Posted: Sunday, January 31, 2010 | |

he is not human; nor human, and I? Et tu, brute? I don't dally in abstractions for the sake of it; imagine existing in them, breathing in them and within them. A distinctly eastern take on a western life, but is there sense to make of it? And he imagines; we are stuck on repeat repeat fast forward here, are we talking my grandmother type apathy? ( and no, I answer, to the one with blue eyes a-lure, as in active luring (( does anyone pay attention to tense here anymore? does anyone pay attention here at all?)) )

I am on the active process of discovering, and it hurts us all. I read you, deer girl, I read you, chef, I read you, texas butterfly, yet still I cannot leave you comments which verve towards any normalcy. Why, or why not? I cannot; I can; too hard, it is the being forced to tread upon that which it is not for the sake of discovery. You tell me, home; you are not happy. Leave. I tell you; it is not that simple. There is an active experiment going on here. Wait for the results. We have nothing to say because we are in the thinking modality.

I write nothing. I write novels. I write and I write and no one sees a thing because I am technology alienated and my best friends reside in papier, toujours comme d'habitude, comme ca.  Because I am alienated by anything and everything because after all, after all of this, even THIS, I am only 22. I hear you, all of you, class wars and all. The privilege afforded to those able to reside in the exceptional state of non- belonging. I get it. We drank budweiser and took out that second, third mortgage. And here? he has (no one has) any idea. Play it, girl, play it hard and play it soft and play it play it repeat- because ain't no way anyone else is gonna have a turn like this, parents from alabama tennessee say it like that, one word, alabama tennessee, and ain't no one gonna understand here what that means, to grow up poor and american and just fucking, poor, ain't no, way, he gets, what, beeforoni, or spaghetti and franks, dry toast tuna melt, means.

Centre Popmpidou: he says, females whine. I laugh and I float. I am away. Maybe I am too fare, too far, away. Maybe I should run here, run now, run? fucking RUN, because my grandmother? she didn't write poems, she sold ponds. She didn't go crazy petit bourgeois style, she went crazy with four kids to the state and teaching catholic school in the south, 3 years away from an institution ( and no, just because its american doesn't mean an institution was a right, or an ACTUALITY, you dig? fucking french keyboard)

And hey. Baby. I don't envision myself as any sort of martyr. Millions before me slept; millions before cried; millions after will shit, will sleep, will read what I read, maybe write what I write. I am fucked dans le nuit parce que je SAIS, I KNOW, there is more. I came here for that and THAT is what I am on, on, high (on) and you frustrate and fuck me better than I have ever been fucked or will be fucked, ever. Because you fuck me (up) (in) (the through and throughs, you dig?)

An eastern philosophy, sure, in the confines of a person trying hardest only to find what fucks her up hardest. Lisa, you dig, baby? Baby baby baby all babies, and here I am dying for you, trying to feel the hardest.

Prove to me we aren't a lost cause. PROVE to me I ain't dying for nothing.

that is why we say, wilt, wilt.

( fuck you: you want me to read your typographic evidence? read mine. ) READ; MINE. AND, GET, IT. Cause I get yours, and the things I could say?

Balancing act; balancing act, give me strength.

and i will not spell it out for you, there are 100000000 meanings for every word given; ask me sometime. Why dontcha?


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