Currently, there is such a profligacy of blaring perversion available to our held, wearing lids that our minds do not get to stretch out erotically enough on their own, and it’s difficult to achieve a hard-on from a book. Sometimes I become aroused languidly, lying in bed reading a particularly visceral, humid paragraph from Miller or rarely Lawrence, but that’s about it. That’s all I get for my somnolent reclusion.
Now that we have gorgeous and monstrous women with dozed looks in their eyes, ready to be savaged and ridiculed; submitting to every embarrassed incarnation of male carnality and aberration, flickering on our computer screen, available at the lick of a few fingertips – it is all dulled: imaginations frustrated because everything now can be imagined and carefully manipulated. Seen. And it’s a goddamned waste.
If only God could reanimate himself again and give all the puritans syphilis and us perverts our imaginations back!
Damn it, I think I lost my lighter in all my heathenized pontification! I had an identical set of silver Zippo lighters from a dead grandfather and a former lover. Eventually one was widowed, and now it seems all is lost.
Maybe some sleep will get me back.
If only I could sleep again.
In my dreams she was in a constant state of undress like the repetition of a visual mantra. Then she would turn dramatically into the ocean her aunt drowned in, and I would begin to see some poetry again. Some ghettoized balladry that once turned the clocks.
I am overwhelmed.
In my dreams I am in Poe’s lighthouse, looking for her as rising alabaster from the water.
Lilia, if only I could sleep I would see you again. It is as close as I can get to being beside you.
I remember our bed. When it was still ours. When you took off your socks, they would hide under the ruffled, never-made blanket for days at a time, collecting new compatriots every night for their exile like Napoleon convoking ghosts in Saint Helena.
I fall asleep finally, full of directionless acrimony and lazy piss, only to be awakened not an hour later by a thudding at my door.
It must be Samantha and the lock downstairs must be broken.
I’ll ignore her. Pretend that I’m out gallivanting somewhere like the stench in the New York drudgery, like a winter orphan in a drug store.
When I know she’s gone I’ll put a record on, and hope to wake up funereal but new, warmed by the hiss of vinyl softly skipping.
She probably came to tell me of her new vocation. She likely took a job as a spiritual tailor and probably got paid well for her trade. There was nothing of her wanted here.
It would be too easy of a lie. I have standards to keep and an allegiant longing to keep me working.
In those we love, there must be an instant recognition – a faculty to immediately see the person as a reoccurring face. Unimprovable. Eventual.
I did not find this in Samantha. Now I slowly become the animal domesticated to torpor and I want to see something beautiful again.
I write of this as I write of everything else: constantly, but not consistently.
The truth is that the best kind of love isn’t just another compulsory relapse into addiction; not just another gambit – it is a constant, resurrecting recidivism. A murder spree. An ardent danger that comforts you because it makes you realize that nothing truly matters but this womb you’ve found yourself ensconced in. It is conscription into a void of pulsating agony. It is pain if pain was any longer a word. It is an execution in an existentialist novel. It is an essay of colloquialisms on the form of irony: beautiful and cruel, and always dressed loftily in rags.
A woman has to learn to love you and be willing to kill you for that love.
As a man, all you need is wild eyes for her and a tender frenzy. Strength, with the capacity for frailty: ready to hold or capitulate underneath the world.
Eventually her features must grow somber with every drink I drink.
And I will likely call out to her as though she was truly there “baby – don’t you know that I need to sleep?! If only to see you clearer”.
Because my memory of you is my motif, my role as beggar, my appetite in a starving stomach. It is a virgin on the couch with Herod. It is a novel of erotica written on the cold moon. It is the truth some incontinent poet used as a vignetted aside while accepting the MacArthur fellowship.
In the merciless mire I find myself in search for a new voice. I’ve begun doubting my existing one. Its rasp no longer lush, no luster left, not at all as handsome as it had once been.
I need a new woman like a summit before me, before I am inured to the incertitude of barren meaning; one whose body can become my flexuous meal. I’ve been famished for far too long.
She could be the one to be strict with me; force me to write when I want to wither in quiet chaos and submit before my incapability. She could be a rewritten cynosure only for me to read. A road only for me to travel, only for me to starve along.
I want to live a little in the mystery, but I want to know her.
I want to realize her new name.
I want to taste her new taste. Rediscover the elegiac notes she moans like a prodigy, guided as her protégé: the slow of the lower neck, the small of her back, the soft of her knee, and then the planets revolve in a creation myth around a new sun. The light wakes the mendacious dead and we begin with stories of past lives.
We do as we must because we have been cured.
If only all of it was that simple.
Might be doing a short set at Art House on Thursday (March 1st) depending how struggling of a writer I am that particular day. But if you see me in Jersey City offer a dry man your flask.
1 McWilliams Place, 6th Floor
Jersey City, NJ 07302
SE Corner of Hamilton Park, near Erie/8th St