UNTUNED / NOISE OF MYSELF / A BORROWED ROSE—
correspondence, 9-20-14, 6:45pm, Thursday
dear j—
i’ve been meaning to reply, but i’ve been too retarded, lately. the letter form makes me feel partially retarded in my left toe, and also my brain—the main one.
i want to send you some of my books. i think i’ve been waiting to reply until i could send you a revised edition of Pearl, which just isn’t happening.
i have to poop. i am tired because i just finished a double shift at the group home. sitting on couch, my daughter zoe playing kindle on my left, daughter haley playing minecraft PS3 on my right, stepson gio playing PS3 on the computer chair, upstairs messy, floor cluttered, A/C unit wheezing, disconsolate, my hair-sad head, depressed for no good reason—stuck in a pit because of retardedness.
and also sadness & self-pity.
i have a PhD in Comparative Literature. i’m a Lecturer, looking for a tenure track position basically anywhere—University Moon Base, for all i care.
mostly i am sad because of writing. because of wanting an impossible thing from writing. & also loneliness & my own dim cranium for company.
if i change my handwriting, will i become a new person?
probably.
i used to find writing by hand a uniquely expressive medium. now, i find retardedness a uniquely expressive mental brain.
a strange & wonderful poem is happening somewhere at the intersection of handwriting, word processing, SMS texting, and speech-to-text. i call this intersection ‘telepathy’ & it’s where i produce my best material. i rarely get to read or write this material, but i know it is happening there because i intuit it with my retarded brain.
the poem that is happening right now at the intersection of handwriting, word processing, SMS texting, and speech-to-text is blossoming directly from the pit of my stomach (which if you want to be technical is probably somewhere in my upper intestine, where the intestine meets the soul) as a multimedia fluorescence of luminous vegetable matter—a kind of sentient mold infecting Google with salvation and also fame.
my miraculous retarded vegetable poem is being brainwashed directly into Wikipedia.
i am too sad to write any more.
more later.
~
12am—in 2005, i wrote you a long(ish) poem. did i ever send it to you?
probably not.
each time my handwriting changes, i change, too.
sitting in the domed
stairwell, scribbling, as lonely
as i’ve ever been
but not alone—TV broadcasts
Cosby special, my own words
hurting my lungs
& confusing my face,
deflating me, stuck
curled up on the same
crooked stairs as ever
neck stiff, unsure of myself
erratic pacing
of lines across the page,
the windowpane, not raining
moths flit-flit
against the light, dragging
my fingers across my dreary
eyeballs, bekah @ midnite
intense & earnest taking a quiz
for her online nursing class, 6
months pregnant, coughing
dim blare of distant Americana rings
tinnily from her headphones
distant plink of a banjo plunks
against the background, upstairs
stand-alone A/C unit
wheezes, grandma
half-asleep on the couch drifts
in and out of consciousness waking
to flick the Netflix
house asleep, kids asleep, mom &
sister asleep, dog’s
inquisitive curious snuffling
from the living room, heart empty,
picked up where i left it,
aching, but not
unlovely, strident, beating
like a good heart should, strong
& shooting thick red roots
of blood through the upholstery
of the body, bone chandelier,
ribs splayed
in a kind of spider’s fist
of legs & meat, close
to the bone, but not
without its marrow. i
withdraw, retreat, my
loneliness leaves
me where it found me—satiate &
sick w/ myself, un-
lovely but alive, limpingly
i lift my pen—
~
next day:
confessing my sadness
i become a new creature, vision
preternaturally bright
punctuated, blurring
dank clouds above,
elongated contour
trails from cars leak
red & blue, stretching
forth thru past
& future this sunday AM, hiway
desolate w/ construction barrels
like campy orange minarets
indistinct autumn neon weeds—
i am building a latticework of unearned sincerities
& deformed-bright truths of brain with a series
of handwritten letters—
spent tin can drops out of
open door, neighborhood
awash with 5k charity runners, crimson-
limned autumn maple
leaves curled away, bellies
up in anticipation of heavy
weather, stoplight
clicks over to green—
we’re away, beneath molten
bruise of overclouds &
bisected skies—a dividing
line transects uneven
spheres of disparate
horizon textures, driver’s
side hi-resolution quick
scuttling dimensions of crisp-
edged cloud & blue-
toned resinous sap leaks through
without staining passenger-side
hemispheric mushness of visually
rain-murk indefiniteness descending—
the families running in their green
t-shirts get wet, bicyclists
along the sidewalk by the cemetery, windshield
wipers’ automatic metronome thump
my poor weak-muscled words
with no umbrella—hesitant
rolling pulse, pass thru red-light
intersection, black uniformed
police directs us thru
against traffic—what occasion?—
clouds of mist a punctuated
wavelength cast up
behind a regular series of brake lights—
singing in my car
a broken voice
arriving w/ the sunset
an orange-red apparition of face
forced air—
beginning in groin
foot taps
against syncopated pedal’s
depressions
bleats of acceleration
light soaks garish roadside
liquor store topless
bars blinking neon bus stop
huddled around a wet cigarette
imbued
a strong incinerator
heat of light swings out
in sonorous axes
reflecting plush
realities of asphalt
brightness—building
& building, upwards
of heaven, resounding
a radiancy of light
& rainsong, broken
all these broken
voices, tense
& narrow,
slender, ghost
but alive, untuned
noise of myself
a borrowed rose—
(c) 2023 lee sharks, property of planet mars
No comments:
Post a Comment