From: exit2k@hotmail.com
Subject: Re: less than a cheerleader, more than an answer
Date: November 4, 1998 5:16:28 PM EST
To: horsestorideon@hotmail.com
and you know some of them are enjoying it
and it’s there: so criticize.
This is public speaking. Hello, ladies and gentlemen, I’m here to
ask
you all why we are here, who you are, what I’m doing here, and why we
don’t all leave. I’m been very ill for a few days, so I’m shaking a
little and I think I need to go back to bed, or at least eat
breakfast.
Thank you for your time.
Mr. Eli, signing off.
this is a very kind guesture, eli
but do you really think they’ll respond?
this tactic has never worked for me…
but i guess one can always try.
actually i was being sarcastic. i did have breakfast tho, and that was
helpful. for lack of any better thing, and perhaps for other reasons,
i’ve been thinking all day, about mostly this what i wrote about. it’s
something that still puzzles me, and it’s something which seems
desperately important which you seem wildly blind to — and yet can’t i
speak it? i can try, again.
so we’ll start with a metaphor because we love metaphors, and we’ll
avoid similes because this morning i remembered the difference and was
filled with righteous anger against the one and that deep, sacred love
for the other.
you just might be a baloon filled with hot air. but not a hot air
balloon. a party balloon. and this might be the party to which we were
all invited, though not individually — which is an offense. we were
invited at a stroke, and we remain, and some of us are talking, but we
are blind-folded. you are the hostess, and you are feeding us best.
you are a party balloon filled with hot air, and you are making popcorn
inside, where it is hot, and the popcorn bounces around in the rubber
and the balloon gets bigger.
does anyone else have a feeling of impending disaster?
so the party balloon that keeps gettin hotter that is making popcorn
inside, this seems very important to me — but in the world of black
magic nothing is what it seems. and now the strenuous exercise of
shedding images and saying what one means.
which one is that? oh yes, me. here i am again, saying what i mean.
yee-ha.
the whole point of the game was to follow the rules
by not being able to see or touch or say anything really important >to
eachother about what we thought about eachother
but to talk about ourselves to eachother
in such a way
the other might learn something about us.
just like a party.
usually, i admit, i hate parties.
especially when i’m not warned long in advance.
but i’m having fun. i’m playing …
but the rules … why do i always feel like i missed the most important
part where everyone said everything that would allow everything else?
my problem i guess. attention dues … but, alas, having missed the
rules i do fail to follow along. o. well.
so, to say something important about something i think of you, Dominic,
I think that for as long as you can remember they all adored you and
they thought you were amazing and precious and you thought you were
worthless and you didn’t know why anything. You asked questions. It
didn’t help. You played along. It’s gotten you pretty far.
So this is the game. Everyone you know reads everything you write,
unless you read it in time to decide it’s worthless, in which case not.
If anyone writes it’s not about what you’ve written, which is ostensibly
what you wanted (? or a response in kind, but why would anyone else want
to do this? or, if there is someone who does, how did you know they
did? why did you think we wanted to play by your rules? what Are you
expecting from this? i’m asking questions again, very sorry …) but
rather about how amazing and precious they find you to be, which may
ostensibly not be what you wanted but seems somehow to be what you’ve
arranged the entire game around creating … or am i hallucinating again
… eating expensive paper … wastepaper …
i don’t think of you as amazing and precious and i don’t cherish every
word you write. i accept, but out of devotion, not praise. out of
curiosity, not commitment. i always hate parties, and i always stand
around wondering Why is everyone saying this again? Does anyone notice
what is going on? Has anyone wondered why we’re all standing in this
small room, drinking thin poison, waiting for oblivion or intercourse?
And I feel the same way now, and I want to play but I don’t understand
why anyone likes this game.
So I’m asking you, the person I know best at the party, to turn to me
and keep me company; you, who invited me to a party of people I don’t
know, and have been regaling us all with stories for so long, and
haven’t been hearing back and haven’t been noticing.
I’m tugging on your sleeve. Dominic, I’m blindfolded. Please, tell me,
are we having fun yet?
Are you having fun yet?
Are you forcing yourself to do something you hate?
Are you enjoying yourself?
Why is everyone watching you enjoy yourself?
There is some piece I’m missing, some element of the dynamic which
escapes me: loneliness? intoxicated abandon? how it feels when i need
a disaster? a ‘?’ after ‘i exist’?
i’m asking questions. i never stop, do i. do i.
i’ll give everyone a story soon. it’s just parties: i feel isolated,
judicial, insubordinate.
i’ll play by the rules, i promise. tomorrow.
the balloon. i think it is getting too big and nothing inside it is big
enough to sustain it. structureless bits. it is getting too hot. it
will pop. all the elements will survive.

From: horsestorideon@hotmail.com
Subject: brittle attempt at humour
Date: November 4, 1998 11:14:55 AM PST
To: exit2k@hotmail.com, afw10@columbia.edu, mrvisible@worldnet.att.net, sowinski@inetdirect.net, sejohnst@midway.uchicago.edu, and 26 more…
i watched this movie last night.
these thoughts were written on my arm
i didn’t get there…
not all the way there
but maybe later…
here’s a bit.
it’s part of the job, but i’ve got to say that i just don’t understand your politiks..
i almost feel sick.
i used to say that writing is failing.
that is, if you push it all out instead of just trying to live it
you’ve killed off and put into words
you’ve failed and left behind a body of works…
exhumed from your own living shell
now tell me what you have left.
i used to listen to people talking about days that were better
and me
in my realm of speculation [books and films and]
i saw many things that seemed, if not better, purer.
maybe less comfortable
maybe less simple
less affordable…
but they had their reasons and they had their consequences
and if you took their reasons you took their consequences
and you knew what you were getting into as you did it.
you had a country and a name.
respected your father… who loved you even if he didn’t know how to show it.
the people you dealt with may have been just as worried as you
but they did what they had to get along with you
as you were all they had
in the days of lesser transport.
shoes weren’t as comfortable and many people still walked with bare feet in the grass; on the dirt…
they pants scratched your legs up
no deoderants to cleanse you
no sun-block on your naked-skin.
the rules of living were the hard-facts
or facts of life
and were never said to be easy…
those men who had to work knew the meaning of their work
they sweat and lifted and moved and pulled
their purpose came from their loyalties and love of their fellows
so it goes.
i wasn’t there…
or, if i was
i left something un-finnished.
looking around me now i can take things in different ways:
i’ve learned the art of fooling myself so well that i couldn’t really tell you if i wasn’t.
if you pay no regard to the meaning or the message from the creator of the piece
you don’t care about God anymore
and if you aren’t interested in what’s going on outside of your vision
then you’ve learned the rules of the nuclear family
if you lust what you can’t see in yourself [anymore]
and take it in hand in an effort to hold it close
[close enough to be a part of you]
you’ve learned some excuses you know how to use.
i see it being cast off everyday, the importance of things.
it’s like any other lubricant
keeping things quiet
the large of the world got that way from practice
here
it didn’t happen because they needed it to move a plow or lift a pole
it was taken
hand in hand
as a sculpter
gleaned from magazines and co-workers
paid trainers.
men in gyms shaping themselves to the idea of what they want to be
with no idea why they’d ever use that mass outside of putting something back in the position they’d moved it from
[repition, like calendar days and alarm-clock settings]
i wanted to be big, once
i saw the strength in farmers in a rural town
and the movement of their swollen bellies under their shirts
the tightness of their shoulders as they lifted hay into the traughs
but i was so small then
and only trained in gyms
or on lawns, manicuring an exhibition of a some-dollar bill to the neighbours and strangers passing by in their cars
in these pointless acts [with out love, just the appearance of]
i thought of those i’d seen who carried around the burden of having prepared themselves through their everyday life
to live the next day
and week
and month
until it swallowed them whole.
they drilled late into the evenings, til the end of the year
so i’m riding around in a truck
and my feet hardly ever touch the ground anymore.
my jobs are less than sitting at a desk
speaking in a telephone
forcing the computer in front of me to think for the company that pays its wages
things are getting easier and softer and they fuzz out of focus before i can see them
it must be so hard
to pay all those bills
and swipe all those cards
and speak all those numbers…
i imagine why we’re getting thinner…
some of us.
i think of what it’s like when you start losing weight and you go about your business
when there is less and less of you touching the ground
your foot-prints get lighter past every sun-set
and you speak so little these days, sir
as if you had nothing to say to us…
the dreams of being in love with the world
of seeing those people
lush with life
with juicy arms you could dive into
shoulders made to swing up a lover onto a back
legs to go running to catch their desire
bodies alive in the air and the light
smiles with out pills and dentures and tooth-pasty grins
skin with out sores and bruises and
hair where there’s hair and skin where there isn’t
acceptance of living this life that they have
[it’s yr one go, kid… make the best of it or it’ll be hell]
it’s so rare these days to see people who haven’t given up
given in, to pay-checksand bills, medications and surgeries… nightly news and their favourite dramas
the excitement of lives that they’ll never be living
if i took off my shoes now
and touched the ground
could still go walking here
or might i get shot by a hunter?
a land owner?
a security gaurd?
if i took off my clothes
is there a way i could keep from getting arrested and fined?
this isn’t the life i signed up for.
i didn’t want to have to do it by the book and by the numbers.
i didn’t want to have to leave behind my body for pacemakers and prozac
i didn’t want to have to be wrong for leaving my class
i didn’t want to be so far from everyone else
to have to keep secrets
to have to say those things i’m not even thinking
i don’t want all of my thoughts tied up in despair
but i don’t want electro-shock therapy
and i don’t want any drugs
and i don’t want the radio or television or church to give me the answer

From: horsestorideon@hotmail.com
Subject: Re: less than a cheerleader, more than an answer
Date: November 4, 1998 11:13:14 AM PST
To: exit2k@hotmail.com
Cc: afw10@columbia.edu, mrvisible@worldnet.att.net, sowinski@inetdirect.net, sejohnst@midway.uchicago.edu, shorning@willamette.edu, gbrennan@willamette.edu, emcgarry@willamette.edu, gdelling@willamette.edu, and 20 more…
eli, i feel like i’ve answered all this shit before…
maybe i’m getting old and making excuses as my mind goes
maybe i’m just trying to escape this one
but what do you need to know?
why?
why.
i don’t know WHY
..
not on this one.
i don’t think it’s particularily useful..
i can tell you a story…
here goes
once i met this guy i never met
we still didn’t meet
and it took a long time
but then we met
and when we met we were really glad we’d met
but i had to leave.
i’m sure i didn’t really have to leave or anything
but i’d decided to
[i think all of you know about that]
so i left and me and this man kept meeting like this
very partially
and it was a different game with different rules
and there were many things we couldn’t say
and somethings we just didn’t know how to
and we made up a little plan
and we tried to follow it out
but
you know
things happen
and lives cave in
and when the dust clears
it’s empty.
[phew]
which is great
but harsh at times.
so, great but harsh, right…
and “if i asked you for something”
the whole point of the game was to follow the rules
by not being able to see or touch or say anything all that important to
eachother about what we thought about eachother
but to talk about ourselves to eachother
in such a way
the other might learn something about us
ground work
“HEy, leave the light on
just in case
so i can remember where you come from”
see
can you grab my tail?
can i take you for walk?
here: we’ll tour the folds.
if you have five seconds to spare
this is the story of my life
[et cetra]
if i give you everything will you still smile at me?
oh,
will it make you smile more?
i just had this conversation in the real world
‘when you lose respect for someone you begin to see them as they really are
then they’re just a person
and you can deal with them a lot better’
i’m sure you remember, i was on the phone with you,
angel.
are you looking for an answer? you couldn’t be so foolish.
but if you were, why would you be looking to everyone except the one who
knows you best? it’s an old trick, and i’ll pull it again.
why don’t you ever read anything you write?
why don’t you follow your own damned advice?
,pause,
i’m looking for an echo
each little rock has its own face, yeah?
i’m listening to the wind.
now, then there’s me…
yeah
i suppose i could read it
i suppose i should
but it’s so new
it’s so close to me
if read it right now
it won’t make any sense
and i’ll want to change it
and i don’t want to do that
you are far enough away from it so you can get a perspective
maybe it doesn’t make any sense to you either
but maybe it can.
You seem scared. It seems like, if you don’t do it fast and hard and
all the time you’ll stop and you’ll never do it again, never anything,
nowhere. It seems like that’s stupid, and you’ve made us your familiars
in a black magic spell
I’m a rat can type.
You’re a rat can type.
yeah.
i feel like if i don’t do it i won’t do it
i need to do something
and i don’t know what to do
look
i’m a kid
i’m just exploring
it’s what kids do
just stupid kids, exploring.
Do you exist when no one is looking?
Do you exist when less than forty people are looking?
How did you make the list? Do you know if anyone is enjoying it?
well, i haven’t been able to close my eyes all the way yet
so i’m always looking
and i can’t give you an answer beyond that, mr question.
i made the list by time
my thought an action
every person on here has either seen me or touched me or made me want to try
they’ve all given me life
if only once
if only sparse…
it means a lot to me
if only a so small
i’m still small
maybe i need all of these people to keep from disappearing…
you know i’m trying to stay around, eli…
i’m trying.
and you know some of them are enjoying it
and it’s there: so criticize.
This is public speaking. Hello, ladies and gentlemen, I’m here to ask
you all why we are here, who you are, what I’m doing here, and why we
don’t all leave. I’m been very ill for a few days, so I’m shaking a
little and I think I need to go back to bed, or at least eat breakfast.
Thank you for your time.
Mr. Eli, signing off.
this is a very kind guesture, eli
but do you really think they’ll respond?
this tactic has never worked for me…
but i guess one can always try.

From: horsestorideon@hotmail.com
Subject: Re: Here Is Your Pencil [rescheduling again; two fuckers biting at our heels but we love them SO much]
Date: November 4, 1998 11:11:57 AM PST
To: rsiken@hotmail.com
Cc: exit2k@hotmail.com, afw10@columbia.edu, mrvisible@worldnet.att.net, sowinski@inetdirect.net, sejohnst@midway.uchicago.edu, shorning@willamette.edu, gbrennan@willamette.edu, emcgarry@willamette.edu, and 20 more…
i tried responding to this last night when i first got it
but had already typed up the night’s mind-flush and was unable to stand what
i’d written
so i scrapped it
it was all about gesticulation, though
so i guess i will fill in your structure here
mister godly-eyes
forcing our worlds into yours
[i do want to try and explain it like this— this raping of reality: it’s
how we see it…
“all my pictures are confused”
this shaping of metaphoric sardonism doesn’t come all that naturally to me
i’m forcing everything trough a small dimpled tip to make pretty designs on
a cake for all my sweet hearts…
i’m vomiting, i’ve been told.
i’m trying too hard, but..]
Richard Siken wrote:
So you have caught the full moon in a bucket and seen our faces,
sleeping, at the bottom of the well. Have we been walking through your
dreams again? At night we leave the windows open and the morning finds
our shoes caked with mud. Our joys are the same as twelve Ethiopian
goats standing silent in the morning light. Our sorrows are slabs of
meat and ingots of copper.
you all flit through my mind
every one of you
[cute as a button]
though i rarely hear from the most of you on any sort of consistant basis
i have no idea as to what your lives are
[and hope they aren’t Just the mundane struggle of repeditive -every – day –
questions]
if you aren’t thinking of me
like i’m thinking of you
at least you’ll know i’m thinking of
or have or did or will
it’s HERE, you know
not like it’s anything special
it just is.
At night we place the milk pails in a row and morning comes and finds
them empty. Are those your footprints on the windowsill? What are you
trying to tell us? Do you simply want to remind us you’re alive? Are you
trying to build a suite of rooms for yourself inside our heads? Okay
then. Here: go on and pencil yourself in:
i’m trying to figure out if i’m alive.
it’s not all that easy
you can push people over all the time
if it’s just two corpses in a row
one pushes one
the both fall over
it’s not much of an accomplishment, really.
i’ve tried to crawl into the spaces you left ungaurded
with your help, ov course: you’re the ones pulling me in…
or not.
it’s like supplimental thinking, dear kid
i’m giving you Milk
[she knows what i’m saying]
i’m vomiting in my little birdies mouths
[that’s love, isn’t it?]
if you don’t get enough from you
maybe i’ll give you a little
and if you don’t get enough from me
maybe you’ll recognize it and do something.
maybe you don’t need to
maybe you’ve got a whole fucking field full of cows…
maybe i’m a wolf.
I’ll steal a car and take you to Hoover dam. We can stand around looking
nonchalant as one hundred thousand gallons of liquid fury pour out below
us every second. I’ll let you paint flames on the hood of the car. I’ll
let you drive. Or how about an all-night barbeque? A dance on the
courthouse lawn? Fried chicken and warm beer as the radio aches a
languid tune that tells the story of what the night is thinking. It’s
thinking of love. It’s thinking of stabbing us to death and leaving our
bodies in a dumpster.
Tell me again how you don’t believe in love. I’ll tell you again how
you’re a liar. Tonight, by the freeway, a man eating fruit pie with a
buck knife is carving his lover’s face into the motel wall. Let’s be
like him, the minutes gone plastic in our blood. Here: more stains in
the night. Here: more whiskey and kisses for everyone.
your sordid examples really aren’t helping
and i ask you to listen to me while you’re making the accusations
i don’t give a shit about the quiet desperation
i feel it all the time
i’m trying to start screaming:
it may end up in a song
or my thoat will just bleed forever
but it’s better than that fucking passivist bullshit of staying quiet one
more time
“one more time dear, i’ll let you have it tonight— if you don’t tell i’ll
pretend not to notice.
i’ll keep taking and you’ll keep crying and i really love you because this
is all you’re gonna get”
you want a story about love?
it isn’t that simple
and it’s hard to believe
it’s like Faith, mother fucker
which i don’t understand
and i have no proof for
it’s a feeling
like i don’t have feelings
it’s something Around the words and underneath…
don’t ever tell me i don’t think i believe in love
I wish I could tell you that I don’t sleep, that I see your face
everywhere, that I wander through the house at night, knocking over
lamps and tilting picture frames, lurching through the dark as if I had
coffins on my feet, grasping at the empty November air as if I could
somehow reach you. I wish I could tell you that I’m inconsolable, that I
come down to breakfast every morning tight-skinned and bleary-eyed. That
I sit there, poking at my eggs with a spoon. I don’t, though. I sleep
just fine.
My burden is a giant pear that floats like the moon. Your absence is an
armful of lilies cut for a shallow vase. Our house is one hundred
pitchers of clover honey. I wish I could say these things with feeling.
But why pour brandy on the fire? Why say anything at all? You put me on
your list as if you’re trying to tell me something. So what are you
trying to tell me little falcon, salt of happiness, favorite of all the
cats? Are you carving wooden shoes for me? Do you want to read the book
of my dreams by the light of the whites of your eyes?
dearest boy
[sigh]
i don’t ask any sort of dependance or despondancy…
i’m just telling you little bits of everything.
this has no point.
there is no grand message here.
nothing is being accomplished.
it’s just a game for kids
with empty heads
washed by dreams.
i’m trying to give you armfullsofflowers or saltedkittensofshoes
anything you want:
just take it.
this isn’t mine
it’s just part of me.
The space between all of us spells a word that you want to put your
mouth around — Twilight, Doorframe, Riverbed, Skin — a word like this
but not these words exactly. It should taste like bourbon and sound like
the hum of distant bees on a summer’s day. So imagine velocity, imagine
you are traveling fabulously towards us, a thing of cream and stars that
becomes, you know the story, simply Heaven in that faraway big band
sense that lasts for one song maybe.
Here is a map with our names for a capital. Here is a shovel to dig your
way in. Act Two, Scene One: backyard plays and cakes and dreams where
you take us and explode us with a more pure joy.
Come on, Slugger. Do it. Give it to us.
i’m on my way, but
have i ever?
[really, i leave the bursting up to you]

From: rsiken@hotmail.com
Subject: Here Is Your Pencil
Date: November 4, 1998 1:40:23 AM PST
To: exit2k@hotmail.com, afw10@columbia.edu, mrvisible@worldnet.att.net, sowinski@inetdirect.net, sejohnst@midway.uchicago.edu, shorning@willamette.edu, gbrennan@willamette.edu, emcgarry@willamette.edu, and 22 more…
So you have caught the full moon in a bucket and seen our faces,
sleeping, at the bottom of the well. Have we been walking through your
dreams again? At night we leave the windows open and the morning finds
our shoes caked with mud. Our joys are the same as twelve Ethiopian
goats standing silent in the morning light. Our sorrows are slabs of
meat and ingots of copper.
At night we place the milk pails in a row and morning comes and finds
them empty. Are those your footprints on the windowsill? What are you
trying to tell us? Do you simply want to remind us you’re alive? Are you
trying to build a suite of rooms for yourself inside our heads? Okay
then. Here: go on and pencil yourself in:
I’ll steal a car and take you to Hoover dam. We can stand around looking
nonchalant as one hundred thousand gallons of liquid fury pour out below
us every second. I’ll let you paint flames on the hood of the car. I’ll
let you drive. Or how about an all-night barbeque? A dance on the
courthouse lawn? Fried chicken and warm beer as the radio aches a
languid tune that tells the story of what the night is thinking. It’s
thinking of love. It’s thinking of stabbing us to death and leaving our
bodies in a dumpster.
Tell me again how you don’t believe in love. I’ll tell you again how
you’re a liar. Tonight, by the freeway, a man eating fruit pie with a
buck knife is carving his lover’s face into the motel wall. Let’s be
like him, the minutes gone plastic in our blood. Here: more stains in
the night. Here: more whiskey and kisses for everyone.
I wish I could tell you that I don’t sleep, that I see your face
everywhere, that I wander through the house at night, knocking over
lamps and tilting picture frames, lurching through the dark as if I had
coffins on my feet, grasping at the empty November air as if I could
somehow reach you. I wish I could tell you that I’m inconsolable, that I
come down to breakfast every morning tight-skinned and bleary-eyed. That
I sit there, poking at my eggs with a spoon. I don’t, though. I sleep
just fine.
My burden is a giant pear that floats like the moon. Your absence is an
armful of lilies cut for a shallow vase. Our house is one hundred
pitchers of clover honey. I wish I could say these things with feeling.
But why pour brandy on the fire? Why say anything at all? You put me on
your list as if you’re trying to tell me something. So what are you
trying to tell me little falcon, salt of happiness, favorite of all the
cats? Are you carving wooden shoes for me? Do you want to read the book
of my dreams by the light of the whites of your eyes?
The space between all of us spells a word that you want to put your
mouth around — Twilight, Doorframe, Riverbed, Skin — a word like this
but not these words exactly. It should taste like bourbon and sound like
the hum of distant bees on a summer’s day. So imagine velocity, imagine
you are traveling fabulously towards us, a thing of cream and stars that
becomes, you know the story, simply Heaven in that faraway big band
sense that lasts for one song maybe.
Here is a map with our names for a capital. Here is a shovel to dig your
way in. Act Two, Scene One: backyard plays and cakes and dreams where
you take us and explode us with a more pure joy.
Come on, Slugger. Do it. Give it to us.

From: horsestorideon@hotmail.com
Subject: ‘no no no. there are Things i have to DO HERE.’ no no no no. four visions you no-good-bastard.
Date: November 3, 1998 1:08:42 AM PST
To: exit2k@hotmail.com, afw10@columbia.edu, mrvisible@worldnet.att.net, sowinski@inetdirect.net, sejohnst@midway.uchicago.edu, and 24 more…
remember: when it’s comming down it’s sometimes best to go with it.
the boy turned to me
[we’d been setting like that for a good hour or so: my arm round his shoulder my other hand on his chest… all relaxed, like]
and he felt compelled to tell me a story about his child-hood
“why, you’re barely just a child as it is” i would have exclaimed, had i the inclination. but he knew my intentions and wasn’t hurt nor perplexed by my falisites. he continued on.
he had a voice like one i don’t think i could ever describe.. maybe just the path he took to find it. it was a sort of voice you might get if you imagined the way a voice Should sound… but got all worried about someone thinking you might be faking it so ye had to change it a bit so it didn’t sound like something that might be perfectly fit into a film or a song or a monologue or the like.. a voice that might shift a bit after you’ve heard it… not because it was trying to, but because it’d spent so much time trying to sound LIKE something that it didn’t really know what it sounded like ney more and it had to just carry on as it would.. as if you were hearing from a large group of people from all over the world who all seems slightly confused as to WHy they’d be talking with you anyway; the voice that boy had…
he used this voice to explain that when he was still just a child he found that he had to lie about some of the things he thought and did or he’d get in trouble. he said there were people out there that could tell if you did things right or wrong if you were lying to them… he said the only way you could protect yourself against the people out there who were trying to find you out was to Be what it was you were talking about. if you say something you’d better be it or they could see the trembling inconsitancies on your little face. he said he always looked for people’s quivering lips and chins… eye-brows too.
he told me that in all this lying he found himself forgetting what it was that he was or did or said or anything… not that he had a Bad memory, but because he had to … Change the things he had in his mind, lest anyone follow the path-ways of his eyes back into the silent rooms where he committed what ever it was that he’d done and needed NOt to have done.
he knew what he should or shouldn’t do: he’d heard enough people say it over and over…
that’s another thing he said… he told me that people will repeat things if they aren’t happy with your very self. he said they’d look at you a bit funny and say the same things over and over as if YOu were the one that was crazy.
well, he let me know, when the world treats you like you’re crazy then you must be crazy.
he said he took all of his father’s drill-bits and studied them.. seeing what would happen if his father wanted to release evil spirits from his skull… surely a crazy and bad boy would need that done to him… he said he always had to forget that fact or someone would see it in him. he told me he was always very frightened about lombotomies even before he knew what they were called.
he told me a story, in that dim and smoky light, about the time that his uncle had given him a key… a whole string of keys, in fact…enough to get out of ANYTHING… well, the boy knew about getting out of things, really, he did… and he looked at all these keys.. and one of them, his favourite, was a green key. he told me he held onto that key on a key-chain of its own. he said it was special. it was a blue plastic key-chain and a green metal key. he told me that he never let that one out of his pocket even though his brother was always taking his other keys: his brother was always taking his stuff.
well, one day… he can’t really remember that one day… he said he’s not sure of it being on account of something happening that day that he had to dis-remember or on account of that light. see, he told me that the green key he had was THE way out. he said that the key-holes seemed to be everywhere and all you needed to to was stick the key in and it’d open up THE way out and you could just go right through. he’d decided, he supposes, and he closed the door on the place where he didn’t really stay: it was a guest room at the time, he liked spending time in there where he felt more comfortable. well, he put that key in its hole and he flew across the room and hit the wall with a “thump”. he told me his mother said it was a “thump” so he knew it was a “thump” coz she was never too worried about dis-remembering things to make sure she knew what she was talking about because she hardly ever new what she was talking about anyway.
he said that THAT means he can’t leave yet… not until he can find another green key to get him out…
so, in that position, as the boy was still turned slightly toward me, enough to see half of his face shadowed by the direct lighting, i wanted to ask him about the rest… i wanted him to explain to me what it was like being like that. speaking like that.
i kissed him on the forehead because the poor little tike looked a bit sleepy and i didn’t want to put him out or anything like that. i let him rest and listened to the steady mumbling that poured out from his trembling lips as the sun rose for the rest of our day together. i watched the expressions change on his face from one boy to man to another and his syster or mother.. his look of total abandon and then pleading
as if
just now
he might have found what it was he thought he might want .

From: houseofthe2palms@hotmail.com
Subject: deep curtains
Date: November 3, 1998 12:02:15 AM PST
To: exit2k@hotmail.com, afw10@columbia.edu, mrvisible@worldnet.att.net, sowinski@inetdirect.net, sejohnst@midway.uchicago.edu, shorning@willamette.edu, gbrennan@willamette.edu, emcgarry@willamette.edu, and 22 more…
if no beginning again,
all pockmarks allowed
having to ask a quest
ion: takeit like a pill
is there a name for the self refrential portion of shakespearian
[or any] plays: youknow, where all the characters watch
their charicatures act out the larger twisting plot their stuck in:
r&j:: hamlet::
where they might catch a glimpse of themselves, even the actors
feeling their faces melt onto fellow actors play at actorsacting:
where the plotpath is
[simplified][generalized][encapsulated][cycling][hinted],
the plays motivators
disappearing in the onstage courttheater of saidking distracted by
murders
done deals.
done
with
‘theatertricks.’
is there a name i can use for the puppetshow portion, now that a
curtain has dropped on stage,
but hasnt sealed the 3rd space entirely,
protecting it from applause?
or
maybe anader question for someones fumbling hand:
can we write a list of the VILLIANS who could only see their tortures as
a gift:
giving the other one, the VICTIM, the opportunity VILLIAN was never
given.
or [maybe] just not enough of, regularly.
ready to cry,
happy to hurt:
i speak as
Hello&Mole.
“oh hello mole”

From: afw10@columbia.edu
Subject: A lack; space; a delusion
Date: November 2, 1998 2:40:49 PM EST
To: horsestorideon@hotmail.com
Cc: exit2k@hotmail.com, mrvisible@worldnet.att.net, sejohnst@midway.uchicago.edu, shorning@willamette.edu, and 4 more…
reply why not–bored at “(Wor(?)k:
and love, o love and love
and fucking and fucking and fucking
loneliness
obsession
no thoughts from me (hee) missing past cherryiats; rather agitated
stumble to where—there some place building warmth no duty possibly; but
rather rancid stench of ittie bittie poochie turds built up by rising
gentry rising fast up to even this height of man-hat isle: and putrid,
with riverside steeple a-shining—-must turn back
fuck place: prefer the tremors and ensuing (but aka ‘known’)
depression: back to the trusty couch where free to twitch moan jump
and scream
stare dep into the spoon’s eye:
—–do i think i completely rinsed the bastard
veins bursting with air
enter darkness trauma:
drunken serbians tumbling around
haunted by alternative endings for oscar awarded shit
k’tonka, k’tonka:
they felt the punctures repurcussing
k’tonka
k’tonka
streams of deadened bufalo
streams of post-haste shit
and cum that can’t believe to leave
rises again
o but that love and fucking and loneliness and obsession
but it will still be thought of now and now andnownownownownownow
but you know that whole line—-can’t think to avoid it
the dreams, but i am not yet asleep
but this night finally:first dream
the elevator;theprojects;7th&D
that first sweet spoonful straight off train skip down escalator jump into
restroom pop and rekindled
o i loved her and him and you:
but now

From: exit2k@hotmail.com
Subject: less than a cheerleader, more than an answer
Date: November 4, 1998 12:25:18 PM EST
To: afw10@columbia.edu, mrvisible@worldnet.att.net, sowinski@inetdirect.net, sejohnst@midway.uchicago.edu, shorning@willamette.edu, gbrennan@willamette.edu, emcgarry@willamette.edu, gdelling@willamette.edu, and 21 more…
and i Wish i had that many nouns! but, alas,
practice makes perfect, and someday my verbs will add up to something.
i think they’re up to something.
i think now, even, when no one is looking.
so i have a question —
Excuse me. I have a question.
I don’t understand. Why.
I’ve never understood why, but I came my own answer and it stuck,
you know, sticky and all [giggle]
and I kept it till it dried. I had to admit
with the lack of babies
that my answer was mine and I
don’t understand.
feeling weak, maybe queasy,
early morning,
still ill.
but bearing with me …
So I don’t understand.
I’m on a list of names and addresses, a list which has been given to me.
This list, were it to get into the wrong hands …
We could all be killed.
We could all be written to.
We could all be remembered, later, when it’s over and we are ashamed.
Black list.
Good list.
Santa’s list.
Chimney: :
: :
: :
: WHY :
: ARE :
: YOU :
:DOING:
:THIS?:
:”””””:
if you leave the fire on at night santa dies.
You send a message in a bottle:
No.
You send a bunch of messages in a bunch of bottles:
No.
You send the same message in forty different bottles, one for every name
you tried on and it didn’t fit and you ended up on the desert i–
No:
You send all our names in the bottle, and then you don’t send it. You
make magic.
You conjure us into your bottle, green genie grey, and we dance for your
delight. Forty days and forty nights he wandered in the desert, and the
devil tempted him and he refused. We surround you.
This is what I really see.
You brought us all together. Reply All you said. You brought us all
here for the purpose of watching you. We have booths. We can’t see
each other unless we speak to you. It’s a complicated multimedia
installation. It would be a community except it’s like the spokes of a
wheel and you maybe didn’t mean to be the hub but it’s important that
you pay attention to little
details
like that and not get carried away and think that oh
i know them all
they should know each other
cuz we don’t, even if we all think we’re pretty.
This is public speaking. I’d like to thank you all for coming out
tonight, in honor of our hub, Dominic. Dominic, come on out! Everyone,
let’s have a big round of applause for our Dominic! Yay!
and he stumbles out onto the stage, half-drunk, eyes rolling wildly. he
can barely walk, he trips on himself, he can’t speak. he gesticulates
wildly, inbetween trying to wipe something sticky off his chin. he
isn’t afraid, he isn’t ashamed. he just has no idea what to say except
everything and that would take so long.
but we wait, we’re patient.
we surround you, in a circle, and we approve. you twitch and stumble,
gag and scream, and we approve.
We all love you, Dominic. We always will.
we approve, you gain approval. you continue struggling, and eventually,
on the strength of our approval your confidence rises and rises, you
start dancing, you’re amazing, we clap again, a miracle has taken place,
you save the world, etc. THE END
except it probably wont happen that way, and I don’t know why there is a
list. I don’t know why you brought us all together, and I’d like to
think it’s not for approval, but then I’m so confused because what’s it
for. Just eyes? Understanding?
Anyone can watch.
No one will ever understand.
are you looking for an answer? you couldn’t be so foolish.
but if you were, why would you be looking to everyone except the one who
knows you best? it’s an old trick, and i’ll pull it again.
why don’t you ever read anything you write?
why don’t you follow your own damned advice?
You seem scared. It seems like, if you don’t do it fast and hard and
all the time you’ll stop and you’ll never do it again, never anything,
nowhere. It seems like that’s stupid, and you’ve made us your familiars
in a black magic spell
I’m a rat can type.
You’re a rat can type.
i had a dream about white rats last night they were bigger than our cat
they were from need you tonight they were named plague
Do you exist when no one is looking?
Do you exist when less than forty people are looking?
How did you make the list? Do you know if anyone is enjoying it?
I’m enjoying it. But I can’t help but criticize.
This is public speaking. Hello, ladies and gentlemen, I’m here to ask
you all why we are here, who you are, what I’m doing here, and why we
don’t all leave. I’m been very ill for a few days, so I’m shaking a
little and I think I need to go back to bed, or at least eat breakfast.
Thank you for your time.
Mr. Eli, signing off.

From: horsestorideon@hotmail.com
Subject: currencies in drinks: a screwdiver. a bloody mary. a shot of jagermister. [3]
Date: November 2, 1998 11:41:20 AM PST
To: exit2k@hotmail.com, afw10@columbia.edu, mrvisible@worldnet.att.net, sowinski@inetdirect.net, sejohnst@midway.uchicago.edu, and 24 more…
cold morning. cold enough so the throat is sore.
still in the fuzzy stages
knowing that boy, in the bunks down the way… one set under and at least 30[20(10)] dream-feet away. he’s clutching his groin like he were a woman. i thought he was a woman, the way he was clutching himself like that… the sound of them fucking woke me up and the way he was sobbing and clutching like that i thought the other guy’d just been too big for her. but it was a Him… and that changed everything… as his cupped hands moved away from his penis and tried to comfort his ass, he sobbed and writhed. his face glossy in the dim light of the morning. the hard-wood and dull colours only enhancing how distant and alone he was.
the many who fucked him into this state was angry as hell and buttoning his pants a few feet away. then further. he’s gone now.
i remember a bit ago when his ass was pushing in the way a fucker’s ass would push into that girl’s body [i tought he was a girl then]. hshe was writhing even then, little whimpering sounds you’d hear from small puppies needing milk with no eyes to get it.
and it’s a cold morning: i can tell.. my throat is hurting in the man i’m in bed with is moving around as men do in the morning. i know what he wants because i haven’t been giving him any. i’ve been sleeping in. since i’ve stopped taking all those drugs [all of them] my mind has become a much more frightening place to be. maybe i only thing this because i’ve been on holiday from there… but i’m certainly comming back now. maybe it doesn’t have anything to do with the drugs… it could be the atmosphereic pressure of fall forcing Back into my head.
regardless of WHY, my dreams have been knocking on my walls. they’ve been forcing me to pay attention.
just before the boy got… raped, as he did, we’d all been driving away from where we’d been… back to our bunks, that is. we’d all been at this old house in the country. a place of making noises, i guess. where someone used to be: now there was just us. an old theater in the morning light. next to: sun setting. emptying out through the wooden doors; all lights being extinguished.
his hand is on my cock. my mouth is so dry. he’s writhing like that and you can almost feel him SUCKING on you. his legs, his hand: they’re sucking on you. then his mouth… at least that’s a standard… most people just Suck with their mouth.
maybe i should do something for him, he’s been really … useful,helpful,something to me since i’ve been here. he’d said “i’m thinking about my cock in your mouth” but that dream. oh, fuck that [i’m not having sex as a favour right now]<<
but now he's thrown a leg over my body and he's trying to make his cock something appealing… something i'd WANT to put in my mouth. my mouth which is so dry… my tongue moves around clumbsly inside. from tooth to tooth and wall to wall. i can hear it sifting through the night's sleep. i try and get the saliva working.
and i can still enjoy his body… if only he wasn't in his cock right now… and i can still enjoy his cock.. if only that wasn't IT. and he's pressing it into my face; i hold it under my chin. i let it in. just a little, just the head. but he's forcing it in and i hate when they try and "fuck" my "face".
i make every inch of my body a message saying "fuck you, tiger" i cum on his back and he comes on my chest.
too many things like this and i'll be a fucking monk again…
the way that boy was clutching like that.
i've got to go<<
one of my reactions now-a-days is to cover my mouth.
i find i'm doing this all the time.
— there i am smiling, looking in the mirror with a hand across my mouth.
— there i am talking with someone as my shoulders jerk up and i'm slightly turning away; hand comming up to stop my teeth from showing.
— i'm talking to you, but you can only see part of it.
say you're with a construction worker.
say you've got a lot of work to do
and HE's saying something about the Lord.
ok, say you're in a BAR. say someone's made the kind move of takin you out Drinkin.
say they've taken you to not One, but Two bars.
one.
two.
ok.
so you're in the second bar and it's not really ok.
you try and explain this at one point
but he just buys you another drink.
"whattaya want?"
one.
two.
you get bad cigarettes and someone tells you
the first thing to escape their stone face
"those things'll kill you"
and you'd like to let him know that you know that.
you'd really like to let him know that you know that and have known that for a long time
but what happens if you join the long ranks of What She Said?
she, she's up on stage tonight. she's being a bitch tonight. she's walking around tonight. she's a real slut, and i mean that dearly. she's a whore in heals, rubber insoles… if it matters.
say you're in a bar
and it's gone on quite long enough
and you have to take to walking.
Imagaine this is the time you go for a walk.
you're there with friends and it's time to stroll around because it's getting a bit heavy [or some such inadequate adjective].. maybe it's the lights or the music or the people who won't look at you. don't know.
walk out of one room and so obviously into another.
past the table.
past the doors.
do your business and think about leaving…
[they're talking about someone at the urenals.. is it you? is it me? arrrgh, cover your mouth]
you're out the door again and you decide to stop and talk to someone you've been looking at for various reasons… reasons, you know: reasons.
it's "Hello. paul. aaron." and some other one: you can't recal his name… but he's the one you left with.
ok.
so you're in a fucking Bar. two of two: this is your second time at bat for the evening. two of two, right: you're in a bar and you're doing what you think you're supposed to do. there's steam on the windows and the lights are that nasty yellow… that colour that seems to make everything a complete waste.
bruce
his name was bruce, i remember. at the table, first person you got a name from, kid.
corner of 51st, in the rain outside the bar.
no
at the table
slight accent
frizzy hair up-top
longish goatee
hey, what was it? brown.
his name was bruce.
he said he was a contruction worker and he talked about the lord at some point… some point. something about a construction worker and something about me saying 'are you constructing your own reality?' something about the
and they have houses.
right, i was telling this story to someone about bruce.
bruce was introduced to me by julie… this girl that this one woman predicted i'd meet… it was all very important..
bruce used to work in a mental hospital… then they diagnosed him as severly manic depressive and he left…
we got on well. i was 17 and he was in his mid-twenties and
we drank a lot
we sang pulp together
i don't know if he's still alive
but i'd guess
that when this man said his name was bruce
[bruce, paul, aaron]
that he'd know better…
we're kindrid, our names…
we hang out… we're all in a club.
go ask dave
or jeff
for that matter…
the evening wasn't going too well
i remember laughing and saying something to the guy i was with about how i didn't work well in bars.. and this drag show that was going on..
these people…
i didn't
ok
bruce.
bruce in the car. not on the streets of england.
we didn't have a bottle of vodka this time
it didn't happen like that
not that well and not that majestic.
it was shit dance music
it wasn't classy pop songs pulped out into metaphors for your sorry existance
it was two men in a bar:
"So, this guy walks into a bar and he's been drinking already and i guess he's kinda fuct up ANYWAY and he's in this bar now and he's with soemone else who keeps buying him drinks that mainly feature vodka except one of them was a shot of jjaaaasaggggerrrmiiister.. which can cause problems with this guy who's a little fucctup. this guy walks into a bar and, we'll say, ends up at this table with three men now. well, he's the other. so there are four things at this table right now… he'd seen more and less.. and the guy that the cute twint was bouncing on is right there. he says 'hello' says 'my name is bruce' and the other says 'paul' and, ov course, there's aaron… who doens't introduce himself until paul already has. this guy walks into a bar and stands at this table looking at the three men there. well, one's a man, the other is a kid and the other is a queen, goatee and all. they're cute, you know, like the kind you'd want in a bar if you wanted to"
so, what do you do, then?
i'm all curious: you go to a bar and what are you supposed to do?
you drink?
are you supposed to fall over and wake up?
are you supposed to get coffee afterwards?
you're in a bar: are you supposed to remember it when you DO wake up?
is it worth it? come on, you know what i'm asking…
ok, say you're talking with someone
you like their smile
they have such a nice chin… delineated like that with their beard
like that
you like that
kinda
i mean
what's the point here?
am i picking you up?
ok
so a guy walks into a bar
look:
i'll tell a joke
' a guy walks into a bar and he stands at a table til he decides to sit and they get up, the contruction worker and this GUY like they're going to go build something, right? they jump this barricade… well the guy does… and they get yelled at so they leave the joint and they're outside. yeah, the man left the bar. fuck the bar: he just drank too much anyway. so a guy and this construction worker walk out of a bar (don't ask) and they're in the rain. what happens? ok the guy and the happy worker get a bit wet and walk around for a bit; stand on the corner of 51st and confusion to sit in the front seat [driver and passenger] of an old car. ish. kinda stationwagon thing. and then, like i said, the windows are all steamy and they're doing something in there. right, two guys walk out of a bar and they spend a good hour or so trying to get rain inside a car. the back seat. two guys trying to make rain '
[laughs]
now i'll have to catch a cab
coz the guy i came with isn't here anymore
and i'll tell him something when i get there
i'll tell him anything
it doesn't matter.
this night or the next.
it's LOve, you know
like picking someone up in a park, you know
like a million years with your lover
sugar, sugar honey
with your lover.
when he asks you for something
or if he'd like to see you
like that guy at the truck stop..
like if he'd like to see you
you don't know.
you don't know what to do about the future
not like this
not like fucking this.
you don't know if you should find another car
one with more heat
like two guys trying to make it rain
or just a room.
maybe you should find a room where no men can get in
when the rain comes down…
pretty safe in a desert, i'd say…
but who's to tell?
if you got a window
you gotta door
and people do the meanest things when they really set their minds to it…
i mean
if they put some effort into it
if they love you enough
they'll get inside
you know the feeling
you can't be alone
not even if you make rain for an hour in the back seat of something like a station wagon in a city you don't live in behind a bar you've only been in after the others you've walked out on with the people who always bring you there where they think they'll make you happy or focus on having a good time and the conversations aren't restless in the fading of a thought from alcohol and nicotiene or thc and opium like newspapers and television if you have enough to think about so you're busy as a bee making the world sweet and having it taken from you but you don't have any other function coz you love the queens and you wanna be good so you walk into these bars intoxicated on confusion and having some ideas that seem like good ideas and having some ideas that turn into action before they make it across your lips in the safety net of words
the action takes you
til you need a taxi to get back home
where you can fall asleep with your clothes on
and wake up
like usual, you know
just with a secret history
and draw out some conclusion
from being without a "someone"
on a rainy afternoon.
these are the times we could be together
my darling little boy…
when you get tired of all this walking in the rain
we'll sit and keep eachother warm
i'm here again
i'm here again
i'm waiting for you to come back
i'm busy
i'll be round in a minute

From: horsestorideon@hotmail.com
Subject: redispersments
Date: November 2, 1998 11:40:11 AM PST
To: exit2k@hotmail.com, afw10@columbia.edu, mrvisible@worldnet.att.net, sowinski@inetdirect.net, sejohnst@midway.uchicago.edu, and 24 more…
i know some of you have these already… but you have them AGAIN now.
you can give one away to your friends…alright
[he said]
1
2
alright
[he said]
one two
one two.
breathe
[he said, and took it upon himself to come up with a distraction]
one
two.
one two
[he thought, he kept it inside]
wait
[he noticed, and opened the book]
adverts
title
adverts
copy RIGHTs
dates
codes
title
authour
preface.
[he breathes.
you know the drill:
its
in
then
out
it may get tiring
it may be what we have to do
but all things can change]
wait
[he said]
one
TWO
one TWO.
i’m here again
[he knows: it gives him comfort]
my SOCKS!
[he screamed, though it never passed his lips]
i still have them on;
they’re WHITE.
funny…: i never noticed.
:
there was a time
[he remembers, it’s part of being human]
when i didn’t care about my socks.
i wore white socks.
i didn’t care about my socks.
i distinctly remember having white socks
supplied by my mother
no importance, you understand: just function.
[he breathes]
i distinctly remember black dress pants
slacks, if you will
(see, i never could… not then)
i can’t remember my stomach though
[he stops; puts his hand to his mouth…
tell me if he’s laughing
he might be trying to cry.
but maybe he’s just waiting
oh yes.
that’s it.]
wait.
one two.
one.
two.
wait.
[you could call it a sigh; he prefers ‘exhale’]
wait…
i’m getting to it
[another of those noises]
when i…
i can’t remember my stomach.
i was younger.
i ate less.
i was thinner..
or more muscular..?
no
i was dead.
forget it.
i had this body but i wasdeadandwhocouldsee?Ididn’t care.
oh shit
[he stops.. .has to think about this one.
we make mistakes… he and i… we do. see. get it? he and I?
(laughs)
we all make mistakes]
i’ve forgotten.
i once said… when i was younger
that life WOULD get easier…
but only as i got …
less able to cope.
less able to deal with living…
AS my mind deteriorates due to time and drugs and air
(coke cans, television, computers; bad conversations)
life will get easier because i won’t be able to think as well…
i’ll have to change my perspective to compensate for that
and i’ll just think things have got simpler
and they will…
i guess.
[he stops… he has to do this.]
wait
[exhale]
wait.
maybe i’ve got something really important to say.
ok.
let’s pretend i don’t leave this time, eh kid?
[no, that won’t do]
no, that won’t do… i already have.
where am i?
fuck…
where am i?
ok.
let’s pretend…
no, that won’t DO.
ok.
no.
it’s not OK.
i’ve left.
i’d say ‘i’m sorry’ but i have never found that to really do any good…
like saying “i love you”
or
rather
“I love you”
[he so whittingly scoffs]
that is…
[he stammers]
it doesn’t express what i need it to express…
this machine will… will not communicate…
[he took from his friend thom…;thom has only seen him twice.
probably]
no
these WORDS aren’t going to do it for me
sorry DEAR.
you SAID to me that “sorry” doesn’t mean anything if you say it all the time
you said
“stop saying ‘sorry'”
it wasn’t enough
it was never enough
maybe it was one of my earliest lies…
maybe i didn’t know what “sorry” was…
i’m so sorry…
i’m so..
look, i love you
[he taught himself]
i’ve never said that before
[i whisper it all the time]
nothing is true anymore.
there are no more absolutes
[you fool]
i’ve never said ‘ i love you ‘
i’ve never heard ” i love you ”
i’ve never seen :i love you:
my heart is dead and gone.
[inhale]
wait.
[one two.]
one
two.
wait.
i’m sorry.
wait.
[he’s so shy]
wait.
you haven’t the time, have you?
i’m sorry.
i’d like to make myself worthy of your time.
i’d like to be the one you’d come to
coz you needed me
but then you did.
well YEAH, but
[sigh]
yeah,,, but.
i’m DYING here…
there’s a WALL
you keep telling me about it
but don’t forget i’m on the other side of it
and i’m COLD and i don’t know how to get out
you keep telling me
you can see it
you can’t see me.
you don’t…
you can’t even touch me.
i’m cold.
i’m trapped in here.
[he’s also learning the lessons of desperation
he has a learning dis-ability.
he learned he could call it that
now he doesn’t know what IT is.]
wait.
ok.
let’s try again.
Hello. My name is Jeff. i’m not from around here, and i love you.
[he stole that too: this isn’t going anywhere]
hello.
hello.
i’ll go back again.
hello: i am alone here. i know i don’t have to be… but you’re not comming to me. Hello. i’m tired here. i’m a youthful boy but i’m scared. hello: i’m alone here and i’m calling out for you. hello: might we introduce ourselves? i don’t know your name. Hello: my name isn’t that well known either: i just have this shoddy one that was given to me… it makes me a killer. it makes me a dominator. hello: i still hate myself… but i don’t believe i’m that person. hello: i want to get out of here. i’m still here. hello. hello. i’m trying. i’m listing: i swear. don’t go. hello. i mean, HEllo. i’m here. i’m waiting for you to climb over. HELLO… i’m standing here with a dust-jacket on, hard-hat, gloves, jumpsuit, goggles. hello: where’s your hammer? where’s your fist? where’s your heart? hello: i don’t belive you, i don’t trust you, i can’t see you. hello. i’m cold. this isn’t helping, i’m alone here. look: i’m trying; my throat’s bleeding. i’m cold. HELLO
HELLO
HELLO
hELLO.
i’m tired.
i’m wishing i could do it again.
hello
i love you
and i don’t even know your name
isn’t that enough?
isn’t that enough?
can’t i stop worrying about my socks?
my voice?
they way i’d like to sleep tonight?
can’t i just be quiet, bite my tongue right off?
hello
i’m sorry
i never meant a thing
i’m in the corner
i’m waiting for you
i’m crying in my sleep.
like i said: it’s cold here, all the lights have gone out. remember: it’s dark.. black on the inside and out. we can’t get through. we’re stuck. like i said: there’s a wall. i’ve learned a lot from you and you made me want to die. i’m sorry, what an excuse. i love you. i’ve learned a lot from you; you make me want to die. i’d like to meet you. i’d like to touch you. i’d like to be alive.
my hands are broken.
my head is broken: there’s a million places to go
who’s screaming loudest?
i can’t hear you…
i just want to be home.
but know i love you
and i want you
like i could want myself
i love you
and i’m waiting
til i think i’m worth enough
i love you
i need you
more than you probably know
but i can’t say it
and i can’t do it
i’m trapped behind this wall.
[i remember him so quiet. not like he was keeping it inside: it was practicle. see, he’s gotten me into this Rhythm-thing and it fucks up the words. i’ve got to breathe… to say: i remember when he was younger… and he thought he was so old. or maybe that wasn’t him… he can’t remember anymore. i remember him, so quiet, sitting by a wall. on top or underneath: he liked those things, you know. he had his reasons… built them up strong… high enough for towers. he had his reasons: defense from all that would destroy him. he saw the world as a war he wasn’t winning. or less, maybe: just a sad and tired game. there was no longer any meaning in getting around all the bases.. and the president meant nothing, like a priest or pope or wife. he thought this of things. he thought he knew it all. he thought he knew absolutely nothing… but that’s where words came in and left him looking like a fool. discrepencies, you know. these things he thought: they meant a lot, they kept him asking ‘why?’… like he could ever get an answer. back in the days of things he could believe, he kept his eyes opened wide. now he can’t see and hardly hear… another defense, he fears. this is life: Closing down when all excuses fail. the reason is gone and the memories blurred and he can hardly function. he doesn’t remember why anymore. see: i can look over at him and see him lying on the floor.. he’s getting sick. it’s cold in here… he’s nearly naked… lying on the floor. he’ll sleep like this, i know his sort.. he’ll try to make it into the next day. he knows if he gets up and goes to bed he’ll be stranded there… i guess he’s lost control. i guess he let it go. he let me in on this great idea a million months ago. but now: look at him: our darling dying boy. his mind is shot. his hands are still. his body’s giving in. he could run a million place, til his walls cave in. then it’s back to the blood,sea. it’s back home for that mote. he will no longer be]
the pretties girl i ever loved i met behind me in a social-sciences class when i was fifteen…
she didn’t really plus me then.
she was a year younger… something like that. she was really smart and she tried really hard.. and i respected that and all
but at that age, i was more interested in finding every reason i could to hate everyone around me so i needn’t be bothered thinking about what they thought.
we all have our hang-ups, you know.
i left her when i was 17.
we never got on.
i, in fact, was an adversary of her brother
when he wasn’t trying to make friends with me because he was just a down-cast loser
[like
my
self]
i spent sometime away from that place
but had to return less than a year later.
my wonderful re-entry was riddled with beer and solitude.
i’d cast-off my old friends like so much lice or lovers.
i’d decided it was best to return to a space of empty abandon… as i felt that i couldn’t deal at all with the world i’d been given. [more on that later]
she drove my sister to school everyday:
picked her up in the morning and brought her back in the evening, had she any time.
my sister and her sister were good friends.
they hated eachother at times
but i just took it that girls spent their time like that to keep themselves from thinking about cleaning and cookies and cocks…
you know, girls are always trying to keep from thinking about something or other.
but this girl walked down stairs where i was in my underwear and a cloud of guilt and compression…
as if the entire atmosphere i lived in was meant to crush me
like i’d spent my entire time in a pressure cooker and i was just waiting until i became tender and soft and you could pick the meat off the flesh and tell the chef
“oh dear, it MELTS in the mouth”
we went driving.
i showed her how i stole things [all the time] and how you DON’t get caught.
i took her all the places she thought you couldn’t go [so it seems]
i asked her what she wanted to do but would never do
and we did it.
we burned magazines in an underpass decorated by the stress and the tension of my grestest and farthest lover
we spraypainted our confusion and angst on the hoods of the beautiful christian boys who were at an away-football-game
we talked about things she didn’t really think could be talked about
we didn’t have to be a boy or a girl
and we weren’t.
the pretties girl i ever loved was introduced to my greatest and farthest lover in a cloud of pop music, stolen wine and puncturing orafices that hadn’t been dealth with.
i was the one who was cold on the floor;
they were under an afghan on the couch.
i loved them both so dearly…
so i decided she was always the one i wanted
so pretty, i thought.
we had a dinner part at my father’s other house
a camp
a cabin
we fought eachother out.
i don’t know, i loved her enough to give her acid and scream at her on the couch about MY world and how maybe she could see it
she sat on the floor enough to make me cry or shake or run
trying to show something i guess i never saw.
he put his hand on her foot
and she let him
and i was on my back…
staring at the ceiling in an effort to figure out why i couldn’t be as simple as a boy and girl…
i left them
as is my style
for a place where i didn’t think love could exist
[and manhattan was a good stomping ground too…]
phone calls and letters
[she sent them to me; i’d dial her up on her mother’s 888 number]
stuff of the movies
fourteen times over
i loved her and my lover she was getting fucked by.
i came back to them
and scared them all with stuff to put in the needles she supplied
with a foriegn friend
who my lover fucked around
but never got to the point.
i left her
to follow my lover
to a town where i could dry out
and stay drunk in my misery
of seeing postcards
and letters
to him everyday
comming to our mailbox
from her
and her wishes.
i translated her beauty for him
i bit my tongue til it bled.
she still called me when he never returned them. she still wanted me
in the way a person wants another person like they’d want themselves if they had the time.
a mirror, i wanted, i was, i was.
i loved her.
the prettiest girl i ever loved
cried on my bed
with the anger we’d always known.
my friends and my lover
the prettiest girl
…
we’d all been there before
we rooted her on
we secretly smiled.
she found me in her bed in the last mid-western city
she didn’t have time or the patience
as a boy so lazy as me.
a girl like that, so pretty and distant
a girl like that doesn’t need love from someone who can’t do anything with it but scream and run from town to town.
who needs a bouy you can’t rely on?
who needs a star
you can’t be sure will be there at night?
i’m learning about the prettiest things.
distance is a teacher: stand on a hill and look at your house:
watch the front door open
and the curtains pick up through the breeze…
watch the sun set
and the shadows move
you can’t see that in there
you need a broken perspective
why else would you try to run back to the past
in this present state
when you know what you’ve lost
and you’ve forgotten it’s LOST.
like every real friEND
theses days i say ‘i never lie’
i say ‘ i never say good-bye’
which isn’t exactly true [not that i’m aiming at that one, but…]
i can’t seem to ever mean it
but it does take its toll.
when i think of everyone i’ve ever let enter my life
from the most annoying mother fucker who’d bore holes into my starving body
to the last person on earth i never got to come inside me
or let me get inside them…
i always leave things up to chance, when it comes down to it.
[this, ov course, is today.]
i can’t imagine you not being there anymore.
and i don’t believe you if you say you’re staying away for good.
and it doesn’t hurt for you to say those things to me
it’s always much better than you not saying anything.
the first people in my life i knew i’d never lose
i thought were crazy
— they almost always prove themselves
even if i have to do all the work.
you know, they love you. they do what they can for you
but you must remember
they’re trying to do more than they can for themselves…:
it saves precious little space and time for you
[sometimes you have to find something else than that nasty duality]
if she hits your brother again
and breaks that ruler over his ass
you have to watch his face
to see the blushing and the tears
so you can remember the way he laughed when he got through the door
and closed it behind him with an extra sob
just to make the point.
you’ve got to try and remember all the parts you remember missing as they happened. you have to retro-fit the next life into this. you have to have it all before it happens so you can be ready in the real-time.
so my wrist says…
or said, rather.
you know they love you, lover…. they really do.
did.
whatever, they tried.
even though the bastard took to sticks in closed buildings where no one could hear you
it’s not an excuse to say you hate him:
why give him such credit in taking up your mind?
he’s done so many other wonderful things…
even when he cries and asks you to comfort him
it’s time to be hard, just like you: kid.
she’ll push you over into his lap anyway… it’s the history of the trade.
you have to keep these fucked up bastards with you for the rest of your life.. and any longer that you think may be necessary.
they didn’t get it right
they still aren’t
they’re tried filling you up and knocking you in
but you’re the one they made to carry them into the story
the one you’re writing to make them the heros
the ones who did it right
the ones who came out with a christmas card and a fishing rod
you have one hell of a responsibility
even if you never expect to pay it back.
well, they’re there… on the bottom shelf, the one with the door
no light
masionite
it’s cheap: but it’s a place for them to go.
and you can’t forget their mates… the ones who share their space…
claimed by all the kids you can’t forgive and can’t forget
they’re your friends
very best friends
they’d kick you when you’re down
and smile when they got you wet
yeah, turning you on like a fucking fountain
at least you can please someone, eh?
well, remember them down there
and the doors you run to find and slam behind you with a masterful turn of the little crowned button in the centre of the knob
the sound of the struggle on the other side of wood
while you look around your country wondering where to go.
still thinking about where to go when you have all these things to carry round… you don’t travel lite.
you’ve got the modle kinds ones
who didn’t get you killed at every crossing
few, yeah sure… but important because they only PREtended to make you feel like a fool because they knew they were no better than you.
these are the kids you loved, back then. the ones with the games and the toys and the grade. these are the roles you wish you could fill, though they made you as sick as the rest they didn’t push you away
well, not too far to get back.
and the images in mind,
a boy in black-leather. bleached hair. ear-ring. sunglasses blocking the eyes as you stroll out of the cornfields into suburbia where you have no history in this new skin
those things like that…
like the star [in some sport] who made them all happy or proud or other words that really didn’t make any sense at the time
but a goal is a goal, right?
gotta have something to aim at.
i mean, remember the kids
the ones in the river
the ones in the fields
the ones in the parks.
you’d take up the day under grasses and trees and the house-sitting.
imagine a world where you’re the winner. a crime-boss: it’s something to do: fuck those squares.
you never even knew you had it in you
[i guess it never came out]
until late at night
seventh grade?
what a game
fish.hook.and ____
it’s something to do if both of your are moving your hands at the same speed
twelve times a night? was that the record?
videogame. new cd. sneaking out and stealing your father’s cars…
gett itt off two more times before the sun cums up
we’ve got something to do.
next to
the maitenance man on the first job after many years of
“you smoke pot”
‘sure i do’
“want some”
‘sure i do’
and a back massage, maybe the only one you ever got and that huge bent thing in your mouth
it’s unspeakable, that condition, but it’s something work on with your friend…
which leads, of course, further into
the others: pick them out from the other school
or past kids you knew
and they knew them from church
[oh, i think that’s in a box under the bed]
who read books and had nothing so bland to do [as deal with you]
but you’re a persistant little fuck
your brother told you that was the only thing you ever did well
[annoy]
and you honed your skill like it was your only possesion…
what else could you do?
as you worked them into the idea of being a writer
the necessary adventures
and traumas
and scandals.
you set it up
like you have every story you’ve never written
about the parties
and loves
those things you lost…
broken, maybe.
you’ll have to have a loss somewhere..
a good friend; a lover.
make it older.
make it the same sex.
make it dirty as hell.
make it guilty.
sufficient.
you got a 31.32.33.
you’re friends knew him as 32
til a year later… you know how it goes.
he is on the middle shelf…
oh, was… you’ve moved him into the cubbard in the back of the room
now buried in magazines and old scribbled books.
don’t forget him: he’s getting married in four months
“marrieanne”
sweetsweetsweet: tie me up and put me on videotape and make me scream.
it’s alright if it makes you feel better you twat.
i love you.
i’ll keep you right
over
Here.
[you’r gonna break your dolls treatin’em like that]
ok.
so how many now?
i have a million in my life
and i’ll never let them go.
i mean… MOST of them are gone
or going
or comming back
or something
but the majority of them aren’t HERE, right…
they’re off on their own little thing
but i’ve got a secret…
like all the secrets i’ve got
it’s not real… so it doesn’t exist.
“i’m here with a cause. i’m holding the torch — In the Corner of your Room, can you hear me? and when you’re Dancing and Laughing and Finally LIVing hearmyvoiceinyourheadandthinkofme KINDLY”
it comes around like that.
things move into place
“the knight strikes at midnight”
it’s all like clockwork
when the hands have broken from the center
and the watch is on the end of a chain
attatched to a world
that can’t sit still
til it finished its dinner
can’t go to sleep
can’t wait til dawn
can’t get away
has way too many things to do
before it becomes easy enough to set the alarm and trust not to miss anything.
like walking the sidewalks and staring at the cracks of bad-luck or just killing your mother
better yet: put her in a lot of pain
so you can take her off the shelf
and dust her off
and give her the reason to make you not feel like a fool:
you got a purpose now, mr care-giver
you got SOMETHING to do.
like any crowded room
where you only notice the people in your life
and if you seem them
and they aren’t there yet
you needn’t worry
coz you know they will be.
any passing face. any drunken story. any days of too-much of some-thing. you can see them as you walk out the door. you can seem them in the next car over. you can see thX-Mozilla-Status: 8009hen you’re sitting down
having ordered already
having forked out the cash
which is worth more than the effort it takes you to go to them again
and again
and again.
maybe someday they’ll come back to you.
maybe you won’t have to wish and want and feel the lack
they’ll fill in your space for you
and you won’t have to move your hand to be sure they’re there.
you won’t have to invent them anymore
and fear turning around
to give yourself the chance to lose them.
just because you say ‘goodbye’ does’nt mean you mean it.
and just because you never write it doesn’t mean you’ve forgotten
and just because they never call
just because they’re never there
just because you’re still alone
it doesn’t mean i don’t miss you.

From: horsestorideon@hotmail.com
Subject: currency information kit.[v1]
Date: November 2, 1998 10:54:52 AM PST
To: exit2k@hotmail.com, afw10@columbia.edu, mrvisible@worldnet.att.net, sowinski@inetdirect.net, sejohnst@midway.uchicago.edu, and 24 more…
inhale.
‘alright, look.
all of you people are in my life somewhere…
i go through my pockets before i decide to finally take them off and
throw them into the machines
and you are what i find.
i guess that really isn’t up to you
but i want you to tell me if this is a bit of a waste,
rather, if you want off this list
you’re going to have to ask.
i figure
that if you’re at all interested in me
you’ll find me here from time to time…
i’ll try and be constant [as the northern star]
maybe these things you’ll be getting from me will just be something
consoling you’ll find in yr box from time-to-time
maybe you’ll read them [or whatever]
maybe you’ll talk back to us [us, please REPLY ALL]
maybe you’ll find yourself
either under your name
or not
you’ll probably show up somewhere…
i wanted to do this with my web page
and
all of this will probably end up on my web page
but i’m much more interested in getting it OUT right now
not presenting it
this shit is all raw, sorry about the typos and the like
you’ll just have to deal.
i’m trying to find the distance between our bellies…
all of us.
it’s unfair of me not to send these out, really.
it’s not an argument, it’s just a toy
i’ll show you one hand and that’s all i have unless you give me more,
right?
we have to be together somewhere
maybe we can find a place here.
dis
joint
ed.
sorry about that.
please excuse the mess:
we’re working to build you a better dominic.’
exhale.