peripheral epistlery

Photo by Dan Pancamo

There’s a manner of being where you swift like a skimfish across the molecules. Burgers and pill parties. This is my preferred method: a revival fleet of nostalgia curled up beside the toilet. A blood stained hanky in the denim. I don’t want to wear logos anymore, I just want to join the wallpaper for a long discussion about pattern recognition, my new religion, a premonition of innocence that hunkers backwards, the first slab of meat caught in my teeth. Maybe a tattoo of a unicorn or something as stern as a nurse. There’s a box of discarded ivory in my nightstand. I wonder how many wishes I’ve lost to the offhand.

peripheral epistlery

Silly season

Tis the season for bleeding. Tis the season for fleet footed misfit rebar swung like chariot over throat. You can’t say Christmas anymore, is the claim, but vanity’s okay so long as your blessings come as head shakes. So long as the fig tree ceases its fruit and the moon casts shadows on your drawbridge so long they might as well capsize. Light a fire under your mistlefoot. There’s no soot left to burn.

Silly season

88 mph

Photo by John Andrew Rice

Yesterday I became a time traveler.

Yesterday, I drank a potion in a green vial and I didn’t shrink and I didn’t sprout wings but now I see auras and it’s not what you think. It’s not pink and purple and blood red. It’s not halos and astral butterflies. It’s not a third eye—it’s not even the first two. It’s trauma pinned to the skin. It’s an earworm eulogy, it’s carpel tunnel on a Tuesday, it’s the anxious smile of an out-of-business baker. An empty wagon before the chicken coop, a decommissioned fire truck.

Yesterday I poisoned myself with knowing. Yesterday I was a child who hummed. Yesterday I built parapets not knowing weaponry. Today I see the pierce of history, the long arrow of murder, and I cannot bring myself to check the balance of my savings account or hope for a promotion or answer the phone that rings for no one in particular.

If a birch rejoins the peat, will you know the bark that came before?

Curse comes in every form.

88 mph

hallelujah

Sweater weather is a sentiment best left for nesting dolls. Don’t get too cozy. It’s a cold thumb that weighs the scale, betrays the layman from saying he never loved his mother as much as he should. Stuff as many stockings as you need, Steve: you can’t eat proverbs. You can’t even eat poetry, can’t shuck its pips into a metal bowl, can’t stain your fingers pine red with it, no matter how cracked the skin, no matter how buried the kin, no matter no matter.

The layman becomes a nomad for a season, seeking wonder in wandering, but finds only a set of checked boxes and a discarded pair of boxers. And a Boxer named Frank with a heart of gold, which means he’s a dog who smells names on the wind. The only joy is something new. Alas, it’s too late: by the time you’ve recognized it, your eyes have crusted over. Your eyes have crusted over and you’re all fingerprints on a mirror now, all sleep, pressed against a cold winter wall, all dreams of alleyways groped in pitch black night.

Maybe this is all just hangover.

hallelujah

What are you even doing, Alex? What is this?

What is anybody doing? What is anything, really?

Sorry. I don’t mean to descend into nihilism so quickly, though I find it happens inevitably, eventually, inexorably, synonyms.

Writing is excruciating, particularly when reaching for a goal, when trying to direc the subconscious. It’s sometimes better to let it flow unencumbered.

This is a space where I can safely spew my nonsense, where I can play with words bereft of meaning, pre-cognitive, fingers dipping into the non-Newtonian goodness of the obscene. Attempting to cross the Bering Straight of the subconscious into the child-mind, Shunryū Suzuki’s beginner’s mind. Soshin. To swim in the not-knowing.

Just words. Written feverishly.

Watch me dip into the stream.

I love you.

What are you even doing, Alex? What is this?