…into oblivion

“I was right,” Sailor said slowly, softly, “He did follow us out.  And he knew what was happening with Harlin, and he got jealous.”  She turned to Epson, who was busy jamming some notepapers deeper into his trouser pocket.

“Where’s Upi now?”

“He went on with his life….desolate as it was.  Went home to his garret in the U-district, made himself rice, smoked a cigarette, said his prayers, and went to bed.  He got up a couple of hours later and showered, cleaned his apartment, drove down to the water.  He tossed his machine gun into the choppy black waters of Lake Union and went to work.  They’ll never catch him.  The police don’t know who either of these men are; no one’s looking for them.  Besides…Upi has no criminal record; he’s fastidious.  It will be as if it never happened.”

Sailor and I held each other.

“He could have taken a pistol and been gone…click-click…crack!  And he meditated on suicide with the hard muzzle of a Glock to his temple.  He imagined it vividly, over three hours of exquisite stillness, leaning his naked, hulking mass forward onto the plastic lip of his tub, his elbows resting there, one hand to his head, the other hand with a gun.  He internalized it, reflected on every minute detail…from the blood spray and Ajax on the shower wall to the distant, unemployed cousin whose reading of household circulars would be momentarily interrupted when he learned, by phone call, of Upi’s death.  But he never pulled the trigger.

“He will do nothing, now, but work, pray, meditate….and live in humble simplicity.  He will become no one.  He may move to an industrial city in Europe, and work in a coffee shop there…but without pretense, without romance.  And, ultimately, he will vanish.  He will vanish into oblivion.”

Sailor moved even closer, so that our bodies were touching.  We knew that perhaps our lives had been saved by an act of murder.  There was an emotion that came with this piece of knowledge; it was small, and hard, and bitter, like a cold smooth stone lodged somewhere in the body.

Sailor spoke.  “So he’s stopped looking for us, Upi..?”

“Yes,” said Epson brightly, matter-of-factly. “He satisfied himself.”  Then he turned his head, crawled to the far end of the hollow, and opened the small wooden door there. Light spilling out from the hollow revealed a tunnel marked by cage-like sconces containing darkened bulbs.  The distant sound of a roaring crowd poured softly forth from the dark hole of the tunnel.

“Come along now!” said Epson, “They’re waiting for you.”  He clicked on the lights by way of a switch obscured by shadows, and scuttled into the hole.

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We turned

We have to turn and look back.  We have to face it, I thought.

Sailor pulled on my arm, hard.  We lurched to a stop, whipped around.

The streams of light on either side of us poured down the corridor into the eye-holes of a face; the eyes were twin black holes, whirlpools, pulling everything in.  My body froze.  I tried to open my mouth, but no sound would come out.  My throat was paralyzed.  Sailor lifted her hand, pointing.  Her arm trembled.  I did not need to see her to know her terror, to know the courage it took to call out this face with a gesture of her tiny hand.  I forced a scream.  I looked into the wavering eyes and screamed into them until I poured out of my body and in through the eye holes of the ghoul.  Sailor whispered my name inside my head.  I had gone into the body of the ghoul.

 

 

 

ellipse

1.

All my life

i’ve wanted

to feel something…

be something.

2.

Truth told

i feel strange

in my own skin,

a suit which does not seem cut for me.

i cannot get comfortable inside it.

3.

Given

the option

of oblivion,

yes,

i would surrender…

as if by the soft closing

of my eyes i might

erupt into a plume

of flames,

a pleasurable, exploding

flower of my own invention,

my own bright spark.

4.

Desire, of course,

is not a path,

but a given power,

circling within us…

…an arc,

a dreamwire,

a looping

spark,

repeating

its orbital path,

scouring the night

with thickening

layers of laser lines,

sharpwires

cutting the

booming darkness

with their high trajectory,

carving from

fathoms of the

upward void

the lines of

a brilliant,

dizzying vault,

resounding with

the echoes

of our cries.

5.

Who, or where, am i,

if not dwarfed, standing

at the bottom of myself?

6.

What do i feel

but vertigo,

looking upward

into nothing?

Verses, 9.1 – 9.53, The Deep Well, The Rushing River

 

9.21   He sits with you, by the nighttime river, and sings these tales over the babble of the rushing waters.

9.3   If, when you hear these singing tales, you become curious, or secret your feelings, it means you feel desire.  And if you deny yourself, perhaps then you have handed down a hard line of austerity unto your mind, and, therefore, have suffered.

9.31   If, however, the river flows in you, perhaps you have forgotten everything already…

9.312   But the river is a riddle, and a paradox…for the defiled and damned have no greater desire than to ride its current, to rise and fall on the curve of a wave, to dissolve in the speeding waters…just as the enlightened are dissolved, and sparkle like the daylight which dances on the turbulence of rapids…

9.32   Here, on the river, now, the dancing of the lights is beautiful, and yet, on the instant, it is nothing…for it is neither the sun itself nor is it the river.

9.4   Feel no guilt for this pleasure of the eyes!  When words dance on irises like the glittering of the lights!

9.41   Yes, fill yourself with with desire…then, when the sun sinks below the touch of skin, converse in the languages you know.  Sing, dance, and rejoice in your heartbeat and your breath; rejoice that your skin retains the warmth of the day you set to pass, as you watch the sky go slowly out…

9.5   And know, that if you have danced, you have transmuted the contents of your feelings; you have signed the language of desire.

9.51   And know, that if you have sung, you have transmuted the contents of your feelings; you have spoken the language of desire.

9.52   Sing, and dance, and let sing your heart…and know that we are conversant in these tongues, and that these tongues are rooted in the darkest, deepest well.

9.521   We drink the waters of the well, and watch the waters of the river, and feel them flow free within us.

9.53   We know we want to ride the river…to feel ourselves drunken on the thrill-ride of our ignoble experience.

 

(Back Door: Enter “Chapbook” into the search bar.)

rated x, part three

…the moment when I am with you…and we lose track of time and space; we rotate and tumble; we become each other; we are sweat and skin; we are liquid; we are ether…

until again we materialize…propel ourselves deeper into the dark, whirling corridors of eyes…

…so that when we sit on the cement grit of my stoop on the other side of that reality…when we drink our coffee, and smoke our cigarettes, me in my jeans and you in fresh cotton…(when the “morning is cold, and bright, like we need it”…)

…when we look up into the sky and watch a skiff of gray cloud…and shiver in the air that sweeps our skin before light rain sprinkles the fabric of our sleeves…

…we know we’ve been somewhere.

(Back Door:  Enter rated x, part two into the search bar.)

(Please note: the quote above is from the music of David Eugene Edwards and Woven Hand,  whose lyrics can be heard in the Wim Vandeykeybus/Ultima Vez dance film entitled Blush.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Now

Can’t open up

‘Til I’m inside out

I know you got my skin

C’mon help me on out

Electric anemone

I eat my own particles

A thousand ideas for

Ocean floor articles

Houdini slash a priest

C’mon float me on out

Chamber fills with water

I’m a creature filled with doubt

Sticker anemone

Crawler on the glass

In a diving bell prison

Say your underwater mass

Know my secret combination

But I’m on the inside

Can’t dial a lock

From the other side

Anemone inside 

Ocean floor dive

I used to be dead and

Now I’m just alive

 

(A Footnote:  The doggerel form of these verses was inspired by Kurt Cobain’s writing for Incesticide and In Utero.  I began writing punk verses in this form in 2010, and recorded them in notebooks dating 2010-2011.  Now I am adding to this collection of verses, and posting the new work here.  The work is dedicated to Thom Hunt.)