31.dec.2003

I won't even miss a second of this year.

--

the countdown finally begins

I am cumbersome.
I am clumsy.
My mind is spurious and debauched and constantly elsewhere.

I run into walls, scrape my shoulders against doors, miscalculate depth perception; I have bruises and slits and razor burn and muscles that are barely visible in ordinary light, and because of all of this, I am insecure.

My flesh is pulling tighter over my body; the transition intrigues me. I caress my hip-bones, I press into the smooth, dented flesh between my rib-cage. I secretly delight in my narcissism.

I've been upstairs, candle-lit, recumbent, perusing the myriad of journals in the white cabinet of my bedroom, the volumes of pleas, Spanish poems, German sonnets, juxtaposed by their origins, content, the fantasies contained within, spelled out here with my obvious loathing of the conjunction "and".

There is so much in my head. Recounting it in all its quasi-promising glory would serve no justice to its intentions.

--

Languidly conversing with my Anna for seventeen minutes tonight, I told her of my previous entry, the seduction of cerebrums, the tonguing of psyches, all of the dark and pretty things I long to unleash in someone else.

She responded, "That's kind of creepy."

I tittered and said, "The joy is that the direction of this brain-romance doesn't mind that it's creepy."

I told her I would probably cry during the final seconds of 2003. She didn't understand. I elucidated in the only oblique manner I know how to sufficiently utilize.

She finally said, "Yeah, actually, it has been a rough year for you."

Tempestuousness at its most comely, finally broken of its seeming perpetuity. Take off the Gucci slippers, tidal wave. This resurrection is mine.

And I want you to call me in twenty-two hours, at my midnight, and tell me how bland it feels for you, as almost every experience seems for you, having seen the coming year an hour before me, just so I can murmur and purr and then bellow in utter and passionate rebellion of your ambivalence, "Happy Fucking New Year, darling-dear, we're finally free."

You can't say no this time.

--

time & machine