25 August 2010
my wife is a ghost
i am interpreting train schedules and heartbreak; words don't come easy when you ensconce yourself in a hurricane lamp. light is an ocean breeze that shipwrecks on august's heat. i have a pink flamingo harbored in my shoulder bag.
i am reading harry mathews' "the journalist."
i wish i had a bottle of scotch on this irresolute train ride. the insubordination of my heart whispers aneurysms. i feel lonesome. i wish i knew what the person next to me is reading, but i can't tell because the glare of the sun through the plastic window is turning his kindle into a lake of fire.
i can't tell if i am happy or sad about this.
everyone said the weeks would pass, and instruction would show from the rough narrative. what if the most obvious things haven't been said yet?
this afternoon was a painting; what does that mean? i wore a sparrow as a necktie and punched a fleur-de-lis in the face. california is bad whisky and keith waldrop is in my shoulder bag with the flamingo inventing a christmas tree and glitzy fireworks. i have a secret i want to scream.
"capsize" is my favorite verb as of late.
if yr lover's heart is an antique map, what do you do if you sense inarticulate rhododendrons wielding a matchbook? i feel the sense of heat working counterintelligence. i keep thinking june was a curious fire.
emotionally, the afternoon was a redefinition of concealed lust:
"eftsoons, my dearest kayla"
the febrile milieu:
has that walk been so lonely
scattered at the stairs...
intelligence only widens as far as perspective. there is a rhinoceros on this train. my seat-mate straightens his raincoat as i tell him "godspeed," as we stumble into the white light of late august.