2002-11-20 || 3:35 p.m.

|| out of print and in the circus ||

it's like being punched with the lettered metal teeth of a typwewriter over and over every time i see his voice in print. under eyelids and in the soft pale parts on the inner side of my elbow, on the red graffiti-d walls of my stomach and the nerve that's making my left eye twitch. it doesn't matter what he's talking about: music n-n-wr-mo his father how tired he is from the current workload and how am i hanging in there? punch bruise punch bruise, all in long-winded very well-informed very congenial sentences.

i would like to take some pliers to those paragraphs and pull them apart and straighten them out, make the longest sword of prepositions and catch phrases and wiry helvetica, and swallow it. and then pull it out, unscathed.

(and either let the comforting warm trickle of internal bleeding turn everything bruisey black and movie screen quiet, or get noticed by an exotic circus and join forces with the bearded lady and invite He of the Metal Sentence to a geek show, where i will bite the head off a chicken, all the while smiling in his button-down direction. (he will be taking notes. the geek ex-girlfriend will show up in a column of an alternative weekly.) )

previous || next || random

guestbook || notes || archives || profile || photos || d-land