2005-05-08 - 10:22 p.m.
Transcripted from April 24, 2005 (S.P. Attack DP!) and May 1, 2005 (S.P. Attack RJ!)
Modified to date.
Epicenter. This is the epicenter. The anguish the instigation. The terror. The aggravation distortion and disillusionment. All I can remember is the car. Okay I lied. I remember a lot more than that. Bottomless from the bottom. Get set.
Incense smell. And...
I remember it raining and you leaning over your steering wheel like pain. And saying, close eyes, "I'm sorry." open eyes, questioning, questioning. "We'll be fine." answer, in question form. And I remember a lot of tan and dark, but teal too. Some teal, like that shirt when she said "You're a part of it." And I have these darts running through my figure when I write, recalling such things. From my palm up towards my wrist, my low back (she showed me) to my shoulder blades, my neck to my jaw line, you know where that is. And I remember you kissing me and I wasn't doing anything about it and I've been thinking about fate again and how I was wrong or maybe I just had it coming for me and things are very full in my eyes.
Precision of language
When you cry it feels. Your throat has a two-by-four across it. Everything from your chest gets sucked outwards into a vacuum outside your torso, tingling, tingling, your eyes like static white noise; rain on the outside of a warehouse building.
Precisely the case. TURN IT UP.
I started running. I came through the door and looked around. Round table in front of a couch. Where you're sitting. I'm causing a fault line, fucking cause. Calling out "Vandalize me?" And causality finally means desperation, not desire. I bet you never thought about that did you? We're pushed up against the wall so hard we might thin out and become dispersed throughout the room. Trying so hard to keep our minds from the television as our situation is showing up static. Ransom Ransom! We might be held from our own free wills! But you told me once that it might not be so bad after all. We could hide out and wake up after the war is over. After the walls are in shambles and we're still hiding under the kitchen table.
She said, "You're walking with glass." Yea, yea always walking with glass on ice breakable, stark, ordered in order always filed. Hanging suspension the tension and the terror, longitude overriding latitude and sinking always stained.
I'm thinking thinking nowhere on getting here now. Antsy in my head, seeing same people in the same way at the same time. Always the same. I have a notion to break for the coast. Break for the shore and fucking run. Ecstasy in my madness, a wind in about sweeping swept up for the count instead of down. Back and forth, timing, trying. No not trying, not being tried anymore. Only being. This is how I mean.
It is that of laying, alone in the grass after being psychoanalyzed realizing "I dig crazy." (Not relying on breath to make it through a routine.) It is that green dress in the supermarket. It is that hint of rebellion over the Broadway lights. It is those stocking feet in the hallways. It is the fallout after the shuffle. It is not you, it is most certainly not I. It is transcended from the pent up creative angst and passionate outburst with the power of their atom bombs to echo reverberating from the epicenter, refusing to ossify! Objecting a testimony. It will attack in turn from I to you and out and in around always at a level, not higher, infact lower, organic, optional, original. Until there is no glass file. We will just remain and simply be.
