Routine is a worse lock. Or fort of fate, a habit of bliss. I can't keep up like this. Heaven is sickly, it's yellow, it's a stretch and covered in the chrome of film. Figure a layer. Meat.
I abandon so many bodies.
Here lie my habits: Biting or clenching, shoulder rolls, clearing throat, tap, the slip of tabs of poison into my rotwater or tea; stare into; chucking into the sink. That's it. See? The water is false. Just for show. What would I be then? What would I be thewn?
I used to count between the blooming of the hand. Never more than error, never less than X. A king puppet at the balcony. Questions remain, would surface like the bubbles in a swamp. Again: Dread in forecast. When once there was They, the day, looking back in bad health. Must payoff the threes. Keeping time was penance, and I am without penchant for that.
Smooth.
When wistful, I see myself as ember.
Transmission Stop.
Transmission Stop.
Transmission Stop. Stop. Cease semination.
Here lies the body of X-in-time, a man or brain that bears no remembrance. None of us gathered here may call to mind X-in-time, for he was a solitary (hah!) man, one that held congregation within himself. His soul, seriously now, no longer a part of an earthly body, may go freely into Heaven. XXX now presides in the body of—
A man roaming free on the plains. Cowboy of a man. Boy features. Manly, hard drive and discipline. Untaken. Not to be played, yet quivering. Breeding sensitive. Containing that multiple strength in multiples of ten and the frailty of a dandelion in a sour, shower, south wind. A lone drifter. Catamite. Drifting the plains, as he sees fit. Stopping for no man. Dropping for one. Bending, again, to no other one or will than his own, him, and even then, he puts up a hell of a fight. He's a man. Child! A high tale in wild—
Hand. Here.
Me: Convulsion box. Me: A dribble creak.
In fairness, I play dead; it used to strike me, render me dud and closed, its blown out phantom white seemed to access me, seethe on a mechanical plane; mold me reverent, as I had been found in that unordered place that exists only in trips. Fanciful fear. Then I fled. Now I stare.
I shall bite.
I know the hand, the shape and light of it, better than I know or ever knew an isolate of me. It, the hand, the light of it, is large. Thick. An attempt. Petals of puking and gulching light, of color, stretching, all orbed and swallowed in an invisible air of bubble list. A mean of cones or rays. Nor quaking. Held and hollow, up or right and in. Very soft. Let behind by gray crinkling, wired light and sound; all sound. Very soft. Gorged and iron, hot iron bent into itself, a ball. A swallowed lair. It's here. Or there ahead. I'm away from it. Familiar, I can breathe with it now—
Wait—
Wait.
In it.
What is it—
In it — no—
In it. Something. A square.
No—
In it. There, in the burp or fold or endless length and lilt—
It is holding something.
Inside, with the chimes.
Get them out—
Here, get them out of here. They are closing! They are closing, close please.
Please—
Go. Get it. What is it? (please) (god) What is it—
God could I move?
Should I move to—
Wait.
A square. Remember — remember the training from when you were growing, lucid scheming: Look at the thing then close your eyes then look at the thing. It can only be once. It's here—
My god.
A square, folded… paper.
Paper. A note.
That hand. (a note?)
What—
I can't reach inside it.
Were would it lead? What? Would it feed? Is it hot? No? My arm and hand, or—
It can't be inside — it is inside. Or not. (thank you) I have to. Would I be lead at all? Grabbed? Took? But what of the wall where it comes from? Where is—
You are not going anywhere.
So take it. Go. Move. Match it.
Can I?
My god it's full of—
Keep blinking (can never tell)—
The note. Only paper. Take it, coward, coach yourself and make it. Go into it — what else do you have left to melt?
Reach.
Closer. It is still tingling. It is still curling in waves. It's gray no it's white no—
Never white—
GET IT—
Ahh—
The black. Got it!
Blinking?
It's paper (here)—
Oh god how it feels (feel it)—
It's creased. Smooth it — DON'T put it to the ground to smooth it, my god. The grime. It must be clean to be read—
Read—
Wait?
Uhh—
This must not be! Rid! Can't be serious. No. No no. Bring back the light. Swallow the rind. Where's the use? It's here, or if it is it is maleficent. This isn't a shit! Not eating or pissing or shitting! This isn't it. No. None or nunc. Tract of not. Void. A void. Avoid — see? To be taken. Granted, in the body, put. For me and me alone. (but I built thrill here) Transmission stop. No eating. Transmission stop. Transmission stop. Ahh—
Father's face, light behind him. An evening light. Poplar trees, poplar not because I knew them but because I was told: Poplar. Taken in his hands, gripped by my armpits, pain that would eventually spread through the ribs. His face falling, the sun meeting its gait and rising, raising somehow to become level. A yard, square, colors as they should be. Grass and brown rainwet gate, sun the palest orange, a prism on the royal glass. Smiling. Beseeched. Grass, all below me. I knew that it was then distinctly a game, the want to wiggle out of his arms and go feet first into his face. Little boots to teeth. And how the hands seemed to grip much harder, right away—
Stop stop stop, you've done it all wrong. It should've taken longer to reach in and grab the paper, right? You must manage yourself, fit it to form! No! See? All ruined. And where do we go now? Where do I go now?
If I had blood—
Dogs. Dogless home. Clean. Carpets, verses of it. Mom often on her knees to scrub the brown out. She teethed. And the cherry, the sulted smoke, feet above her, angled, reclined, aware in periphery. Labor believed. Hard labor. We must work our way into the world.
Why make myself in history now when I can do so later?
And I can work you out of it.
The homebody. The woman in bed, me at the foot of it. Staring. Her feet rising and staid as buildings. The covers a sea. The XXXXXXX a king. The large orange tupperware bowl upped with vomit.
Enough of this.
What of a fly for company. A fat one. Buzzing a blessing. It could feed on my shit. The convenience! Alright, alright. A plan: Make gums bleed, all of us. Drip. Intone the request on the paper. Slip it back; palm it, then move forward. Two steps back, snap. Step: Fly! Here! Fat as ever. Loud, certainly a spirit, or a child in a pool with his shirt on. Maybe merely a chain? Its links turn maggot. Never ending. A replicant behest: MORE REPLICANTS. And that is all. The protein of stunted pointing. Fucking. Chain ganging.
Our spiritual is sung alone, long, and echoes cordially.
Oh how a manacle would have changed things. They cry on the other side; the static, daddy! The static! And all is fixed with the tweak of an antennae. Coming in clearly, darling. Love, layers, swept.