The day after the day after tomorrow.

I arrived suddenly, and knew for certain that I was in the best place. It was warm and calm and I stood quietly in the moment, waiting for my turn. But, I quickly realized I was alone. Figuring my wait would be short; I let out a breath releasing the smoke from my lungs and viewed my new environment. All around me the black tar covered ground seemed endless, as if I stood in the parking lot for the world’s demise. Its emptiness ran undisturbed to the limits of my sight, and I thought, “When does it all get here?” Then, as I dropped my spent cigarette to the ground, intending to snub it out with the toe of my boot, something caught my eye.

At the hem of my faded, old black shirt was a white thread and without reflection I pulled it. As I pulled, it continued to reveal itself. So I continued to pull, believing that my shirt would soon unravel. But instead, my shirt remained intact while the string started to wind around itself, twining, until it became as thick as a hangman’s rope. With both my hands I began to work against gravity to slow it down, but it quickly stole my grip allowing the rope to spill out, coiling at my feet. When it stopped its fall, the weight of it almost pulled me over and I realized it must be connected to me. I pulled up my shirt and discovered it cleanly attached to the center of my chest.

Then I noticed smoke coming up from the center of the pile and realized the rope had coiled itself around my still lit cigarette. I frantically began to kick at the rope, fearing that it would fuse its way to my heart, igniting it. My success gave way to alarm as I heard from behind me the approaching sound of children’s laughter. When I turned, they were upon me. Several of them grabbed the rope and ran past me. As I watched the rope begin to take off I grabbed for it, but it slipped in my hand. When it disconnected from my chest I fell to the ground and grabbed for its end, but it trailed off behind them, leaving an inky trace.

I remained on my knees. A dull pain echoed in my chest as I watched the children huddle together holding hands to ears, whispering. Several of them looked over at me, but quickly returned to their attention to the group. I felt like an idiot. Oddly, they seemed unfazed by my presence and began to jump rope, their laughter in time with its swooshing rhythm. So, I asked them “Don’t you know you’re playing with the end of me?” My reply came in the most unexpected way, as the smallest of all the children approached me with the seeping end of the rope, smiled and said, “It’s your turn.”



p.s. I’m always fucking late.

Dig into her.

Of all the translations of Charles Baudelaire's Rêve parisien that I have read, this version is my favorite.


Parisian Dream

I

That marvelous landscape of my dream —
Which no eye knows, nor ever will —
At moments, wide awake, I seem
To grasp, and it excites me still.

Sleep, how miraculous you are —
A strange caprice had urged my hand
To banish, as irregular,
All vegetation from that land;

And, proud of what my art had done,
I viewed my painting, knew the great
Intoxicating monotone
Of marble, water, steel and slate.

Staircases and arcades there were
In a long labyrinth, which led
To a vast palace; fountains there
Were gushing gold, and gushing lead.

And many a heavy cataract
Hung like a curtain, — did not fall,
As water does, but hung, compact,
Crystal, on many a metal wall.

Tall nymphs with Titan breasts and knees
Gazed at their images unblurred,
Where groves of colonnades, not trees,
Fringed a deep pool where nothing stirred.

Blue sheets of water, left and right,
Spread between quays of rose and green,
To the world's end and out of sight,
And still expanded, though unseen.

Enchanted rivers, those — with jade
And jasper were their banks bedecked;
Enormous mirrors, dazzled, made
Dizzy by all they did reflect.

And many a Ganges, taciturn
And heedless, in the vaulted air,
Poured out the treasure of its urn
Into a gulf of diamond there.

As architect, it tempted me
To tame the ocean at its source;
And this I did, — I made the sea
Under a jeweled culvert course.

And every color, even black,
Became prismatic, polished, bright;
The liquid gave its glory back
Mounted in iridescent light.

There was no moon, there was no sun, —
For why should sun and moon conspire
To light such prodigies? — each one
Blazed with its own essential fire!

A silence like eternity
Prevailed, there was no sound to hear;
These marvels all were for the eye,
And there was nothing for the ear.

II

I woke; my mind was bright with flame;
I saw the cheap and sordid hole
I live in, and my cares all came
Burrowing back into my soul.

Brutally the twelve strokes of noon
Against my naked ear were hurled;
And a gray sky was drizzling down
Upon this sad, lethargic world.

— Edna St. Vincent Millay, Flowers of Evil (NY: Harper and Brothers, 1936)




p.s. you will find figs and days, lyrics and plays.

Flammable Fingers

Time spent, not wasted.

L'envoi

I have the presence of mind to call you out.
Bring it on, I have no doubt
You will leave me when you hear this.
Because, you already know what it’s about,
It blisters my fingers, it breaks my bones.
They’ll say you should've been better told
You won't get far on that soul you sold.

You have a knack for turning me out.
Knock me down, I have no doubt
I will leave here once I say this...
I have to find a better way out.
My hands are full, my mind is clear
All I ask is look beyond you, my dear
I've lifted your curtain and cast out my fear.

And just because we've agreed
Doesn’t mean that I’ve concluded
I held onto the ugly truth behind
All the words you have eluded.

So bring it on and I will profess
And in turn clean the fucking mess
Of your life; what has become
Of your once upon a happy home.

I have half a mind to pull you out
Scream in your face, there will be no doubt
You'd be better off. Then dead
Years shattered, moments that mattered
Have all been dusted with your heels.
Did you know? Could you see?
I have closed the door behind me.

You called to me; I had to believe
When you cried I'd find relief.
Then you left me to be,
Taking your brutal confession
For an old useless possession.
Because, you said you could see
All the misery hidden within me.

And just because we've agreed
Doesn’t mean that I’ve concluded
I held onto the ugly truth behind
All the words you have eluded.

So bring it on and I will profess
And in turn clean this fucking mess
Of your life; what has become
Of your once upon a happy home.

And I can’t be this anymore.
You know what I mean, it’s too deep.
So in the ditch, I've become the creep
And the moments have lost all their meaning.
Two far fetched visions of one useless being
Breathe while you stand there pleading
For truth. We spill lies so deceiving.

And just because we've agreed
Doesn’t mean that I’ve concluded
I held onto the greedy truth behind
All the words we have diluted.

So bring it on and I will confess
And in turn clean this fucking mess
Of our lives; what has become
Of our once upon a happy home.

And I can’t be this anymore.
You know what I mean, it’s too deep.
What could I say if you fell before me?

There is no time to be weak.
After everything we said, it’s a shame

With all of that cruel intention,
I have always taken the blame.

Funny, I wrote that around this time last year. At the time, drawing upon "only so" recent events and feelings in order to understand the shit I was currently mired in. Words to heal by, I guess you could say. And in case you were wondering, they helped.

p.s. it is or it isn't or it was but not now it can't at once be and not be but it could never have been or what it once was now.