Sunday, May 31, 2009

Journal 21 - Delivery Precision

I feel like a drawing or painting painted by
a pointillist - like Seurat. Each distinctive point
independent of any yet dependant on the rest.
Connections that seem obvious at a distance but upon
close inspection reveal a separation that contributes
to the belief in the disconnected but congenial
world. Words look so foreign sometimes – error
or world – outcasts in their hand motions for
acceptance. Now is the time to engulf myself with
tales of death. No deal. My heart, my physical
mechanical blood pumping heart is an erratic
attention wanting starlet – bulging in its pericardium
sheath with knight-like pounding. Its delivery
precision is diminishing in this corporate milieu
of disclosure. Short term memory loss is invading
my soul. The verb that predicates the subject is
lost in translation from my brain to my talon-
scratching pen. Losses are not always gains. Tonight
at 11 – reconstructed body parts for sale at a
local church – get your salvationed cells en
mass with a voucher for your immaterial – mas
importante – self, just in case. Conche su madre.
Words to be killed by. But so meaningless to my
English stricken tongue. Would I were a synthetic
language sponge – absorbing each tongue and dialect
like Brawny absorbs liquid stains. A quicker language
picker upper. My ego is too reflective to be a
genuine writer – characters elude me like the
dance of the basilisk or the brief flash of lightening –
fascinating but beyond my grasp and control. I
suffer from egomania with late onset tachycardia.
Racing to the finish line of death’s dream kingdom
or death’s other kingdom I know not for certain –
is that a jertain in my curtain? Words are fun to
play with but more pejorative when life is in the
formula. My position has declined in recent
years – it is not concerting; it is a mismatch of
desire and ability; drive and impetus; the catalyst
of poverty has not made itself fully known. I cry
at night.


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