everything is a quandary|
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Pal Non's LiveJournal:
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|Saturday, July 2nd, 2016|
|People talk about rock bottom like there is nothing under rock
I am raw nerves scraping. I don't wince, i blink.
I am responsible. I am fine. I pay my bills. I am fine.
I stay alert. I expect everything that might tear me down
from there i build.
I am tense, strung-out, unbearably constricted.
I am comfortable. I am confident in my decisions.
I pay attention to mirrors, find who's following,
shake them off.
I am a destructive force. I demolish. I level.
I am calm. I pick things up, one at a time.
I follow plans. I am cautious and meticulous,
Silhouetted by the wind, heavy lid and heavy heel,
Something like myself perpetuates itself in the imprint
of each foot fall.
Sustained by liquid, without form but not without shape,
Something like myself is manifested each moment
my mouth hangs dryly open.
I am shedding. I am sloughing skin invisibly.
I shave. I button my shirt. I maintain eye contact with
Something like myself practicing its expressions
hoping to be true.
Something like myself steadies itself on a stool.
I am disoriented. I am not upright nor aware.
I keep my head raised. I scan the parallel floor
for any sort of exit Current Mood: shitty poetry
|Thursday, May 23rd, 2013|
the cancer might come back. you might die. you are not allowed to be upset by hypotheticals. you've pretended not to be upset; now you have to pretend not to be a liar. you do not know if you are comforted or made fearful by death. the ego is like salt. satisfying but unhealthy. excess in tears. you are not your name, your accomplishments, your actions, your mistakes, your aspirations, your feelings, nor anything. your past excuses nothing. do not feel proud of kindness. do not be proud of your ideas. do not feel pride. things will be clear when you blink.
you allow yourself this little mercy. a few words to the aether. you are weak. you disguise your weakness with arrogance. you disguise your weakness in humility. you are not confident. you are not humble. you are a cipher. you dress in love and opinions. it is simply fashion and repugnant to you. the objects are solid and deserving and your feelings are a disservice because you are uncertain. you are barren. you cannot accept sympathy though you desperately want. and that is why.
everything becomes more terrifying daily as if you are coming closer and closer to something sublimely real. not even the pyrrhic victory of solipsism is open to you anymore. the idea of an early death rationalized mistakes. the reality of it stares into the funhouse mirrors of memory and the alien reflection is at turns comic and sobering. caricature and grotesque. you are permitted to flinch. that is all.
no art. no craft. no skill. no land. no progeny.
but after all, it is all you can do not to laugh aloud. just in case someone can hear.
and when you're alone. and, if you look in one direction for a moment too long, your eyes start to water.
your muscles tense
you look away and away
|Monday, August 29th, 2011|
|Time tries, we all do
Spinning glass threads to support
to stick. appalled at language dressing craven thoughts
and worse personalities crutching
on individuality limping forward awkwardly,
for those so lame. The glass though spinning,
spinning, the glass. shards and threads threads
and weaves and shards and
prisms and rainbows and
distortion and magnification and spinning.
And the blood because where is there not the blood the trails the sights the ugly stain the stains that darker and darker expand and grow and shrink and darken.
but still fetid and fecund pools of life of life from force
force from pressure pressure from force and pushing on
and off, off overlying undergone in digression myriad excuses
lapped and lapping and lapping
and eventually the tongue lolling familiar shapes
familiar phrases straight out how to say to say
pendulistic happenstance feel
the arc but miss the torque the vortex which itself misses
everything outside like the vaccuum like the prognosticator prophesy and and
but so pillory keep you upright pillory
sweet pain sweet fucking pain
|Sunday, October 17th, 2010|
|two imaginary people talk of an imaginary death in an imaginary place at an uncertain point in time
"you've got no sense of self," said one to the other.
"just to everyone else. i am completely ignorant of the impressions i make, but i know quite well how i make them," the other responded without eye contact hoping it would emphasize the point.
some rocks skittered down a hill, displaced by a purposeful shoe. they clacked about. some reached the bottom, others did not have the inertia.
"you and the rocks, every time. you're like a kid; it's always the same. it's like this indifferent, pensive stance, and it is totally transparent," said one to the other.
"the intentions of my action are rigorously considered before execution. don't worry, i know what i am doing," said the other sliding rocks into a small pile between his feet smirking slightly.
"i can never tell when you're joking. i think a lot of people have this problem with you," one said to say something. it may or may not have been true, but words don't care.
"just assume i am. joking. it's a lot easier when everything's funny," the other made eye contact. there was no trace of a smirk. deadpan. he thought it'd be pretty funny.
"it was a nice service anyway. everyone kept it together pretty well, didn't have to do many 'there, there's" said one, relieved to be candid. dealing with intense emotions, he always froze his face into pained empathy, and he would quietly hope that would be enough. "and all those chairs. i had no idea he knew so many people. but maybe he didn't. maybe a lot was like Familial Obligation. I swear to god i saw some asshole hitting on his cousin. that was fucked." a few more rocks were urged out of place.
"i had a eulogy planned. i wasn't gonna say what i said. i didn't want to be looking at a piece of paper with him behind me, like the words wouldn't just come and i needed some cheat sheet. so i worked on it for two days, in my head. almost nonstop. i guess that's almost the same thing i was trying to avoid, but no one would know." the other was shifting from his heels to the balls of his feet in the rhythm of his words. "then i got up there and felt like a dick. like i was trying to showcase some prowess in wrenching emotional oratory, like his death served as inspiration. like what i had to say was some great abstract monument to him. so instead i just let that tripe come out; i got anxious, and it just happened."
"you're just some guy to most of those people. i don't think anyone was expecting much, besides you said the things people are supposed to say. you fulfilled, like, the base requirements so some other schlubb wouldn't have to. 'i'm glad so many people made it to honor--" one is interrupted by the other
"i almost said "i'm glad he's dead' to like break the tension."
"he would've gotten a kick out of that."
"i'd've been crucified"
"he would've got a kick out of that too. you were right by the exit though. i think you would have made it out."
"then i would have missed out on the catering. to skip out on that spread would have been a tragedy."
one made a conscious decision not to laugh, despite his fondness for bad jokes, and the fact that, in many ways, that was a bad joke.
"i don't think we're mourning right. i don't think this is what people do, to mourn," one wasn't sure if he believed that. his words revealed no trace of uncertainty.
"mourning the dead is self-pity. I am sure he wouldn't/can't care, and it's supposed to be about him. It was his death." they stared at a horizon side by side, silent for a moment.
"this seems contrived," one said eyes still fixed. "it's like all these things built into my brain about what is and is not right. and this doesn't feel right, but i know there's no 'right' action or i think i do. but, this, on a hill. two people talking about the death of a friend..."
"making sad jokes, staring at the horizon, trying to come to terms with the impotence of the situation..." instead of continuing they both let the issue drop. something profane about that train of thought.
it bounced back
"a string quartet," the other suggested.
"playing something in a minor chord and the sun starts to set."
"oh shut the fuck up."
"and maybe a flock of birds or something migrating, and we turn our heads slowly to watch them go by, turning to specks then to nothing."
"then we walk away in opposite directions. the music gets louder or fades, i dunno."
"sorry." the other shrugged.
a plane passed above insignificantly.
"i forget there are people up there a lot. it's just, like, modern fauna or something," neither took note of that statement that either might have said.
"do you think this will, like, affect our conditioning somehow? one of us gets religious or starts to have, like, night terrors, or thinks he's trying to communicate through dreams, or maybe just, like, a nervous tic?" one nudged the pile of rocks between the other's legs to impel a response. a few more tumbled down stopping where they would. "anything like that?"
"speculating like that is just seeding your imagination," the other restored his small pile of rocks, and scooted them further away from the one. "and you say 'like' too much"
"i never notice saying it. it's filler while i put a sentence together."
"be more aware"
"i don't think it is too detrimental to my social interactions"
"i was just changing the subject."
an animal's screech sounds, echoes, and diffuses.
"peregrine falcon," the other offered.
"this is starting to feel stupid," the one shifted his weight.
"i don't actually know if that was a peregrine falcon."
"i figured, so i ignored it. seriously though, let's go. let's leave these ornithologic hangups behind."
"i don't know if i'm done staring the sky down. maybe when the stars come out i can make him a constellation," the other said drawing the air in front of him with his index finger.
"yeah let's go." he spread the pile of rocks out.
they didn't feel better but they felt different.
|Tuesday, September 14th, 2010|
|The Sneeze of a Peppered Bloodhound
In the hideous sunset of a blushing star, the black cutout of a Christ figure
hugging a red orb,
on the top of a cliff or hill or bluff
dreamily his eyes.
The certainty of a treadmill turf
under feet just barely (but
there) on the ground,
is slightly reminiscent of a passage
Slick, wet, confused
dew sits on the grass
It was never
sapped by the weak sun
that stradled its galaxy
like an unsure lover.
The red glanced at the sky,
an unplanned bon mot.
The bottoms of sycophantic clouds mirrored
less intensely the gradual darkening
in which the unknowing sky
was ignorantly complicit
|Friday, August 6th, 2010|
A life exists, just barely, in stroboscopic memories, spun backwards in dreams. Forward, the steps it takes in sync, half steps per Image, maybe less, maybe more, but always looking for a rhythm in the sputtering movements of a body. Lead or led, interminably the question persists. Sure of every footfall, it stumbles. The curb a quarter of an inch higher than remembered. A crash into the pavement is forfeited by the mad grasp for balance. It finds feet under it again, propelling. It realizes it may not be itself in that moment, but more Images flash in place of that semi-conscious thought. Again it moves, with more confidence. It knows the how high the curb breaks against the street. The certainty of its gait presumes unchecked, seemingly ready for the obstacles in its path. It knows the ground is flecked with inconsistencies. The feet adapt. The speed is unchecked, and the foot searches for aberrations, and changes position now that it knows nothing is flat; nothing is predictable.
The images persist unchecked.
An image arises, causes the life to shudder: An impostor undermining certainty. The life is unable to allow deviation. The impostor is true because the impostor spoke in action, like the step, like the curb. An understanding is suggested by The Images. It stumbles again, and life is thrown into chaos. The mad grasp for balance is forfeited by a simple suggestive Image that had nothing to do with movement. Then the appearances of others, floating quietly over the ground, comes from the perspective of the one that fell. It is remembered.
There are new Images.
Moments continue outside the (now failed) equilibrium. Others now dance in the realm of Gods. Their slights unseen, were never. The Images grant them omnipotence, omnipresence, and forgo their unseen foibles.
Life's steps sag in wonderment. The Images now ignoring the movement of something so simple and fallible as a body, flash faster. They argue for subservience under beings so perfect, or so clandestinely flawed. Eventually, the images move fast enough to become solid, and the body, not knowing where to direct its legs drops to its knees in submission to the the world manifested in a false step.
|Tuesday, June 15th, 2010|
|there's no excuse
always tomorrow. there'll be a notebook, pens, so easy. Take em from work like everything else.
This person smiled at me and said thank you
in a way that really struck me: that face, that face gone forever. even with some paper what am i gonna say. Small nose speckled with freckles, brown hair, plaid shorts, sympathetic eyes (imagination)?
but that person isn't the point.
Trying not to make myself the point either, but what're ya gonna do. not you. not ya. not anyone
what i am gonna do to stop making myself the point.
"live your life like a satire"
"You were fucking 17 you piece of shit."
The world swirls
friends and friends but no confidants
everyone's loyalty is split
away from you, but you told yourself twice this morning, in the mirror (movie worshipping fuck) that that's the way it should be.
And a statement
Like That. And somethings circling the drain,
Everyone knows you know how to kill yourself.
If you really wanted to kill yourself, you would have to kill yourself.
yet there's a compulsion to the thought. Like counting sheep.
I know, you know, i know how to count sheep. so i
i won't explain.
because i can't.
Til i get that notebook, those pens. when i close
my eyes and it is not (it is not)! a the fear of a flashing cursor waiting for my instructions
but a wrist dangling on the loop of a cursive q,
and in the text is what i am
and the thought disappears into a scribble
until i can bear the text.
|Friday, January 22nd, 2010|
|A short digression on the man on the sidewalk at 2 am
There is a man, on the sidewalk, at 2 am. There is man alone in the ink. There a man alone, a ballerina on cracks, dragging across concrete. There is a man studying the subtle variances, grades, and geological makeup of what supports him. there is a man walking on the sidewalk at 2 am and the same man returns like a ghost, but with meaning, property plus work plus a misplaced endearment. There again at 2 pm. and the eyes are down, studious, pedantic if someone were to ask about that particular strip of land. but why should they? His eyes down, studious, "i remember that crack." Then someone comes along. Some little nobody, who is somebody, but outside orbit. Eyes meet in territorial conflict. who will step aside? no one, because it is only the steps below that deem rights. an instant of nervous tension ended with a step. back to the delusion that it is all your's, and another step proves what a backglance denies. he was the only one around. no matter how many footprints. he is the only one around.
|Tuesday, December 29th, 2009|
|a certain fondness towards blizzards
A blizzard doesn't need thunder because the wind will find every crack and roar through it. it's all around but still personal. songs whistling to you just because your ears have holes and everything else shaking and yelling because it's in the way.
There's something soothing about the fact that despite being surrounded by the modern comforts our culture offers, if i were to lie down in a parking lot or field i could die. By the simple task of catching myself falling, propelling forward, i am keeping myself alive, kinetic. Even just shaking makes me aware of the biological preference overriding any melodramatic deathdriven thought. Every step is a tiny victory though the monument of the footprint is quickly obscured. Any destination is thought projected on a blankness (ha-ha-ha), and if i look up my eyes are diverted by melting dust, enough to sting but no real harm. it's like the city is wilderness; cars are just better adapted animals, and i am the only one trying, the only one that needs to try.
I slip, catch myself, hands wet and burning. Straighten up and wipe the snow off, the snot off, push through the banks of build up the plows coughed and spit in my way. and clouds of snow glimmer prismatic exploding light built up all day caught in labyrinthine unique hexagons. and there's a little boy drinking hot chocolate in a window wondering where the marshmallows go as they shrink into clouds. Tempted to stand there and watch him grow up. will he still wonder when he knows?
shake my head like someone's watching
start walking again like someone's watching
stop, over-casually light a cigarette like someone's watching
I wonder and know what my imaginary audience thinks because it's me all around. Bored by the actions but appreciative of the effort.
|Monday, September 7th, 2009|
|One foot in front of the other
and on and on like that. spurious glances around, looking for something. understanding, disbelief, anything that an be articulated. and i love everyone, and i want everyone around all the time, but mostly i want a sentence developed in my head spoken by someone on the outside clear of my prejudices.
and i'm here bewilderd and confused trying to find the right way, but the night sky makes me quiet and there it is.
every moment contains every me. sometimes there is a glimpse of a savage, demented me. tearing ripping and destroying logic. and it all goes in the storm drains cause it needs to get out of me. but there'll be a deluge that's too much, and i don't know what'll happen Current Mood: cold
|Monday, August 31st, 2009|
I feel like there is too far and strange a gap between me and everyone else. Even if i could move to close it, i wouldn't know the way. and that is fine.
|Tuesday, August 18th, 2009|
|Friday, July 24th, 2009|
I am pretty upset with everything in my life right now
Oh, except that my computer is back from the dead.
|Wednesday, July 22nd, 2009|
i can't get health insurance fast enough
|Monday, June 15th, 2009|
|Saturday, May 23rd, 2009|
|Friday, May 22nd, 2009|
|Sunday, May 17th, 2009|
|A summation of sorts
An episode like this, the world spinning beneath feet, no progress, and me, fighting vainly against it. Sure, I can beat it. so many miles per hour. me hanging on in bursts of energy thought long failed. but beating. heart beat perpetual. this is where you are where everyone has been. My dad might have cancer. two days to see. Maybe my panic is for nothing. maybe for something that will just go right. once. again. save me from being an adult. not that i'm not, just if it happens, if it happens, everyone knows. it might it might. but that's too much. there is no might. it won't. period if you can't see the punctuation. that's not how it goes. not for me. dented sure, sure i'll say that much. this is too much though. it won't happen. it's almost summer. renewal, revival.
there are other problems too. paled. false. in perspective now. still there. months, literal months of silence, and now this. piece of shit. broken down fuck machine. stupid goddamn fleshy robot. failing. this happens. it was supposed to be expected. slow smiles. jokes! jokes about fucking death! impossible. not right. not coherent. not much of anything. i'll just wait. it'll be alright. ya know. sometimes things are just, ya know, alright.
then there's that and this and everything else. it's fine. i only needed ten minutes. then it was back on the floor. back to the cow-eyed masses. looking for salvation in the clearance aisle. marked down nonsense no one will buy, not for 50 cents. but they'll look sure. what a deal. no problem, but we don't need it. who does?
and others going. going. it's good, everyone happy. isn't everyone happy? they should be. find a reason to be unhappy, and i'll show you a reason you gave too much creedance to (until it happens to me). and no matter what is said i chuckle, nod, wink, stare. an older lady at walgreen's looks at me, bloodshot eyes (mine). "It's alright. Life is good, not for us, but life is good" How can i fight a grin, so natural. I've been living my life in jokes, quips, sarcasm, i can relate. but i didn't laugh. I didn't think of a joke. I didn't even come up with a spur-of-the-moment eulogy, something i always expected of myself. it was just powerless, unwieldy. I was left to corners, avoiding eyes. deciding i was irrational. worked. worked all day. knowing knowing something wasn't right. knowing there was a possibility that, if all goes wrong then...
And what do i do with all that? i write. I drink, then i write. i drink and drink and drink, then write. as if it will be better. as if an aesthetic i find lost in the rabble, in my disjointed sentences will tell me something. true, solid, an actual thing instead of a something. it's there, maybe. the thing that will make me okay. hidden in code. morse code spacing. something. if i look hard enough. bust up every syllable the truth will be standing cold and afraid.
you can't imagine the nonsense on the rack pulling all sides. then again maybe you can, maybe you have, maybe this is all just melodramatic. i am afraid every disposition i assume at any given moment is inadequate somehow. i am missing something basic and human. but i might be OK. there's a chance. no matter what happens there is a chance i will be OK. that is as far as my hopes will allow me to go. all the way to maybe. Current Mood: fucking insane
|Wednesday, May 13th, 2009|
exceptance, resentment. acceptance
|Monday, April 27th, 2009|
nothing was beautiful and everything hurt