Introductory Notes
now it is completely silent,
but for the white noise, the
sources of which are: the three
fans that go about circulating the
air (which is usually warm, but is
today soothingly cool) around in
this place, my miniature home
(a doll’s house), and an air
purifier that was stolen
from a hotel several years ago
(does it matter that it wasn’t
by me?)—how if i’ve no friends,
not even local acquaintances,
at some point the local might
become the only bunch of idiots
who could be more than acquaintance.
am i still speaking of friends? so many
definitions are in order. STOP STALLING.
the easy exceptions are the one that are
not here, the ones (one) which i have on
going, regulary, almost a sort of constant
rapport and conversation, i can see, out
of something that seems no less than an
amazing surreality – a surreality that
doesn’t seem some sort of dali landscape
but just surreal by virtue of being impossible
to understand how it could be, another hemisphere
away for three solid years, nothing that seems abnormal,
everything that seems LOVE, so much that seems, here we
can also call it surreality. something that can be suddenly
and stiffeningly doubted, this can’t be, we should be in the
same room, we can’t get beyond a plan that can be believed,
two parties, never having met, proclaiming LOVE so soon,
legally stifled, hell, i was essentally homeless until four
years ago, this four years in an SRO has been fraught
with reminders of the impossibilities from which one might
at one point emerge. so. look at me, i’ll look at you.
know that the plan is the thing. know that i hear
myself in furture tense. is it the same with you
from me? how else can virtual not remain
virtual? when does a breakdown or a
realization occur? so. we still can
motor along, but how strongly this
motoring, the speed, the removal
of the virtual, the unreal, into the
smashing into each other. break
some bones. to feel a bone
broken by slamming into
each other would be truth
that is too alarming.
but how else might
we know we have it?
i know that i am a teasing
pacifist. but is the world
not teasing us? am i really
only a retailer of dreams?
we both have to KNOW.
we each must KNOW.
i do. i do. i do. do you?
maybe you do. ten times
ten times ten times ten.
so laid back about death.
such vague, if non-existent,
pain. whisper, darling, the sweet
nothings that, when whispered,
satiate. feed me. i don’t mind
if it is a drug if i can taste your
finger. drugs and fingers are real.
they get me from here to there.
give me a rock to bite into. or a belief
to believe so strongly that even if
it is not believed by you nor any
body else along the way it will be nothing
but firm to me. concrete, no con. a plan
that becomes a planet. a plan that is
more than just a mininiature universe.
one in which universes, mostly believed
by me, from all aspects of my past, meet.
the plan of today meets nothing but reality.
shoot a cannon into an unclear tomorrow and
there may not even be a noise. place a
bomb of destruction or celebration inside
a small non-virtual can was, say, reality.
how can i say this: tomorrow is real?
how real it might be, will be, is.
come on over. the water is wet and
it cleanses indefinitely, peeling off
layer after layer of skin. i promise that
i can possibly get you out of the water
before we both disappear.
now it is completely silent,
but for the white noise, the
sources of which are: the three
fans that go about circulating the
air (which is usually warm, but is
today soothingly cool) around in
this place, my miniature home
(a doll’s house), and an air
purifier that was stolen
from a hotel several years ago
(does it matter that it wasn’t
by me?)—how if i’ve no friends,
not even local acquaintances,
at some point the local might
become the only bunch of idiots
who could be more than acquaintance.
am i still speaking of friends? so many
definitions are in order. STOP STALLING.
the easy exceptions are the one that are
not here, the ones (one) which i have on
going, regulary, almost a sort of constant
rapport and conversation, i can see, out
of something that seems no less than an
amazing surreality – a surreality that
doesn’t seem some sort of dali landscape
but just surreal by virtue of being impossible
to understand how it could be, another hemisphere
away for three solid years, nothing that seems abnormal,
everything that seems LOVE, so much that seems, here we
can also call it surreality. something that can be suddenly
and stiffeningly doubted, this can’t be, we should be in the
same room, we can’t get beyond a plan that can be believed,
two parties, never having met, proclaiming LOVE so soon,
legally stifled, hell, i was essentally homeless until four
years ago, this four years in an SRO has been fraught
with reminders of the impossibilities from which one might
at one point emerge. so. look at me, i’ll look at you.
know that the plan is the thing. know that i hear
myself in furture tense. is it the same with you
from me? how else can virtual not remain
virtual? when does a breakdown or a
realization occur? so. we still can
motor along, but how strongly this
motoring, the speed, the removal
of the virtual, the unreal, into the
smashing into each other. break
some bones. to feel a bone
broken by slamming into
each other would be truth
that is too alarming.
but how else might
we know we have it?
i know that i am a teasing
pacifist. but is the world
not teasing us? am i really
only a retailer of dreams?
we both have to KNOW.
we each must KNOW.
i do. i do. i do. do you?
maybe you do. ten times
ten times ten times ten.
so laid back about death.
such vague, if non-existent,
pain. whisper, darling, the sweet
nothings that, when whispered,
satiate. feed me. i don’t mind
if it is a drug if i can taste your
finger. drugs and fingers are real.
they get me from here to there.
give me a rock to bite into. or a belief
to believe so strongly that even if
it is not believed by you nor any
body else along the way it will be nothing
but firm to me. concrete, no con. a plan
that becomes a planet. a plan that is
more than just a mininiature universe.
one in which universes, mostly believed
by me, from all aspects of my past, meet.
the plan of today meets nothing but reality.
shoot a cannon into an unclear tomorrow and
there may not even be a noise. place a
bomb of destruction or celebration inside
a small non-virtual can was, say, reality.
how can i say this: tomorrow is real?
how real it might be, will be, is.
come on over. the water is wet and
it cleanses indefinitely, peeling off
layer after layer of skin. i promise that
i can possibly get you out of the water
before we both disappear.
