Wednesday, January 25, 2006

Subjunctive rearticulation project

I’m not always this way when slightly depressed, or when completely falling down the case case, landing on an alias cement floor, laughing, thinking, this is my confessional pain, segmented out in short aimless bits, thinking, this is a figure of speech to summarize a general way of being, a concept going on and on about itself, brought on by radon paranoia, brought on by a general deflecting quality of paranoia I can mass produce so well, thinking it is perfectly justified, watching those all doing this and that, that will always lead to that which is an it. .. . or when some idiot jumps out and says boooo . . . and my mind not being on some enlightenment plan, jumps right out of my figure of speech for some quality I'm not sure how to put into words, though if you picture arrows coming out of my head and where there used to be eyes are now drawn diminishing spirals . . . but this is not about some insurance plan, it is about a kind of desire one might find in a half assembled utopia, close enough to righteousness to be dogma, exclusive enough to be good marketing, where every one is doing the same scheme, and not, and instead of chanting some kind of sacred subtitled something, I am sitting here thinking about listening to some big pop music, on some big speakers in a big box, within a box, instead of being in right now plan I am in, thinking this is not it . . . this is a different knife of punctuation, childhood screams, wallowing motor cycles barking at the dogs and the dogs barking back, being drown down and covered by the billowing exhaust from oversized buses on testosterone . . . or some particular bystander with probing lips striding right in on a private conversation I am having with myself, or it seems like my self, since I am not sure the other person was truly listening, and going on about something about the mother, everyone here is always going on about the mother, or their mother, this mother or that mother, put your life in the mother’s hand, give all you money to the mother, take care of your mother when she gets old, have you called your mother lately, wondering can the mother make my coffee this morning, listening to the bus horn dogs, thinking this must be the mother barking at the stars, or this must be the mother running out of milk and feeling slightly bruised in a periodic depressed state.


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