Tuesday, June 26, 2012



my deliverance to you, the audience. four, five, six times? or maybe less. or maybe more. who's to say for sure? the man who sets the lure, who finds the cure. who knows exactly what it's for: us? or TV? or KO? so many malignancies. such potent patients. stable care wavers on the ledge keeping "unstable" minds in stabled places, helps alleviate the frustration brought by steel bars imposed on blue heaven. solid are our buoys built to handle human waves, most foul and vicious of all the ocean's offerings. yet our field remains overrun by quack-doctors, sons of Hypocrates, who do not concern themselves calming the waters. their prominence disturbs, distresses, churns, compresses. not relating to myself, really (because i don't, in desperation, grasp to insane notions of survival after contact), but relating to others plagued, plaguing others. suffering numerous afflictions; mental boils, soul-less snot, body rots. oh, theirs are the ways of He, then, so tumbled through vile mire! well, they're not my ways. our diagnosis isn't matched; our examinations don't mirror. such flagrant abuses of privilege cannot go unchallenged.

and i say i'm here to return to course. 
discourse, of course, is the best force for going anywhere but where necessary. 
that ends today.

there's a pattern present in the present-past. lurking in history's annals, its excrement, the actions and people processed before rendered unconscious to life's light, but not its process. a development, to grant it label- no, -the- development, or one-half anyway. the other loops together, clutches to the subtext, hangs on from an angle not yet visible. this catalyst for madness, for absolute, pure-bred insanity, exists in the stablest folk. my contemporaries, as much as i can call those more popular and illustrious than myself peers, have a knack for heading the same way. normalcy, uneasiness, total functional shutdown, then a plunge under solitude's icy capillary. a single kick sets it off: our just-as-concentrated friend TV. or KO. or even GM (although its prominence in military minds holds no weight for those unfamiliar with the Great Dismal). quite a few two-bit stand-ins take the "ration" out of "rationality" and leave -mans' heads all itty. tiny, all minis culled. a small frame, holding small landscape. no human connection besides the observer's. it's maddening, to dissect portraits without people, to see an sea's speckles and no sea-boats. an endless vista, and nothing for context. watercolors abyss, abound on every surface. ensure your people protect your truths.

that's what pulled priss roof-ward.

shingled verandas. rarity even in the south, like shingles boosters. to roost, her legs took her places - secrets revealed in that soul-spot previously elaborated. unconsciously, priss always said, tugging at half-placed strings, every movement jostling into the next. like a musician's rhythmic fingers, a writer's witty pen, she snapped into her motion, filing out the voided outline noticed by her vision. at first, no reasons for the changes, at least, no reasons she felt i needed knowing. not that i dug too deep. with aging comes a bell curve of superficial appreciation, and at that time my incline only ascended as her mounds sprung out. we split off a while after middle school started, in that old seaman/egg farmer fashion, but she cut off further than the rest and kept close to Nine's vest. i couldn't really stay away from her, though. follicle will-o-wisps and all that. i think we both knew what challenge she presented. as guarded as the forest's undergrowth, with matched vivacious under-growth. an avatar of life, of mama earth's succulent premium; smooth boulder pairs with cut plateaus intersecting. by the time we started high school, all i saw at the peak was us joined, rocking at the hips, magma dribbling out her lips. crude, certainly, but what else is expected from a frothing imagination? too late does that amorous mountain-love end; too early do peaks weather into craggy knolls. a homely reflection dissuades a young man, but keeps his elder intact, for gazing on images not yet fully eroded makes their memory all the sweeter. an idea leading to the ideal.

youthful experience prioritized.

but shingled verandas kept her above TV, above forest guarding, and her legs knew better than she did, so she always found herself hovering at its precipice, the tip of Nine's tit. that's how i found her the first time, on the first day of junior summer, ready to escape away. cornered, auburn glistening over auburns whistling in the wind, eyes brimming with resolve. life-sap conviction, one of her unique traits. i can't say she spilled a drop of blood until the last days when she broke par and i broke pardons, but that sap coagulated all kinds of hurt before her four holes in one. she stared in my direction then, one heel perched precarious off green slate, the other's toes steady as grecian pillars. her eyes swept past mine, though. took interest in something beyond my plateau-shoulders, took her pupils, dilated, to a concentrated blackness. so clueless of Nine's vulgarities, i found reason for action in her supposed desperation. her hand cupped air, soul-murmurs slipping life out her lips in every mist-tinted pant. before her daze cracked, my fingers matched her own, my lips picked up the excess spirit leaking away. suckled from the wellspring.

only later did she say that TV's endless tubes enclosed us in our touch.

Saturday, June 9, 2012

our, we: time together

yesterday goes, comes, sticks around with jello-viscosity. a manufactured mental flubber, gumming up our present view. hard to chew through. harder still to sink in.

what priss represented, what she held, her weld, the sun-fire stickiness coating her vivacious bark (pale skin, gale sound), slips away, stolen off by the habitual sunrise, in morning, every morning. old one-eye, you orange propagator, how vicious do you treat your daughters! what did priss inflict that drives you to stir such agonizing presence in my mind? every morning, through the black-bar criss-cross squares of clarity holding tree branches back, you ascend and align that iris on my prone figure, ignite lids until my pupil, wrenched parallel to yours, waters to keep itself afloat in the flood of light through with devouring your own. Sun, i just want sleep. Sun, there's nothing more worldly that matters to Moe than beds, springs and cotton imprinted with portions of the afterlife. soft box mattresses hold limbo peaks, or maybe a slice of heaven, tucked deep inside the seam-work; rock-hard futons shimmer in their dullness, usher to the highest rung in the drolL life's ladder. and my fluff, my sprawling king-sized nimbostratus, bristles iciness, a fitting Ninth of what I don't deserve: that circle of satisfied matching. threes set like trees, tethered to their earth. chomped to its roots.

Sun, you can't blame Moe for that grey mishap. that concrete stain on Nine's slick surface.

it's not something i'm built to handle. pfft. as if i'm built to handle anything. this job (evaporated), this useless blog (my last lifeline), this coincidental play-of-events (all going to plan) unraveling reversed. from the end we hark to begin anew; so completes the circle true. silly rhymes, rhyming silly - motion matched, match-motion; story of new death, story of new life, stuck between each type. one, two, three. a delay of weeks. it's obvious the few who still follow this are starstruck at my shift of fortunes. 'but Moe,' they say, 'how could such an esteemed and trustworthy corporation as The Coca Cola Company™ amputate one of their loyalest members? lop off such a hard-working pipe facilitating fluid bureaucratic-bowels movement?'

it comes back to priss. gaia's curving boner. (apologies for vulgarity.)

Nine absconded with our unfamiliarity far before we ever adultly knew each other. when we remained new, each other look, half-sighted through the undergrowth's thicket, in our summer-times fostered a rapport unlike anything else my life ever felt. maybe her fiery mane, her crimson conflagration, helped, burned something deep inside, branded us both. i know it's what i returned to whenever we later went to adultly know the other, the will-o-wisps tumbling through my fingers while the trees leaned in to better view our nudeness. the post-coital glow, brought alive by dead follicles, in the clearing where soil and soul intermingled, where earth and heaven conjoined forever. for her, my back held prominence. she ran her hands through every groove and niche present, tickled my spinal column and all its discs between my ass and my brain, matching our eyes, chin on my chest.

and we talked.

"why now?"

"why now?"

"why chase after TV? TV's gone. TV's over. TV came, saw, left us barely alive. if you can call this that."

"TV left before its time."
"what? how do you know its schedule? trying to lure it back is fruitless-"

"nothing's fruitless when the effort's there."

"what effort? an effort to get yourself killed? an effort to bring he...whatever it is back to our place?"

"it's TV's too..."

"i won't let it get you again, priss. i won't let you go up and try to hop off a housetop."

"...they're all his. please, Moe, please...let's not talk about this. now. just give me a reprieve."

her mumbling.
our bumbling.
and the forest drew ever closer.