Thu, 31 Aug 2006

waiting for the concussion
1992. The things I turned down when I was young are things I would beg for now.

Gashes in my palms from the barbed-wire fence wrapped in dew-soaked t-shirt which I push with my fingertips over and over, off and on, trying to find a pressure which kills the pain. My glasses lost somewhere in the cornfield, squint to focus, my head falling back and catching with a jerk every few minutes, looking for an exit, ready to run. Some apartment I’ve never been in, or at least cannot remember, a conference in the kitchen as to what to do with me. Someone has to have a car, someone has to be able to take me home. I love everyone and everything but I am made graceless with this love and stand and stumble into a bookcase, steadying myself with my left hand while my right checks for my wallet in my jeans, some clown screaming how I’m getting blood all over his first editions. Now I love everyone but him, he is an impediment to my love, and I pull down the bookshelf and it felt good so I pulled down another one and it felt even better and I tried to pull down his desk when I feel hands on my arms pulling me outside and I think okay, here it comes, here it is.
(03:22.08.31.2006) [/scrytch] #