wednesday, October 26, 2005

Σ'

I'm trying to push strange Germanic and Greek letters around a tattered sheet of white paper covered with eraser and pencil smudges between imaginary domains of objects and sentences in an artificial language, trying to prove that human systems of logical and mathematical thought are complete and sound while Kurt Gödel holds a gun to my temple. The little switch blade of lead at the end of my gray mechanical pencil keeps snapping and all I can think about is how dopey his thick black glasses are.

Sunday, October 23, 2005

Imperium nihil est.

I shall return no more
The sea covers me
To pick gold from the skies
I shall wait beneath the spaces

I shall return no more
Imperium et nihil
The silence has folded
Inside and out

And Mary waits in silence
Imperium nihil est
In the gap between
His thought and his word

Something is finished
And something is born
In the place where words cease
In the moment when

Actions no longer matter
Oh the sky may darken
The curtain tear
She shall wait

Silver dust falls from her hair
Waits a span or a time
Sketches of her life swirl
Around her silence silent

The sounds of her silence
The forms that they take
They cover me still
My fingers twist in pain

Words are finished
And I come swiftly
And with a vengeance
And Mary waits in silence

-the noddy apocalypse

Saturday, October 22, 2005

The Dirac Sea.

I feel like I'm this anti-matter monster that annihilates everything it touches in a string of violent explosions. The bursts keep disintegrating my body while everything around me spirals into chaos.

Monday, October 17, 2005

Akedah I (Rough)

I. Quiet

I saw it written in a mishna
printed on truck stop napkins
that Abraham descended from the Mountain
without a son.

Weary eyes stare at a rabbit eared
television set as Saturday Night Live
and Sesame Street drown out awkward
evening silence
with moving pictures of men
in frog suits and
daisies that drip with
grease.

In the blue house,
through windows layered with
years of yellow dust
there's a three year old
who runs between his kitchen
and living room.
He rotates his feet
as if to simulate the steady
pump of bicycle pedals.
Loops about the house
and weaves down a hall
where he sees water colors
of orange and blue butterflies
and fish
beneath apparitions of
mice that whisper when the
sun goes down.

Sits down on five foot
chairs and stares at a plastic
blue shovel and chews at
upside down slices of pizza
and notices faces that
stretch out their lips in slow calisthenics
but don't make a sound
and can't look at each other.
The skin drips down cheek bones
into mayonnaise blobs and
tufts of arm pit hair.
The pizza creates a slow burn
on the tongue and the only thing
audible is a low level hum
almost a groan
that stretches day and night
from the dark bedrooms
where the lights haven't worked for
the past decade
and the occasional whisper,
cockroach feet on
wet leaves.

There used to be a volleyball
and little black and white dog
in the basement by large
white tampon of a water heater,
but stubby fingers that drip of
green finger paint left the door
open and now there's only a
tall yellow crib
stashed on the cement above
the holes that perforate the
stainless steel laundry drain.

At the age of five, the
faces flee the blue house
and its silent ocean
of still objects and
the mumble of mice.
In the front seat a
woman with short curly
brown hair enunciates
loud syllables about
the housing market and
the curious sensation
of dry rubber.
In the back seat,
you're secured beneath
a bar that locks
into a white buckle with a red heart
on it.

The soft brown cushion grows warm as it
retains heat from the sun that
filters in through lightly
tinted windows.
Hands fold and turn red
as blood comes up to the skin
in search of the soft warm
brush of fake velvet.

Sunday, October 16, 2005

...

Seems like all I can handle lately is listening to Selected Ambient Works II in the dark, half-heartedly playing N, reading David Foster Wallace, and staring at the wall.

Thursday, October 13, 2005

...

Airplane falling out of the sky.

Sunday, October 02, 2005

Cobalt bomb.

Sometimes I wonder if it wouldn't have all been easier if the Cuban missile crisis had just blown up into a fullscale conflict. It would have gotten all that bullshit over with and I wouldn't have to wake up every night thinking about precarious Russian command and control systems. Just vaporize me and be done with it.

listening to Michael Gira and drinking bourbon