The sky was streaked today with wet mascara
from the soot and shit dispersed from our lovely
fuel inefficient SUVs and trucks trolling along the
highway, which of course was built with its
own fair expenditure of waste. Waste is inevitable.
Ask Newton. Entropy likes to bite us in the ass –
especially when we try to subvert it to our own pleasures –
like the ID guys. It seems organization is not at
arms with entropy. We’ll see later. I need someone
to double-click on my heart or my soul or my
pecker – whatever they can to jump-start me like
an old ’72 Dodge – gaskets blown all over the
road. I sometimes wish I were colorful like the
variant creatures of the controversial kingdom –
say a red-shaled turtle or a dazzling prance of
the shameless bird family; lorikeet or peacock.
The Eyes of Argus are watching the way the wind
blows up the peacock’s skirt. I could be a shimmering
snake in alternating turquoise and green – red tossed
in for completeness. I know where the mad hatter lived –
along side the other mad women of the former years –
equality tends to attenuate sharpness and edges.
Perhaps that’s why women chose the opposite pole from
men – that is, men without penises. Or rationality.
The effortless weight of the wine bottle in the
over flowing bathtub has sent me to the toilet in
a spasm of 1 year old contractions – lost in my
own inability to control my movements I wallow
in my exhaust like a happy shiny child shitting
for the first time in the neighbor’s bathroom –
it’s all good over there. The physical act of writing
is stressful and cramping and enough to require
another drink to appease the revolt of my
addicted legs. I could be floating, floating down
the muddy Mississippi on a wooden raft
on my back, stretched out like a 2-D paper
cut out of Flat Stanley – absorbing the sun’s
twisted rays on my splotchy skin like a blistered
sponge. There go the white bones of Huck Finn,
smiling at Nigger Jim.
This blog is (mostly) a near-verbatim transcription of my writing journal. Margins are the same as the journal. These are exercises, not finished products. Other types of writings will most likely emerge at some point.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Journal 28 - Streaked Mascara
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