from: succubus in my pocket
I wonder if I turned off the gas
I look and before me all I can see has become something else
that will never be seen as anything else than what it’s
not. it will always be a image of an image stuck in a web
of begging hysteria, begging for another tomorrow and definition
to call its own.
I can barely see it, my velocity has increased, no one will
hear me scream beyond the furniture, or beyond the future.
the foundation of the house is beginning to crumble. maybe
it is begging to crumble, square oily clouds form above the
house, without asking lighting bolts strike the surrounding
area. the area strikes back and loses.
what www didn't know was that in the middle of this hail storm
my body and my mind were being stilled to a calm sheet of
glass floating on the dead sea; a natural state, a precursor
to spontaneous combustion and absolute stillness at the same
time; instantaneous rest in continuous motion. in the middle
of this mid-weather torrent the world vacated the premises
-
sometimes I like to go to the ends of movies,
such as “some like it hot,” where jack lemon is
riding in a boat with joey brown, off into the sunset, saying;
“you can’t marry me, I’m a man” and
joey brown responds with something like: it doesn't matter,
none of us are perfect. sometimes when I go and stand in front
of picasso's guernica, just stand there as a deaf mute during
a blitzkrieg, with wave-after-wave of bombers dropping relentless
screams upon screams, surrounding the atmosphere, I can do
nothing more than sit in a blank moment, freeze to death and
repeat, none of us are perfect.
sometimes I just have to leave and go to the land of nobody,
where no rumplstilzskin riddle is the gate keeper, no shoe
size is one size fits all. the heat is always above my head
and there is never juice in a box. it is the perfect place
to play switch the camel's back, where an electrician leaves
notes in advance of things needing fixing and they never-never
get fixed. language is made up that way, on the spot, releasing
all surface tension, before it happens.
the tree never quite turns from dissolvable summer foliage
to the lacy cusp of fall but hovers in-between, with warm-cool
days and cool-warm nights. I sit in the morning chill and
feel the warmth, sipping my black coffee, reading the latest
journal on aerodynamics, free birth and deep text analysis.
after a cup of coffee, I either stroll through the park that
has been subdivided with prior claims of association or by
the random unmarked grave.
it was a tuesday like any tuesday, or any day that is tuesday,
except sunday, which usually hangs around the calendar like
a cerebral syrup ready for insurrection. tuesday or any day
that is a tuesday, is a day when days begin at dawn, or any
day like that day, that ends at dusk. before and after certain
days that don't seem to mark an end or beginning. tuesday,
a third day or you could say, a second day, since sunday’s
never existed as a day, more a state of mind. tuesday or any
day was my favorite day. each tuesday or every day was marked
with a red star on the all-in-one-calendar from before time
to the end of the flashlight batteries.
I always notice the trees stood straighter, minds were sharper,
there weren't as many random shootings. I know that by wednesday
or thursday no one was considered a human being, no one was
allowed to explore hidden potential, the courts had ruled
on that years ago.
I always took the newspaper on tuesday even though it was
always monday’s news and always looked forward to wednesday
to find out what happened on tuesday. I was always confident
the world would never end since I would always hear about
it a day late. the tuesday news that came wednesday always
had an expose’ on how to say the right word at the right
time and dress for it. I always distrusted the right place
at the right time and the thought of spending days climbing
a ladder to the top, just to sit there. I knew it was nothing
more than the neighborhood leaf association handing out awards
for leaf raking.
there must be something without resolution, something where
the liquid at the edge spills onto the copper heating element
causing sparks to fly and mass confusion.
I say, no more to instant mash potatoes, no more to frozen
peas...
it seems useless unless I start my own form of revolution,
create a compound sentence that goes on for days, add my taxes
wrong, change my cellar structure, turn my chromosomes into
a byproduct of my own desire. I will become some kind of silly
carbon copy, I could recite random integers when asked for
a phone number, I could point to the nearest black ice patch,
I could flood congress with absurdly punctuated manifestos.
I need to do this before the everlast batteries fail. I must
find some way to to send a message to the world. I’ll
go as a clown, and wear the best clown outfit money can buy,
a bright red clown costume and spread the word. I will leave
the fluorescent green room and never come back.
just as I was about to leave, something,
I don't know why, maybe it was to make sure I turned the gas
off, or wondering if I'd taken tuesday’s paper in or
not, but I turned about to a while ago, sucking in of my life
reflected in a house of mirrors.
Bio:
kari edwards is author of iduna, O Books (2003),
a day in the life of p. , subpress collective (2002), a diary
of lies - Belladonna #27 by Belladonna Books (2002), and post/(pink)
Scarlet Press (2000). edwards’ work can also be found
in Scribner’s The Best American Poetry 2004 (2004),
Civil Disobediences: Poetics and Politics in Action, Coffee
House Press, 2004, Narrativity: Investigations by Writers,
Coach House, Toronto, (fall) 2004, Bisexuality and Transgenderism:
InterSEXions of the Others, Hawoth Presss, Inc. (2004), Experimental
Theology, Public Text 0.2., Seattle Research Institute (2003),
Blood and Tears: Poems for Matthew Shepard, Painted Leaf Press
(2000), Aufgabe, Tinfish, Mirage/Period(ical), Van Gogh’s
Ear, Amerikan Hotel, Boog City, 88: A
Journal of Contemporary American Poetry, Narrativity, Fulcrum:
an annual of poetry and aesthetics, Pom2, Shearsman, and Submodern
Fiction. kari can always be contacted at: terra1@sonic.net
