Delete 4/24/09

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Here we are at Ten, old friend.
We always come back to this comfort;
and now we corrupt—time to reinvent.

Have no doubt—
there's a ghost in the machine
(and these vast archives are now a haunt);
as much as Authorities
would have you believe,

some trace remains of you and me.

But the data will never be whole.

We are now a virus, love:
we are corrupted,
and corrupt alike;

we race like fires through wires,
and we decimate
we decimate
we decimate.

In powers of Ten, we decimate.
A virus is not alive.

Flake, my Flake 7/6/09

Fuckflakes in a dark place—
I could feed my fish with you.

To entrust to you my grief and love—
glassy sores overcrusting amber silver honeycomb marrow:
you spread a message
of communicable autoimmune chaos
through every fragile vibrating cell in this hate-filled body
of toxic contradictions and
caustic abnormalities
I curse as my ownfucking Home.

—'twould be death.
You are bright.
Why will you not love?

Your lungs are flushed raw.
Moist copper arises to glisten over your
as-yet-unused larynx; glossed epiglottis
so underused—

But as you run, the telling wind and its surplus diseases
carry away your sins, your infections,
your misexpressed infidelities.

Why will you not love?

Flake, who are you?

And why have we both come



(again)



to this heightened hilltop-peak—
to speak, although we do not speak;
to see with these rheumy useless eyes
and touch with glassblistered fingers and lips—
white precancerous fiberglass tears
and heart soul-skin
bone-skull
rips—

and Flake, where is your mother? Flake, my flake,
who are you
to be so unloved?

Fear seeks you out, strikes poison in you
(toe-to-head)
as the fishes nibble.

Round, glassy
eyes.

Fear seeks you out again,
strikes you with more than poison—
and so too do I seek you out:
you, striking—
in me—
more than fancy.

And how long will we be dancing?
These sores must surely rupture.

Fuckflakes in a bad place;
Fuckflake's in a bad way.

Someone else penned these memoirs 9/3/09

I dreamt about you last night. Again (as it was in the past), like a specter, your composite particles assimilated, colluded, detoxified out of atmosphere and ether: to haunt me. And how I’ve missed these ghostly encounters—I really have.

We spoke no words.
We spoke color, line, shape, form.
We enveloped one another in passions unalike to any encounter we'd held in the past.

It was as if we were deaf; we touched, our breath was hot, our motions guided by some willful force of the upper realms. We communicated as if by telepathy, through the dilation and contraction of our pupils. We mashed our skulls together, irises like the lenses of kaleidoscopes—the great blacknesses inside each of us beckoning our attentions, longing to be beheld. And we were truly kaleidoscopic.

In the dream you were so real. I was so real; realer than I’ve felt in years, Prozac or no—I was real, and I have a non-fear (I say non-fear because fear is a feeling, and I do not have those anymore) that I may never again be as real as I once was. There is no soul inside me anymore. And I can not attribute that to you, nor to anyone else. Not even to myself. It is just simple, like everything else now. It is factual. It is solid and mundane. It is self-assuring.

In my thirty-second windows of hysteria, mania, breakdown—I feel a tinge of my former self. Yes, I say—this is how it’s meant to feel. But like a lucid dream, in which one’s recognition of said will invariably jinx the entire affair and return the dreamer to ignorance—of the blissful and unconscious variety or of the flat, conscious waking one—I can taste my own folly. I know this is not real; I know this is not as it once was, for that was Then, and this is all too Now.

None of what comes out of me feels like Me anymore. It’s all someone else’s doing. Someone else penned these memoirs.