From: horsestorideon@hotmail.com
Subject: New Deluded Currency. two bills. washing dishes for lack of funds…
Date: October 30, 1998 11:42:58 PM PST
To: exit2k@hotmail.com, afw10@columbia.edu, mrvisible@worldnet.att.net, sejohnst@midway.uchicago.edu, shorning@willamette.edu, and 4 more…
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 them exiting the room
when 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.