there’s an argument, an accusation, a defense and a denial, there’s a reason for suspicion, you lie in many positions and now you are prone to stretching truth to fit your couch. What is your couch and how is it folded? Of what will you accuse me at this hour? Insanity and how does it repeat itself, Insanity and how does it repeat itself?? Accuse me at an hour illogical, argue your place in history, make the points of arrows, spears and pens, paint another war with the red fluid of skewered humans in snow, it’s late by any clock, i remain conscious and vibrate to Blue Notes in South America, writing about my freedoms on the way out, ‘Hey yo, which way out?’ ‘Wear it out Loser!’
midnight in medellin, got the milk of mothers? how poor is poor where you live? how goes the whores and her kids? how close thy revolutionaries and priests, el rio medellin cold brown in glittering litter and sleepers on her shore, i won’t save a soul tonight, maybe my own will come back tomorrow.
i don’t know if anyone reads these or this, who are you out there? I have a new designation…dying guy, ya know like alcoholic and republican, guy who is excitedly approaching his own death with aplomb, c’mon, this is a big deal over here, i’m checking out there will be a room available for lunatics, i’m having fun with it, i am not denying it or the discomfort that may ensue, pain and loss of my good looks, these writings will be what’s left for the afterburn,…”He said that…?”
My blog, i have arrived soaked from wading in streams of consciousness and famished from eating at the Oasis of Open Palms, will get this bird to fly from my precipice even if it is straight down, i will catch up with you.
excuse me i blogged, it went all over the place, what a mess, who would feedback off such a demonstration of word regurgitation and reflux? i’m learning this don’t show me to the rule book, thanks, color me dense, thick not creamy, not light and not trite, where is my Austenian muse? Tapping maple trees no doubt and splitting firewood on the edge of the wilderness, Brooklyn, learning, writing out and off about the passage of New York’s Diaspora, picking up on mysteries without many clues, shreds of lace and hemp rope, pottery and instruments…words that once rhymed and pressed my petals, these are the words of my passing by and dropping dead, my own eulogy, i’ll tell ya truth no matter how un-pretty it is.
The prophet talked of a sweet meal that turned bitter, it went in well enough, the digestion of all this information has finally split a seam and it looks like the sewing machine is right handed, i’m not bitter, i’m still able to think and reason and decide and log out the way i can now.
letting go is what works, pragmatism and dying, ok, so, i’ll be dead what do really desire to do, use reason and accept good reason from yourself, it’s your death take your exit wisely thoughtfully commiseration about the way things might have been is useless now, there is no such thing as might have been, there is…IS
Big deal, to die or…to die, everybody does it, why the …anything, the terrible, dark angel, the grim reaper with the scythe, skeletons and skulls, horror blood sucking vampires, misty cemetaries…it’s a process for Christ’s sake, it’s the natural order of existence, i am going to die, could be sooner may be later, but i don’t function the way i have and i won’t let a doctor tell me why, no prescriptions, no hospitalization no chemo, just old fashioned unadorned unpolished death and dissemination.
I hope to make this a pleasant funny emotional journey, at the end the protagonist dies so don’t try to jump ahead and see some ending that will explain everything, it will only evoke questions of which you must wrestle with or not
learning the way to blogging
i am dying, i would like to chronicle this transition, make it a blog to bare my terminal descent back toward earth, got ideas? i am not morbid or sentimental, not bitter or wanting revenge, i have no axes to grind, just want to poeticize the end of my journey