My OperaThe Indubitable Bi-Weekly Reconnoiter of Brandy and Balderdash In The Tumblers of Fate.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009 9:53:35 PM
Envy's late and Hope folded in the first round, Fear was killed last week when his bets grew bolder than his bankroll - Love feigns silence and speaks with his knuckles - Hate never bluffs, never wins, never runs low on chips, seems to be funded from above, might be in league with the dealer. In the first hour of play, the last hour of dusk, all are quiet and careful, keeping their hands up their sleeves and playing 6 cards at a time to buffer the odds.
To be in the heart's den, surrounded by petty ante emotions unreeling smoked anecdotes and factless autobiographies over a game of wist.
-----
Walk into the store with a pocket full of nickles, in a city full of car horns, jackhammers, and rape-whistles. The alleycats manipulate the plots with gutter-magic. Today the heart beats only out of habit. Walk into the store, same pockets, same nickles, in a city where every crack in the sidewalk is a symbol. Cigarettes, gum, and milk; bitterness, love, and violence; running with cannibals who bite the hand that feeds 'cause it tastes better than the food; insert laughter here. ----- There is some alarm in my vicinity which goes off like an apocalyptic klaxon nightly, and I do not know to what it is attached, so that every night is given over to the sensations of an air which carries desolation unaccountable wherever it goes. And yet, the more frequently it comes, the more prone I am to smoking on my fire escape in a furrow of calm, dug out of the noise, which is the width and breadth of my serenity, reflexive against such turmoil. I have come to think that the more wild and unruly a silhouette of its former glory the world becomes, the more expansively my stillness will entrench itself, until there is no margin fit for the commentary of my calm, and it makes the world its page. ----- Related to God like twins in rivalry, they were always suspicious of each other, and razing each other with creation, so that he found there was nothing of God which he could not unmake, and nothing of Him that could not be remade as God's; they were as two bears in one den. ----- "Acts of faith will be performed by machine guns and rifles, less pleasant to God than the aroma of burning flesh," he muttered, "and so in these times to come there will be great relapses in the resolve of God, and he will level with fire the tallest buildings to sleepy lakes of glass - then when you feel the air sucked out of your lungs by the heat's yearning, know that this is God, his nostrils above you, bent down into the inferno and huffing the smell of it all; like a man with a cold, through a steamed rag." ----- It was the echoing voices of the old ones, through thick steeled forests and over scorched earth. Always just out of reach, a murder of crows judged my every footstep: Penniless and entirely out of breath, I washed my beautiful hands in the black acid's trough, but through it all the real stick in my spokes was the torment of my dreams. I fought off sleep with both fists and sometimes fire. With no more then a blow gun I made from an exhausted pen, I shot the stars out of the sky. When each one fell sparkling to the ground I made wishes that never came true. Apparitions of angels with angry eyes came with each new moon. My own ghost began whispering to me. Trees died if I tried to climb them. The decision was made for me to begin interpreting real life just as I would nightmares.
-----
(I seduce my reflection when there's no one around)
(we go mono a mono on a bed of nails)
(word)
-----
To be in the heart's den, where nobody stops talking, and only Death will tell the truth.
To be in the heart's den, surrounded by petty ante emotions unreeling smoked anecdotes and factless autobiographies over a game of wist.
-----
Walk into the store with a pocket full of nickles, in a city full of car horns, jackhammers, and rape-whistles. The alleycats manipulate the plots with gutter-magic. Today the heart beats only out of habit. Walk into the store, same pockets, same nickles, in a city where every crack in the sidewalk is a symbol. Cigarettes, gum, and milk; bitterness, love, and violence; running with cannibals who bite the hand that feeds 'cause it tastes better than the food; insert laughter here. ----- There is some alarm in my vicinity which goes off like an apocalyptic klaxon nightly, and I do not know to what it is attached, so that every night is given over to the sensations of an air which carries desolation unaccountable wherever it goes. And yet, the more frequently it comes, the more prone I am to smoking on my fire escape in a furrow of calm, dug out of the noise, which is the width and breadth of my serenity, reflexive against such turmoil. I have come to think that the more wild and unruly a silhouette of its former glory the world becomes, the more expansively my stillness will entrench itself, until there is no margin fit for the commentary of my calm, and it makes the world its page. ----- Related to God like twins in rivalry, they were always suspicious of each other, and razing each other with creation, so that he found there was nothing of God which he could not unmake, and nothing of Him that could not be remade as God's; they were as two bears in one den. ----- "Acts of faith will be performed by machine guns and rifles, less pleasant to God than the aroma of burning flesh," he muttered, "and so in these times to come there will be great relapses in the resolve of God, and he will level with fire the tallest buildings to sleepy lakes of glass - then when you feel the air sucked out of your lungs by the heat's yearning, know that this is God, his nostrils above you, bent down into the inferno and huffing the smell of it all; like a man with a cold, through a steamed rag." ----- It was the echoing voices of the old ones, through thick steeled forests and over scorched earth. Always just out of reach, a murder of crows judged my every footstep: Penniless and entirely out of breath, I washed my beautiful hands in the black acid's trough, but through it all the real stick in my spokes was the torment of my dreams. I fought off sleep with both fists and sometimes fire. With no more then a blow gun I made from an exhausted pen, I shot the stars out of the sky. When each one fell sparkling to the ground I made wishes that never came true. Apparitions of angels with angry eyes came with each new moon. My own ghost began whispering to me. Trees died if I tried to climb them. The decision was made for me to begin interpreting real life just as I would nightmares.
-----
(I seduce my reflection when there's no one around)
(we go mono a mono on a bed of nails)
(word)
-----
To be in the heart's den, where nobody stops talking, and only Death will tell the truth.
