Light Up

Light up (the way you dance) to your (our) neon night sky stars, when it’s hard to cry, to breathe, our long goodbyes, farewells, those killer scenes, songs for queens, poems for the dead, graves, our slaves, when a heartbeat becomes a line, transition, like on paper, a flick, contortion, beside you lies a cradle, the crusader, a song and bible, a father figure, a mother’s last word, colors like purple and white, the pawns (us) shifting on cross–checkered tables, the toys, games at the hands of our others and think, think: wash, coma, breathe, routine — and we begin, again, start, again — again — our fathers, our falters, our memories, this reverie, a poem, again, we say: have heart, have song, have love, have rhythm, have trail, have yourself, have this; loseWeight Exercise yourself, on a trail, on the road, like Kerouac for a moment, for a drug, a beat, a something, anything, for me for us for you for us for love for death and all in between — one kiss (for you) one cell (for us) one beginning (for an end) one end (for a beginning) and tears and craters and mascara nightmares and this has to stop, now stop, stop, end, stop now stop — light up, the way you dance, this eon night lights the craters in this farewell letter, my long–lost slow (oh ever so slow) goodbye, beautiful and trapped, marked and wrapped — because for you or me or us we weave memories and worlds (for you or me) like we leave ghosts forgotten — the way you light up the neon night sky breathes life into my firefly dream.

The sad pathetic remnants of the night before, we’re told.

Start: she kissed me. The rest of the fade-black blur story is blur-black and faded.

Key words: gods and monsters, bibles and loathing, smoke and lights, body and rhythm, crash and fear, the tap–tap of run–little heartbeats on pavement assaults (when the world rains), something cold and shivering, something against my ear, a storm’s house, a traintrack rail crossing (and we move from words to images, and we’re left with) a hand holding my hand holding a hand — the brush of cheeks and passion forgotten, now.

What you’re left with (what you’re always left with) on a morning like this (on mornings like this), is a scar — a scar.

Cuts. The bandage kind. The ones you don’t remember; the ones where memory’s all lost in slip–slip silent–patient distortion — bleak forgetfulness. A world that’s happened, retired, gone, passed, forgotten — a world written, scripted, dreamt.

A world we forget. The world’s we forget.

The ghosts we meet. The ghost we meet.

My head hurts. Everything’s a spiral, a revolving empty gun barrel staring me down like a bathroom mirror that’s only reflection, reminds me of the cold tiles at my feet (the feelings and sensations rush back) and the curtains, the curtains, the splash of water, warmth, the simple–side movements to and fro, the pills and head–back snap–jerk, the something, the anything, the “make this world stand still” silent wish, the “give me life and purpose” prayer — the tiles, tiles, those bleachwhite squares — if only my stomach could stop, retract, end its grinding, if only my head could stop thinking, if only thinking stopped thinking, if maybe the…

{ — bathroom tiles the color of dust, filth, a neighborhood nowhere and the blood trickles down the fade–yellow side–stained sink in a place hard to recall —Sheryl’s all about screaming, about asking, about calling and shrieking something awful, something horrible, something not to be deal with — it’s light, she can’t find me — she can’t sense me — this so blinding — you’re a standstill monument on a trash–black yellow outline — she’ll call for you, the immobile and unresponsive — this is a memory of a memory of a memory — then Sheryl cuts herself (with what you can’t tell) but it’s blood like something awful, something horrible, and it’s a pile, somewhat distant, a pile of blood, circling, pooling, and though you maybe want to, maybe think of helping, you become the statue observer, the metallic turpentine model, the hollow–silent witness — the stranger — you are a stranger — I don’t know Sheryl, you whisper — who is Sheryl? — Sheryl doesn’t know me — nobody knows anybody and we’re the “pretend to care” generation claiming abstract feelings and emotions like something has a “play on drama” meaning and we’re all guilty and feel like we have to be unimpressive and futile, something strangled and worthless, like when a child dies, or the angels cry — the mothers we forget, the fathers and gods, everything forgotten and tell me about patience or I’m gonna fucking kill Sheryl — skies and deserts and I could live here forever… — )

…pain could go away, if I just thought, thought–thought for asecond, or maybe two, if I could think about stopping the thinking about thinking thought–thought think.

Ancient high school rooms, you know what I’m saying.

Anachronistic artifacts so ancient to our feeling’s feel–feel rhyme pattern.

Beer bottles, fade–faint roaches. The arrayed symbols of a generation waiting to forget, wanting to never belong, never realize, never pay attention, and never–ever, never agree, just whine about ADD like the surgeons told us to. Shove pills up my ass and I’ll forget to feel, you said. So we’ll write each other letters, and we’ll go to classes, to try to belong, to try to realize, to try to get attention — so that maybe we won’t be forgotten (at least, not until tomorrow). But (and here’s the thing I’m thinking), the want of existence becomes the end of your existence. The search for your own existence becomes the end to the reality you have been given. The time you waste.

The prayers you cradle.

The gods we slaughter.

The needles that pierce us.

The blood that stains me.

What we’ll call, for all intensive purposes: A Generational Zero.

… a desert in Sudan and a child walks miles upon miles–miles and more miles scratching and itching at a scratch or itch deep inside a throat scratched and itched raw — depraved, vultures circle above like a pack of infest rodents, waiting for a kill–kill ratio disease end–end and it’s all a horror–show like nighttime–night nightmares that shift from
grace to chaos in a float–pattern song that slips from august to sepetmeber and spells october in a poem never spelt spilling into novemeber, ending in december, where everything’s frail, like a child ripping at his throat because starvation hurts like an itch or scratch infest deep inside of manifest television reality — plagued visions of vulture squareoffs gunning each other down for bare–boned child carcasses, for torment, for unquenchable eternity (hold on god, my body isn’t quite finished getting fucked with, but, in the meantime, let me tell you the one about when I ripped out my throat cause I couldn’t find water), and in the midst of dust and sand and mucus–blood coughs, you’ll fall and
stare up at the skies and god’ll snicker and die, gasp, gasp, breathe, and through the cells, the thought, the death, the ‘cease to exist’ moment,

( — it’s a ninety–mile–an–hour car–chase computer game race to the end, or it’s just a ride out of the beer refectory, out of the club Paradise — Angela is in my arms and Rob’s skidding and hitting curves like it makes sense to keep off the road — I can’t breathe, I’m at a loss of breath — we can’t hold on much longer — Angela’s crying — Sheryl’s bleeding — Rob’s going fucking nuts and I can’t breathe — then: breakdown — the crash–down fall–down and we’re gone — bullets zip by, or it’s the wind — my nervous system is shot to shit and I’m slow to register, or react, or by the time I’ve figured to react I’ve forgotten what I registered — or, shit — this infest intoxication has fucked this memory — I’m kissed, in the beautiful kiss–kiss way, but it’s empty and numb — I could be drooling — then we stop, skid, and stop — five kids (two from the front, two from the passenger seat–side ride left window — a girl first — and one girl from the right) crash out onto an empty suburban collision–blessed highway eternity and puke out demons and intestines in the middle of hell’s half acre revisited… — )

end.

Something is wrong, in the air — like shit stains and carpet programs.

Something is wrong, on the television.

Something’s wrong, in my head.

Something is wrong; are the bombs falling?

I can’t place it. It’s touching me and every time I turn around all I find is the empty hacker’s virtually distorted reality–space rain–ritual carved in ancient dances and story–weaved alienation patterns.

There’s a cross on the wall.

a dream.

I look away.

a nightmare.

I look back.

a story.

Fuck. Fuck.

This is not my house.

This is not my room.

This is not my bathroom.

a song.

What the fuck happened last night? What the fuck — the fuck. Fuck.

A kid slams through a door and steps into

a dream.

March 10, 2006 Blueprint Web Administrator No Comments