Wednesday, March 16, 2011

drunk in the afterworld

(the rain keeps hitting my hands as i smoke)

"ha i don't like to read. "he walks to the end of the street. he smells the air. he looks around." and i am like, ok done and i throw the book across the room." that's a pretty good impression of a book i said. it was in the bar of the hotel, all the bottles turned upside down and they poured the drinks out of cut glass, the caps still on, the corks, the screwtops.

its the bar the suicides drank in, i found it between two alleyways crossing each other. a shrine to the virgin mary by the garbage can with a dress shirt on fire as a sacrifice in front of the rain stained face.

heavens to betsy, i said. maybe They won, all the poets are segregated from the poor now.

yeah but who are They? asked the tranny, nursing her baby at the bar. it was a good question, They were never around. I could only look up at the TV and look cockeyed at the announcer. someone was flipping knives at the dartboard, at the keyholes. there you could hear the river outside, roaring like a mad dog. the water rising above the windowpanes.

Thursday, March 03, 2011

allmaziful

hell.

there's a word in finnegan's wake: allmaziful. there are a lot of brilliant lines in james joyce's finnegan's wake. there's a lot of pure nonsense in the wake. you have to read a lot of insanity to come across a bare line or two of pure brilliance, like the sun at noon blinding you with the eyes of life. yes, that's light.

finnegan's wake isn't that much different than living. in that respect, a lot of insanity for a few moments of being stunned by the allmazifulness of it all.

so i went to a conference on sex work. three current or retired sex workers - prostitutes - whores or hookers or what have you gave their witness of their lives. it sounded like hell. yet they spoke of it as a day in day out kind of life. they all had been raped, beaten, hated. not once, but many times. one started at nine. one started at fourteen. one at thirty one. the one who started at thirty one is the only one who stopped.

i am sometimes allmazed by how each of the six billion plus human being who live and die on this little benign island is a universe in themselves. most a universe we will never know or understand. and how many of these universes are hells. pure hells. where is hell? go down to the nearest anything and ask. someone there has a hell to tell you about.

the ones who started as children never stopped. does anyone?

and yet, they laughed. they cried, or showed love for each other. they lived there, in that conference room. now the lights are off, now they have gone off. to their respective universes.

they passed by here

all-maze-iful