|Posted On:||2006-05-30 22:44:04|
in my head a hundred moments of starry realizationListening To:
in the dark cosmic basement of the French Bath- a history of counter culture
vibrating through acoustic space.
in my head the faces of old people
clay-like with cracks and folds and hollowed-out places- sunken
by the smog of the city.
in my head the speed of light, of sound, of infinity in motion
spinning uncontrollably through time and universe.
in my head constructed visions of
a utopia I don’t believe in and idealism characteristic of
humanity’s own defeat.
in my head hope because it’s subversive
and refusing to buy into millenarian skepticism,
believing in life even though I have long since been dead.
in my head the color purple and all the meaning we gave it
my relationship with this optical nuance
changing with my world view
but the history of purple remains intact.
in my head lying down on the hot pavement
in the middle of the road, in the middle of nowhere,
letting the sun cook me into a tar-fleshy substance
absorbed by the industrial organic.
in my head generations of women sad and strong,
uncertain which is our greatest virtue,
who masochistically revel in emotion,
find glory in martyrdom,
and then die alone- none the better…
in my head two thousand names,
one thousand I named you,
one thousand I named me,
none lasting long enough to call home
but at least we can hold hands and walk nameless together
into the oblivion of aimless thought.
in my head the violence of a tortured artist,
poor sad soul born in a bed of flowers
tasting beauty only where we can’t.
in my head the alienation of self, from other, from self
wandering under an aggressive sun, skin burning, searching for a rainbow,
a myth, a story book from childhood…
and weeping when crowned by dandy lions in any green field
next to any grey highway.
in my head the exquisite curve
in the heavy wood of that clock,
unknown and familiar, sitting in a corner
on top of an empty bookcase in Saint Hyacinth.
in my head the clenched-teeth, strung-out maniac,
heart beating out of time,
cleaning up spilt milk, spilling milk, cleaning it up again, and so on…
until wake and sleep can no longer be distinguished
caught in gears of power and feigning control.
in my head the invented state of ecstasy
in social suicide, spontaneously combusting
and reborn of my ashes a single-celled freak.
piano sonatas vol1 --Beethoven