immoderate

sometimes it's easier not to think about you at all, easier to let you slip away into the mist of my mind, pass you by for obscure chess strategies and dark secrets of zionists. study. so maybe the day passes jerking off off or drinking coffee, reading tom robbins or dashiel hammet, maybe nothing mroe passes by than sips from a cup or thoughts just there and gone. another cigarette. or i flip from page to page looking for vague referrences to you, or maybe it's you i'm looking for and sooner find than not. seek and not find is only killing me.

so i think maybe sometimes, traces of you in print, ink or code and wasting away, you were someone else's something once, and before that, someone else.

searching you out is slow and lacks only the comfort of being benign: dropping. or maybe you're written out in the pages of sartre or stanislovsky explained all your tricks and maybe it's all obvious sometimes. how it is. how it was. how it will be. in the thick of it, and out. often, i'm climbing up and out towards you or down and through because of you and how i find myself, how i find myself is proof that capital punishment works.

or i put you together in tangled greek sayings or spit you out in musings from the wind, find nothing in the solace, and not thinking, still: the best way. your ferocious eyes sometimes.

another and a cup of tea, words trapped out of me and into you, into code on sites and passing eyes will see but here there's almost nothing left to leave: still hasn't. just another way to not figure you out, not get it all down, or even know which way to look for your coming on the road, or if you're coming at all. so i plug you in and put you away in dark cabinets used only for unused deoderant and towels. shaving razor cartridges. found a few new ways to forget you today, left them out to hold onto when it's dark or rains and i want more than anything to walk through the water with you, but quiet, and you're just another day sometimes another page and maybe that's all you wanted.

now you're somewhere, driving dark highways and weaving through sideshow tourists (gawking at cadillac ranch) and you're not pulling over for it any more than you are for me. adoration. i'm putting on another record and wondering what it'd be like to listen to it with you, (you wanted this to be easy for you) and soon enough, i'll know if i'll know. or wait further.

quiet now, listening to the key tappings and the bubble-bursting sound the volume toggle makes and thinking about how best to cast you (for now) out of mind as sight, more. maybe this'll work or that, and putting you out, locking you down for now, inside this little screen-box, a letterbox for the moment and holding nothing is best when it happens like this. you've got it all down now got it all down now all down now down now and it's for the best perhaps and painting another picture of you on the inner side of my eyes will do no good. futile. worse, somehow.

put rows and coumns of you away and still you rage onwards, a tide and locust-swarm of all my wantings, cravings, hopings. you'll be there if you need or want, but do you?

i miss the idea of you ont he other end of the line, however short the distance.

and we'll see if it works.

2004-01-24 | 10:04 p.m.
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