Tag Archive: errors

My books of jokes is 100 pages long but the only joke is that language is never funny.

The mirrors shame my reflection into believing it consists of nothing but light. I can’t see myself. White permeates my retinas. I trace shadows on the floor. A man walks down the street out my window & I hear him humming a song that makes me freeze with terror. The song makes me feel like a ghost, like any reality I encounter is purely fabricated out of a desperate refusal of my death.

He is now next to a tomb but refuses to enter. An absolved fear, lost to pure anxiety. Symbols mark the walls. The entrance to the tomb spans to void, like dark. Heavy stone walls like being buried in ice. He turns away from the tomb to squint into the sun. There is no event. Turning back toward the tomb, he sees a small patch of milk euphorbia edging the perimeter. The plants glisten like polished mineral. No image. The next two steps include walking forward. This sand is hot, his map has been rendered illegible by the drip of sweat. He still cannot move forward. The glare from the sun pains eyes. Think of static & terror. No one knows what’s buried beneath.

I write vocabulary words on a chalkboard & sing hymns. To exhaust the prose poem like money. No reserves.

                   [                                  ]

I’m surrounded by cacti because this is America’s desert. I think I’m looking at water but I know that’s only one of god’s jokes. Like existence itself. Yesterday I drank my own blood to relieve my thirst. Today I will let my body dry to dust so I can move over the earth like sediment slowly surviving the slide of shift. Praying for air so I can be displaced into too many pieces to ever again reach the totality of spirit. Dust sniff. The dead angel glide. Forgotten ritual. Fuck this body. I’m going to live forever by refusing to let my body exist. Like air or god I will be invisible.

.
.
.
.

Forgotten texts that linger in the bottom drawer.

Negentropic fauna & flora.

.
.
.
.

First man:
        “Face it, this family is cursed. Every night, I look forward to watching the scattered light above the hills near the coast. I’ve been unable to determine their cause, but I’ve a peculiar sense that it’s the lemurs who are behind it. An acquaintance of mine swears he’s seen one open its mouth & emit a red light. I sweat fear, for the lemurs are already too intelligent. Isolated genes indicate a higher capacity for learning than in humans.
        “The shapes pattern density, like how to form a new life. But nobody dies here. Instead, they carry breath & focus on the earth. The lemurs built architectural monuments to events predicated upon defeat. Remember nothing. I remember nothing. Remember nothing. Night becomes the space for the absolution of my first sexual experience. A holy void in its place.”

There is no one else left alive in the room. The blood spill is absorbed into the earth. This atmosphere feels like mountains of snow.

.
.
.
.

Next:
        “When you die that will be the end of your name.”
        “God’s not listening.”
        “No one is.”
        “What is it that will kill you in the end?”
        “Probably the water.”
        “That or nothing.”
(An infinitude of suffered decay.)

.
.
.
.

There can be no such thing as conversation in the medium of the text itself.

.
.
.
.

Last night when I couldn’t sleep, I made a list of everything that haunted the dark:

1. The sensation of watching the body of your lover at rest
2. The way death and dying cannot ever be equivalent
3. The tiring nature of desperation
4. The idea that a misalignment in trajectory can be worse than the light after a heavy rain
5. Places on this earth where nothing happens & how this is not one of them
6. The geocosmic violence of the night penetrating into the day
7. The gradual dissolution of humanity courtesy of this telluric rock
8. The tension that can be found between two points at any given time
9. Virginal ineptitude
10. How misery never accompanies the instant.

I’m trying to forget about everything.

My palms are pricked by the thorns of the rose that lies on the floor next to the bed. I try to navigate to a locked room at the end of the hallway with my eyes shut. This is the height of devotional obsession. Everyone makes bad decisions, but to hinge an identity on the idea of a deserved pleasure predicates the insistence that you’re worth it more than anyone else. I whisper to the body I think I find in the dark before laughing maniacally at god. If there were anyone else in the house they’d be away now. I laugh until I black out and dream about memorizing lines of verse.

Thoughts dissolving like clouds / glass windows reflecting only the dark of night / run your hands through my hair

Theater

Setting: Huts weaved from branch. Ancient protection, caves. This idea of shelter. More from god than the elements. A private encounter. Red bloom.

Stage directions: Contract your neck. Bleed. Sigh. Pant. Wet.

Dialog:

The first man says:
        “If I fell down I wouldn’t know what to say. All I can remember is how fantastic your body feels. I lack an understanding of how glass works. You can see right through me. This isn’t sentiment. We can sit in a circle & talk. Let me tell you about my dream: the bus I’m in sloshes around in mud, children laugh as they fly out of windows, it’s fun for them. My lips tingle in pain. Snakes & lizards crawl under the mud. The bus almost slides off the edge of a cliff. As passengers we all seem non-plussed. We are all ok. Outside it never stops raining. It’s not too cold. The lizards & snakes attempt to strike fear, they insist they’re taking over but I’m not worried. I taught myself to walk on water.”

The next man says:
        “To hover an inch above the ground at all times feels even better than continual linked orgasm. A new understanding of freedom. In my dream I’m being lead down a dirt path in a forest. My grandmother never allowed me in this far in. I’m not sure who is leading me, but I am sure of my excitement. Objects in the trees blur & begin to glow gold & blue. It’s either movement or a tactic of disorientation. In nature all movement is strategy. Snails sliding over flowers: certain realms can never exist because they are too perfect. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. The colors are so important. It’s more than you realize. There is no point in pretending like you know what the answer to this question is.”

The first man says:
        “But the question is only of silence. And this is not an explanation, only a new encounter. Now let me tell you what happened outside of the dream:
        “The scene describes a cave on the coast where a man tortures boys in their late adolescence. It describes the items he uses, the wooden structures he attaches bodies to. The temperature of the air. The smells. He had tears in his eyes when he told me. Sometimes people just want to hear that they’re not horrible.”

The next man says:
        “IN THIS ECSTASY there can be no reply. Now I’m going to teach you how to spin in a circle until you’re rotating so fast you die. An airy death, like drowning but the opposite.”

Curtain.

Every day is a loop that proves nothing but the futility of time. Sweat marks on the white comforter. It’s so impossible just to exist. My night terrors have taken over my waking life and I’m finding it impossible to remember what it’s like to be awake. I can respond exclusively to the vagrants that walk the streets. Their voices sing in the only tone I can isolate against the howling wind. Like which entrance warrants use. Like the dog-shit that covers the sidewalk. The many multitudes of man’s existence. Screaming into the dirt of trees. What the fuck is narrative. I will never go to a baseball game. I’m jealous of anything that spends more time in the air than I do. To navigate the city, it is best to become familiar with both the secret tunnels running beneath the streets & the inhabitants of these tunnels. This is where true knowledge resides. The streets are walked only by the howling wind & men who care about nothing but worship. Firm laundry reeks of a false privilege. Learn how to see in the dark, the dark is where capital’s transparency is revealed. Nothing means anything. Anything can mean nothing. Explosions on every street corner. This revolution is a terrible joke. Communication is ecstasy. Sidelined to god.

Pause like maize. This anonymous customer would be cuter if he were a real human being. Say words under your breath like a prayer. Chant to whatever makes the most sense. Sun box. Dead insects. Planetarium of night’s abandon. Feel this recklessness. I’d fuck anything dead and floating in front of me. He’s narrating the dead man’s biography. No not who I’d fuck.

[Whistles]

The extent of your hyperbole’s ridiculous. No surprise, I’m craving sugar. Come in my mouth. This is all bullshit. “I don’t pray, I drink.” Hovering orbs in the sky. Everything I’ve already written about. Whatever mode of transport makes the most sense. Only some areas are covered with dirt. How to make a name in this game. The only other people in the room are silent, why can’t you be. I’m circling around the narrative forgetting to tell the story. It will be embedded somewhere. One could hope so. Who wants to tell me their birthday. No significant changes can occur under this moonlight. This emptiness. This desolation, solitude, but size.