There were demonic spirits boasting about all my unwashed dishes,
Rotors finding rhythm with the dribbling of the faucet,
A window open to the singing neighbors down a story,
And a mesh screen fastened over all the hatches
The ebbing, flowing fever spreads my limbs to the four corners
Of my bed, and not a one shuffled back with a potion like they’d promised
The work I haven’t done is sitting somewhere in a backpack
This must be the way my body learned treasonous habits
I strapped a broken guitar pick to my ankle
and strummed footsteps into the earth.
This was my last rite of reconciliation
for the unsung songs; I carried a few milligrams
of resolution: the weight of their spent exhortation
and the flecking of their allusive spray.
This was how they found me, chanting with
the soles of my feet, the little mole on the right
ridge making itself known to the northern dirt.
implies that the first
suggestion to come back
from the semantic engine
will be your name and
death, glued together collaboratively
by buckshot, hemp fibers, and
the crowd of inquiring strangers
who unfortunately couldn’t know you
and all they can scrabble out of your
dust are confused rumors, scattered
with the four winds to the corners
of every wasteland wiki, opinions
of some garbler who picked clean
every hungover interview, and
the purloined liner notes
they just can’t not be obsessed
with your depression, what
drove you to hop off of the perch
of engraved music majesty
cut from hot fingerpicked rocks
and if there is such a thing as the
underworld, it resides in the urge
to ask nothing but why, why did
he sing such choking notes
I don’t pick up pennies that show me their tail.
Sometimes we lose, and we must be beautiful enough losers
to designate a winner and wish them good luck.
It’s training for the day when I write my will.
- More work, today. Posted up with my guitar and tried making some spur-of-the-moment songs; determined that it’s much harder to be John Darnielle or Will Sheff than it appears to be. Still, I got some interesting recordings that I can listen to in forty years’ time.
- Went to Aikido. Vasish was around, and we partnered up to practice the day’s technique; pretty sure he thinks I’m a prick for correcting him as much as I did (you don’t have to flop around! step with the opposite foot! actually try to grab me! I shouldn’t have to cross the entire mat to grab you; we should be one step away from each other!), but we’re wasting our time if we don’t try to figure out what we’ve done wrong and how we can do it better. Hell, I’d welcome critiques; Alex gave me a few, and I was grateful; helped me understand the technique better.
- Played a SKYWALKERS show at the Elbo Room. Whiffed my only solo, and figured out my pickups were squawking and missing tone because they could be leveled higher. All in all, a learning experience, but I don’t know how many more shows I can have that aren’t that instructive for the audience. Also! Pedal boards rock, and a guitarist for the band that went on after us had a cool-looking one.
- Went to CS class (hadn’t finished the homework due at midnight). Prof. seems a little disorganized, but nice enough; we never go through everything he plans to review. Part of that is the fact that we took a quiz in the last 30 minutes of class, as we do on most Mondays.
- Went back to the bookstore. Confirmed that my Surface Pro can also trigger the alarm, but only when the device is in a certain orientation (landscape, in my bag). Talking to the workers about this went much better, this go around, but the gold-rimmed glasses girl wasn’t there, so I couldn’t explain what happened or apologize.
- Strove valiantly to finish my homework; got stuck on the third part of one problem. I got a baffling error that haunts me even now. Oh well.
On the other hand,
# of homeless people I’ve given food to: (at least) 2
- Read a few pages of Chicu Reddy’s book of poems, Readings in World Literature. It has his trademark deeply sophisticated calm belied by inlets of comedic skepticism (perceived as shallow if one is unobservant), and is riddled with contextually fun citations.
- Jammed in Logan, 5th floor, with Henry, Pete, and Connor. Daniel couldn’t make it, and neither could Bindu. Wish I butted my head in, proposed songs, and sang more.
- Played DnD at Josh’s. David tried to run from the cops, who thought his character was a prostitute. Lawrence tripped a few, which meant that he and David had to split town, and Josh, Philip, and I did nothing/were completely unscathed by the law. Hopefully, we’ll find our NPC compatriot Angelina/Angelica (who knows which spelling is accurate?) and go off to the wizard Caspar’s coordinates in the next session. Our other NPC compatriot, Liana, is hotboxing her inn-room, so she’ll probably be fine.
My bike’s magnet.
As I folded and unfolded life’s intractable machinery, this magnet, when paired with its sibling, held my world together (that is, my folding bike).
I keep my bike in my apartment to cut the potential for bike thievery down to a low, low percentage (potential thieves limited to: acrobats willing to (silently!) climb to my window, unscrew the mesh, shuffle past my monitor, over my desk, claim my bike, and somehow huff it back down without waking a confused 125-pounds of innocent frivolty; anybody who is smart enough to open check my door on the days when I don’t lock it (paranoid fear of getting locked out sinks ships, even those dry-docked); miscreant mobs robbing every house on the block, French Revolution-esque; anybody who asks for it and doesn’t return it). This means that I fold it before hefting it up the one story, mumbling to myself about Jesus’s laser torture or something all the while.
The magnet was yanked out of its slot on the bike’s rear wheel axle. I placed it in my bag in a huff and hugged the contraption shut, tromping up the stairs, and it stuck to the ferric bookmark (my first self-purchased desktop PC’s PCI-E cover) inside my latest literary conquest (Microserfs, which I should’ve finished a half-month ago) through its cover, inadvertently reinforcing its tenuous hold on my current spot in the book. This side-effect delighted me (serendipity, ooh), and predictably, I embraced this development and biked off to class the next day with the first MagSafe(tm) bookmark.
But, is that all I did?
No, that’s not all I did.
Don’t go into a bookstore with a powerful magnet in your messenger bag. You’ll feel like a tool when you realize the reason you set off the metal detector five times is your fucking bookmark. Sorry, Seminary CO-OP girl with the gold-rimmed glasses. Also, thanks for being patient, and how did you find this, and never mind, I’m just gonna be secure and unquestioning in the delicious ego-food that is the acknowledgement that someone is interested enough to check out my blog. Acknowledgement, Mmm.
i was laying in bed, head crooked in armpit connected to arms outstretched and limp, looking like i was gonna be crucified, and through the mesh of my window came the lucid woosh of an aircraft’s engine, spooling up a set of no-nonsense directives. i had read about atomic bombs a few weeks before, and how even a thin blanket can prevent your skin from boiling off in that special isotope of orange; i huddled under my comforter and made myself fetal. I’m not sure but it could have just been a hospital helicopter, or this is how my brain chooses to handle its heat death: by filling in the expectant lines bulled through that field of dead nothing. either way, the rest of my life is gonna be a kid in a waiting room + crayons