31.5.16

It aint origami


           what panicks one
                                           doesnt necessarily panick another

its symptoms: breath sticking in ones throat eyes bulging fisheyed trying as part of the bodys sympathetic nervous system to see sharper and furthur widen their peripheral a ticking up of the hearts tock tick tock ticks the swift flow organs bathed saturated in adrenaline daubed with a broad brush of blue inhaled opium moist palms scalp armpits backs of knees and feet
                          an organism cued up by the virtue of their panick with nowhere to go 

inevitably theres someone in your head who intones unsympathetically Come on Nothing here to panic over
while youre pins and needles amped ALL SYSTEMS GO!                              

you disassociate

you grab that heartless sonofabitch whos so reasonable(to themselves) by their windpipe throw cautions to the wind and squeeze it tight
             if it crushes like a paperstraw so be it
thereby impeding forever any unsympathetic uncompassionate peep or pique

                                                                   his panick surprised him

he reasoned that afterwards while standing in a hot shower letting ribbons of water sinuously overwhelm him                                                                    
he wasnt feeling well
                      rendered by the hard black rubber-souled boots of pain that kicked the ornate whitewashed baseboard scuffed and marred the handsome tiled and linoleum floors

his pain and panick made for the deep grunts and groans that spasmed in his mouth You whore! You piece of shit! Gawddamn!

he didnt know how he saw it
out of the corner of his eye
a daddylonglegs caught up and desperate in the splash and roil of water coming out the bathtub spigot 

it precipitating an existential moment

he was unable to stoop and snatch it to safety with his hand because he was stoved uphis joints ratcheted his pitiful tendons and muscles inflexible

its thin legs were inarticulate on the boil and bubbles
                                                        its body the size of an appleseed no more than a few pieces of pinched pilled blackened fabric
                              then suddenlyso quickly this small life seemed overwhelmed and conceded capitulated brought it legs in together assumed a mammalian fetal position
of abject submission

he saw but he couldnt snatch the longhandled shower body brush

he finally freed it from where it hung by a hook on the wall from a looped cord and dipped its bristles to the water between the spider and the gurgling drain

he had imagined like Velcro the spiders legs would get caught up on its bristles 

he lifted it to safety


carefully he closed the toilet lid and landed the brush on its back


the spider origami beaded with impossibly tiny water beads did not move  IN  HIS  PANICK  HE  THOUGHT  HE  KILLED  IT  but then he assessed No the aerated water not-yet-hot the bubbled surface No

painfully he leaned forward and gently bumped it with the end of his pinkie

the black origami moved slightly

it was alive

it was in a good momenta brief moment of selfanesthetised homeostasis



finally
      in the shower his eyes closed their yearning ceased the mydriasis blown pupils abated the hot water redemptive to a point he repeated in his minds eye the daddylonglegs negative panick

Huh  made sense to him    Now

it was likely he wouldnt have considered any aspect of it unless he had almost killed another earthling        

0709,  Friday,  27  5. 16

30.5.16

credit where credits due



when he told me I was tied to the history of an already buried century(those werent his words I knew he wasnt going to credit whose they were) I was pulled between smashing him repeatedly in the face with my ball peen hammer fist or feign unaffection but irked enough to bitchslap him into a corner I suppose the difference would be a broken face or one glowing against the night stung too many times to count his blood stickled up through the pores of his face like honey in a honeycomb

so much for first instincts the bane of maturity knowing better



I almost wish I was back in the buried century to punish his thoughtlessness




most of my contemporaries are buried up to their necks trying to keep gravedirt from getting into their mouths





I said  Well I aint dead

Step on it  You might as well be dead for the space youre taking up

Taking up space
Yacunt
Better than half the music you listen to was recorded in that dead century youre maligning
Taking up space

Youre taking up space strung up like a puppet on the invisible strings of fones and APPs and impatience immediacy

Your Twentyfirst Century began with a BANG! then to conflagrate under Bushwhacker and his band of Neocons
Project for a New American Century mine and everyone elses ass I call it Kill what aint White like me 

Your Twentyfirst Century has yet to show its cultural legs . . . unless those legs are US militarism Homeland surveillance the vacuous Republican standards a filthy cotton cord laid on the ground which isnt to say Democrats arent caught churning in a sucking whirlpool of incremental change to the status quo  a fouled toilet bowl draining slowly

Yes  Point fingers at the dead centurys world wars its genocides Stalin Mao Zedong Pol Pots Kymer Rouge
Human beings are essential for the slaughter of other human beings   

Comparatively though we may yet realise since the September 11s onslaught the fright that was worked up into a lather under deliberate ridingcrop strokes not to spur the beast to its better humanity but scare it over and over again to extort more and more money Dont dare suggest to me its Americas form of Capitalism  

Horseshit

The Civil War isnt over

Civil Rights havent been won

Racism remains rife

Comparatively the dead century may look like a cakewalk to this one



The buried century I was born into is unearthed its corpse repeatedly picked over by historians who deny they have an axe to grind and want desperately to rewrite it 1984 Orwellian-style and by true historians objectively trying to wrestle out the finer points relative to its whitest black and blackest white






So who said that


Who said what

Who said what you refuse to credit them saying . . . tied to the history of an already buried century  Who
Theyre not your words   Whose

Carlos Fuentes

Im going to assume you didnt read his words

You think little of me

I dont think  I know   I think you ought to be honest
Honesty cant hurt

A friend read me a passage from their copy of Vlad

Thank you  It is a wonderful suggestive piece of writing  Why cant you say so as well  Im not asking  You ought to think about it beyond here and now  And then provide yourself an answer as to why you cant give credit where credits due




1822,  Saturday,  28  5. 16
 0956,  Memorial Day Monday,  30  5. 16

29.5.16