the sun will come up, and i'll go to bed
i've felt profoundly uninspired lately; there haven't been any images. it's true the cat is chasing a moth, and my roommate is sleeping on the deck (we seem to be rotating nights.), but there comes a time when the new becomes old and familiar, organically and gradually - (i miss the steep ascents and descents of never-heard-music), and the rebellion begins, this rebellion against the lives, images, places and feelings around me - the chaos is more remote, the people, somewhere, deeper, and all i really ask of this overwhelming friction is that it shoot me into outer space.
i quit my job yesterday, which is a start. a year and a half working in an office was more than enough to inform me i'll never work in an office again. the emptiness of my co-workers' existences passed belief. there's this image of a porcelain doll drawing a breath, possibly its last that i can't get out of my head. it has just fallen to the floor, and the troops are moving in. i'm going to move, but first, some unfinished business. in the meantime i suppose i'll earn rent money in a restaurant or some such banal establishment, anyplace with life, kicks, riot, a bit of night. somehow i'm going to be amused by my own ingenuity. don't be sore when i demand an applause.
it's quickly becoming purple autumn. the hieroglyphs of the wind and the emotion of the trees are a first-grade poem, uncorrupted. it was this time last year when i started writing in this space. i had no idea what i was going to do, and i've no idea what i've done. i do know i've learned much in the last year. each small truth uncovered has left an enormous imprint. of those there've been a few, and i'm grateful.
the epilepsies of desire have been tempered by the feeling of having one foot off the mediocrity of a manicured lawn and into something richer, deadlier, bigger and more abstract, but i miss the adolescent stalking of music, and bathing in the aftermath of these sterile looks and conversation only makes me thirstier for more, though not here, i don't think.
for now, these humble sentences will be brooding over a savage intention. please bear with me.
i quit my job yesterday, which is a start. a year and a half working in an office was more than enough to inform me i'll never work in an office again. the emptiness of my co-workers' existences passed belief. there's this image of a porcelain doll drawing a breath, possibly its last that i can't get out of my head. it has just fallen to the floor, and the troops are moving in. i'm going to move, but first, some unfinished business. in the meantime i suppose i'll earn rent money in a restaurant or some such banal establishment, anyplace with life, kicks, riot, a bit of night. somehow i'm going to be amused by my own ingenuity. don't be sore when i demand an applause.
it's quickly becoming purple autumn. the hieroglyphs of the wind and the emotion of the trees are a first-grade poem, uncorrupted. it was this time last year when i started writing in this space. i had no idea what i was going to do, and i've no idea what i've done. i do know i've learned much in the last year. each small truth uncovered has left an enormous imprint. of those there've been a few, and i'm grateful.
the epilepsies of desire have been tempered by the feeling of having one foot off the mediocrity of a manicured lawn and into something richer, deadlier, bigger and more abstract, but i miss the adolescent stalking of music, and bathing in the aftermath of these sterile looks and conversation only makes me thirstier for more, though not here, i don't think.
for now, these humble sentences will be brooding over a savage intention. please bear with me.
posted by liam at
11:30 PM
5 Comments
