inertia kreeps (s/he watch channel 0)
4:20 a.m., cell phone ringing in the middle of a dream about a waking demon, a roving beam of light (& you are in there, somewhere, naked, our attempts to connect repeatedly interrupted by noises, knocks on the door, someone cleaning in the next room);
private numberwarning signal, wakeup call, dueling avatars of the necropolis weaving conflicting yarns, underworld shadows of East L.A., all tangled up divvying up insomniac space, all addicted, caught up in some metaphysical hoodoo voodoo shitare you the source of healing, or the source of illness, and regret?
"Lopsided accounts are always pornographic," s/he says/sighs, and quoting films, a flickering moment, a winking eye, a missing frame (or 2, or 4) that betrays just who/what you are channeling here
discrepancies in details, the devils in the details, the debutante in broken heels, i.e., etc.
(3 times in 4 years now, I've run into her in a sprawled out city of millions. We do not share the same crowds, the same routes, the same lies. Nevertheless, there she was, wearing a long pink coat on her long, thin frame, brushed wool, longer hair than I remembered, gray tennis shoes.
Remember? The fire alarm went off that night, we all rushed out the library"Please use the emergency exits, this is a real thing"and I watched you as you moved further and further away (had you seen me?), the pink of your coat melting into a kind of orange metallic gray across a quad of grass black with night. Then you stopped and posed there half in shadow, a few times disappearing, but I made sure to keep you in my line of sight, watching like a wary beast from the corner of my narrowed eye for any sudden movements while you stood several hundred yards away, talking into your cell phone. At some point I realized that I still had your number digitally programmed in my own cell phone, from four years gostill had the same phone from four years ago. I thought about blocking my number, calling you, watching you answer my anonymity from across the quad. I thought about the demons we once channeled, the pornographic desire, the necrophilic impulse in the realms of the senselessKoreatown, Wilshire Boulevard, 9th floor of the Gaylord, gray carpet/walls/sky/dreams, neighbors banging on the wall, 4:30 a.m., hours tearing at each other, ripping organs, shredding flesh, a pool of bodily fluids/wastes gathering, spreading, rising around us, once vibrant with the illusion of life, now stagnant, fetid, releasing something into the atmosphere gray and tortured, toxic, creeping, spreading first through internal organs and systems then through words then eyes then out, through windows, across the city/ocean/void/disguise)
What are you channeling?
Who let them in?
Where have you been?
What is your sin?
private numberwarning signal, wakeup call, dueling avatars of the necropolis weaving conflicting yarns, underworld shadows of East L.A., all tangled up divvying up insomniac space, all addicted, caught up in some metaphysical hoodoo voodoo shitare you the source of healing, or the source of illness, and regret?
"Lopsided accounts are always pornographic," s/he says/sighs, and quoting films, a flickering moment, a winking eye, a missing frame (or 2, or 4) that betrays just who/what you are channeling here
discrepancies in details, the devils in the details, the debutante in broken heels, i.e., etc.
(3 times in 4 years now, I've run into her in a sprawled out city of millions. We do not share the same crowds, the same routes, the same lies. Nevertheless, there she was, wearing a long pink coat on her long, thin frame, brushed wool, longer hair than I remembered, gray tennis shoes.
Remember? The fire alarm went off that night, we all rushed out the library"Please use the emergency exits, this is a real thing"and I watched you as you moved further and further away (had you seen me?), the pink of your coat melting into a kind of orange metallic gray across a quad of grass black with night. Then you stopped and posed there half in shadow, a few times disappearing, but I made sure to keep you in my line of sight, watching like a wary beast from the corner of my narrowed eye for any sudden movements while you stood several hundred yards away, talking into your cell phone. At some point I realized that I still had your number digitally programmed in my own cell phone, from four years gostill had the same phone from four years ago. I thought about blocking my number, calling you, watching you answer my anonymity from across the quad. I thought about the demons we once channeled, the pornographic desire, the necrophilic impulse in the realms of the senselessKoreatown, Wilshire Boulevard, 9th floor of the Gaylord, gray carpet/walls/sky/dreams, neighbors banging on the wall, 4:30 a.m., hours tearing at each other, ripping organs, shredding flesh, a pool of bodily fluids/wastes gathering, spreading, rising around us, once vibrant with the illusion of life, now stagnant, fetid, releasing something into the atmosphere gray and tortured, toxic, creeping, spreading first through internal organs and systems then through words then eyes then out, through windows, across the city/ocean/void/disguise)
What are you channeling?
Who let them in?
Where have you been?
What is your sin?
posted by kualyque at 14:57
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