Tuesday, October 13, 2009

Forget Marks Forever

My face is spot country, she said, as she rummaged her fingers through her hair.

No-go, he said, and blew air into his drink. The air went bumpity into the liquid, releasing a drill of bubbles.

Don’t you sense, Mukund, that I am aggrieved and would prefer it if you didn’t resort to unkind hullabaloos of words.

Well. You call me Mukund. Do not brave on about kindness when you call me by names like Mukund. But anyway, this napkin is snot. Why do you care that it has Forget Marks in blue all over it? Tell it to avaunt, and quit thy sight. Macbeth said that to a ghost. You’ll be saying it to something equally puerile.

Mukund. The ghost was not puerile. It was subtitle to Macbeth’s livid guilt. If emotions make a man, then the ghost was as real as the emotion it serviced. The ghost was as real as Macbeth.
My unhappiness about spots is not puerile, for to me
these spots are testimony
to the fact that I have no control over my material.

But you have control over what you think of your material.

That is such cock.

Why not call me Macbeth? Why Mukund?

Because you’re not tragic or epic or a part of my deadly design.
And that is why I like you, more or less.
Besides, I’m not calling you Mukund. I’m using the name as the precipitate, for I feel that it is just stout enough for this atmosphere, for the lights and for the food we’re eating.
It’s like a short, dumb, angry plant. Rooted like.

And that’s how you want me?
Short dumb and angry?

No, I don’t want stout. I don’t want stout or sturdy or any of this. But this is what we have and we must make do. This frame this frame, I feel myself despairing. Despairing in shy, unhealthy ways. It’s too firm, this life we have.

We aren’t complacent, you know. Even if you've had yourself believe that we middle, that we are framed. We do – as you say – anger over. Isn’t that sign of salvage - a sign that we are not entirely lost to rootedness?

Yes. In meted ways we show anger. Meted, muted, in quantities just amusing enough to last our lifetime. But what of this anger? We don’t remember – not in obsession, or clarity – where it began. It’s like a fog of lather without the soap. It distracts us and fucks with our eyes, but tells us little of our source or voyage. Or non-voyage: our stasis.

Ah the check's come. We end our day in pleasant irony.
My sweetheart... My tube of jelly... We have facts.
And the facts come by way of
bills, jobs, furniture, blinkers.
Facts are only ever born of frames.


On the happy occasion of your birthday

the music in my pious player
tells me that I

must pay my love for you
in love-words that part their
price at your wall;

It is appropriate that people in love

Say things
that are beautiful enough to endure the groin of contact.

Oh mercy
my words are septic with longing.
So filled with the sore and sausage of my internals

(plump and gruesomely young)

that they roll like biased marbles
towards my oesophagus

But maybe with words we can finally have a morning
And not this backward counting
Act by act, plight by plight,

Slow like the movement of thighs.

With words we can buy new sight
To get by in our atrophy of living
And share the vision of a foetus in its binding calm.

So I try for words as one tries for the only thing there is in the midst of this
eternal building

And this is my wordy tribute to you.

Wednesday, October 7, 2009

My Vague Entrails

This is a young blog. And my relationship with it is still exploratory, nascent.

And I find that what thrills me the most about it is its way of not showing me up by name or appearance.
It seems to offer the cartilage between distance and engagement, so I can be at once veiled, at once naked.

Within this single medium, I can subdivide. I can be he or she or He or She.
I can congeal into wet shining slurry: breasting words into hiccups that fill your mouth but mean so little.

And in the trekking dark of it all, I can hold your hand and let you believe my hand is not a hand.
That it is moss or a sheep or a bidet. That it is moss and a sheep and a bidet.
Because you cannot know what my hand feels like.
You cannot know that I have a hand.
And I can remain in this suspended colloid of words, never to be removed, or dried, or formulated by levels of science unknown to me.

Unless of course, the Internet really is Big Brother, with blogbusters as myriad as megapixels.