Saturday, January 28, 2012

25

(from the reading at Rao's in Amherst on 1-27)

Head cold witchcraft

In the spirit of an age-old tradition my heart beats at 75 brand new moments every sixty seconds,
with wildly unrelenting skill and bridging the me that types here now and the me that typed into the chaperoned AOL chat rooms of yesterday, with their rapid screen names of red and blue

I used to whisper lyrics of profane romance into the scrolling abyss, a teenage loneliness parading as advanced eroticism and I can’t imagine now having to explain the internet to someone who died 500 years ago, and then necessarily having to explain electricity and vanity

this is me at 2,3,4 in the morning, twisting into shades of Nyquil and spooning the refresh button that lives in this seedy metal box, staring into the eyes of the cat on the porch in my screen saver, staring into the twice removed micro-lives that tell themselves through pictures and words and various advertisements of self, this is me realizing why I got carded for buying Nyquil [this shit fucks you up]

this is me getting lost in pictures of your eyes but not literally your eyes

your eyes like silly cartoons looping blue and sparkling pixilated evidence of a soul, and the Nyquil in me waxes nostalgic and says

' love is the happiest season of all 
love is the most tolerable loneliness [loneliness that forgets itself when pressed for details]
loneliness that can jump from the seawall without breaking its ankles '

I appreciate that it is easy to draw you: you look the flying dog in the never ending story, and I recall vividly the déjà-vous I experienced when you double wrapped the leftovers with cellophane

In my fit of Nyquil I make a fist towards the window behind my head and reach out desperately for sleep or for the street light or maybe for the people next door who are 900 years old basically,

this Nyquil in my veins presents itself as a flock of resilient hang-ups that won’t let me move forward into a rested future.

I swear if I sit still enough I can feel the earth moving and I can see that the moon is a glowy, milky rock suspended in the plastic slats, over the trees and then somewhere else altogether

I dream that I plant the beach in the shadow of a mountain, I dream of a dead mermaid on an ice rink on the beach, I wake up and I deeply regret taking my dad to see Underworld 3D

I wake up and recall a conversation where I remarked that time during childhood seemed so much longer,
and I recall being told that studies have shown that your life is already half over by the time you reach adulthood, in terms of your perception of time; I wake up and I practice telling myself that time has not been so long, and I make a pact to fantasize every year that I was born last year

I awake from another dream wherein I am playing my acoustic guitar in an ice palace and my sister is with me in the Chamber of Music, and the voices of dead saints and prophets issue from the sound hole and  my sister tells me it’s because I play so beautifully

Nyquil writes another poem and it is called “Poem by a misanthrope,” and it goes like this:
I wish all doors were automatic so I would never have to hold the door for anyone.
I hate those fuckers, the ones behind me
----

For the love of god, Nyquil- put me under the sleeping pile of lazy sea foam,
put your ear just below my navel and listen for the sounds of lost whales

this is me at 5 in the morning, twisting towards the bed mire of lozenges and tissues,
making love to the vix vapo-rub at the rate of
75 brand new moments every sixty seconds

-end-

the other poem i read at the reading was a poem by steve roggenbuck [http://livemylief.com/] called 'somewhere in the bottom of the rain.' you can watch and hear that lovely poem here:

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