Its not until later that I realisze the beats of the drum that were coming from the neighbors party wrere like the sound of his footseteps coming down a hallway that echoes fror miles and that those footsteps that are coming down the hallway will inevitably lead to the door screeching open and screaming ompen and the words open open open this door up now open it up open it up get out of there come out now come out now and I am pmy heart races as my hands shake and aI hold as still as can because if I move if my arm of or leg or nhand moves a it moves at all, somehow I will be brought back into te present moment where instead, right now, right now, as I am siting with my hands and feet and clenched and my hands are held together tightly, right now I am allowed to go somewhere else in my heaehead, I am allowed to thing of a wallpaper that is cso neutral that there is absolutely no thought that goes iinto ait it is just the eyes watching the paper and the paper where it curls is something tsomething that my eyes are fixated on so tightly ound wound so inextricably around that tiny spot where the paper is curled bak and how the fleur de lys is repeated over over over over over and over again along the lines in crossword puzzle movmotion that somwhow, for a sa second and then some seconds after that, some more seconds after that, if my hands shake and suddently I beome aware of the shaking if suddenly I becomeaware of the shaking then at some point, at some point I am forced to hear that yelling, the screaming, and the knocking the pounding on the wooden door so hard that the door shakes, and the bibrations are so hard that they make my heart stu they make my heart and my words and my thoughts all stutter tso that I am forced to re clench my hands and stare ahead and then I stare at the bleached white twowels how they are so white except for a small patch of yellow copper sandy y dyellow beans poopopcorn yellow oil where they are not so white, where they are not white and I know that somwhow this brings me back to the shaking hands and the stuttering head, my head is so clear sometimes and then all of a sudden I can feel my heart and it drums againsg the cartilage of the ribs and it pulls thmy shoulder sforwards in its weins are arteries that force blood at paces so face, the freeways, the freeways they spin, oh jesus I’m dizzy now I’m dizzy why can’t he stop poundin g the door, is he smasmashing it down swith a hammer? Is he going to break through like the guy on the shining with an ax and then pear through with sucer eyes like the dog win the movie that one movie with saucer eyes that grighten and widen my own auntil they are so big that the lids disappear and the black of the iris pulls through the white, and wsoon there is no more white, there is only the toweles and the orchids and the cupborards of the kitchen and the lightbulds lightbulbs of the ceiling with which are white too and the columns of the door that are mathematically engineered to lok so white that the brain only sees white and that means that there is nothing that is black except for the back to black [Amy Winehouse died the day before this was written, on July 23,2011]] where the iris kind of bleads or melts like a dye like a Chinese [Japanese] liquidye that goes out of the pupils and through the whites of the ey and it spread blike spilled china ink out oand out and out and out COME OUT OF THERE TNOW I’M GOING TO KILL YOU GCOME OUT OF THAT ROOM UNLOCK THIS DOOR NOW , THO OH MY PLEASE DODONT KNOWCK THE DOOR DOWN. He’s oing to know the door don and the a showvel is going to splinter the wood and the eyes are saucers the eyes are sacuers and the djaddlkf ta;kldffjfjsad;flkfjd af;kfjeifkc, v the figers are not moving a I mean they coant stop moving bther is so much puling there is so much force behind the thoughts that the body compensates in rigid motions of send sned sned fire fire fire fire the message of pure chemical fear is shot through the blood and the footsteps come closer closer closer and that way I can almost feel the ryrhthms of the ethe feet that are at any minute minute going to yank [wrench, chicken-bend, smash, ]] the door open the light will flood in and the small pieces of light that surrounded the door will be absolutely gone, and then there will be white and screaming that something I did was so wrong that I am bein screamed at anow I am being choked , I cant breathe because I’m coking for some reason I ded something that means I’m choking in the bathroom because the footsteps mean the door and its handle is going to twists it is going to twist and shake and quivere and pull and squeak and sd- 40 until th kingd dom the kindgowm of god is wreching the thunder and lighting through the clouds and thre storm begins begins to fill the tub and the bathroom bloor is so wet because the rain in inis coing down throught the ceiling and the faucets are closed but dripping and soon the dripping turns to pouring my and my head feels dkind of dizzy dkind of dizzy ind of dizzy and my stomach feels like its going to re throw the things that are in it which is I don’t donw, something that wasn’t so great because it was too great and something that is made to be too great and too perfect somehow in my head doesn’t make it perfect, it sateras sit starts to look really ugly. It starts to look like a sterle scalpel the sterily is white, and the sheets are white and the feet that climp clom p patter pitter stopmp tromp through the wooden brick and marble hallways are louder like drubms the drumbs of mmahler the mahlers drums the cotton tick pitter pick is pounding against the old skin drums of the old drums made of the skin of cats that wawas also used on the PRINCE these oare the prnce tennis rathackets that at once once they workd we wer hitting the yellow green balls that aren’t white, they aren’t white, but they smell like chemical romance, and that smell is relesed when the pin pulls like the grenade, the grenade is pulls and then the racket is pulled pbakc and the grenade drops onto the groudnd the grenade drops to the gournd and it falls towed the grean towards the green that is not clay it is not white and it is not grass, though I wish so badly that it were tgreass because that way the grass willl hold my skin inside of it and I can lok up at the skies and my eyes will wander freely without the black or the iriss meltingng meliting like the ink of the pen that spears them so that I can watchit the cloudn and leave my heart that beats with the sting and an ache away I can put it away in a box for a while and it can stay there so it doesn’t have to hurt so badly the body doesn’t have to pull on the shouldings on the heart, and in the feet in the toes in the ear,s it at it alls pulls and its cant relese until someone says its ok oit ok nothing is going to hurt you right now, its gjust white is it not going to hurt iyou. Bu tht egrenade dor flourescenet green that smells like chemical romance issinks instantaneously into the tennis courts soft ground and the head is spillsspining oh my god I am so dizzy I am going to faint my head needs to stop my head needs to release and go between my legs so that I don’t thrown up throw up all over the tennneis oucourst and tehn I pull the cat racket tennis mallet back behind my back and pull it forward so that it strikes the grenade and the grenade goes into the air where it is airborne and thereis a sense of the body releasing because I know I’ve hit the ball and it hasn’t oh my god its going into the hands of the net, falls trapped intot he black sucked down and falls, bounces into the hairs of the court and I am sentenced.
His racket snaps. It snaps as it cracks against the ground after he up chucks the beautiful metel egg oar. It snaps and it makes a popping sound like breaking bone. Bone is breaking because the cat hyde is pulled so type it collapses, and the inkn in the eyes drips out of the soupy dish and into the cradle of the white, where it is no long a small dot but a pool of lake water dripipin because the darknesss of the lake is deep and the ocean water is full of life, but mostly because all I can hear is what is wrong with you/ why are you such a wussy ? you’re not even trying…. Do you want to go back? Is that what you want? You want me to take you back? Let’s go. The voice seems calm but it feels as if the veins are going to explode into firewords of blood platelettes. I am terrifred. Fred is not funny now, but that is what I want to hear, hey there its fred,
Oh there’s greg and the net and the broken rackette that is left behnd sunken bitter and sour and repulsive twisted and mangled half in half stuck nail head out where the head meets the eye of the garbage hole. hAnd the hole is black the hoel is stinky like poisen garbage rotting oranges and putrid snails slime and the beer of the regurgitated homeless man whose beard grows ever so sweet like mice meat like the tails growing from the lids of the eyes, the sour fuming alcohol mushrrom and green provolone, snot, uric acid, uranium, dishwater that has been found in the apartment of a murder crime. And the body is in the garbage there with the man who sleeps, who rests his head who cradles is body in newspaper, where are you? The lines of the coke are not coke but the lines of the metal racket, thgouh it would be poetic if it were wood. Its would be softer if it would be wood so that when it strikes my side, my collar, the inside of my knee, the pain isn’t so explosive. The pain is white, and the fire piston fire flies engine reffed and sparks igniting popping light bulbs, buzzed cut filaments gone dark and the grenade was launched poured stick thrown fired and tossed until the town is beaten balk. Black. But still the sheets are white and the towels are bleached, and the linens are wrapped in noisy celephane plastic sheets that could just as easily cover the dead. But its all white, and when its all white there is nothing to take the eyes away from the white, and all the white takes over the sour, the red, the fuscihia , the sandalwood, the chemical romance, the battery acid, the liquid nitrogen sending its wicked steam vat treasure cloud into the blazing fire skin. Burn you wretched wart a thoughsand a thousand thousandth time over so that the frozen dot on the tip of the thumb where the blood blister forms and the bruise of the impact is love. When does love feel like a frozen blister thmb tack? When its in the heal of the foot. When its stepped on so many times that the stepping becomes the foreshadowing of the breaking down of doors, the pulsing of an aching art, and the flinch of the head, the ears, the shoulders when my name is said too abruptly. Be brave yoou little wussy. Be brave you little wussy. You’re oing to have to learn how to be brave. Welcome to the real world. Welcome to helllll…. This is you’re world now,. You’re world is going to be my world. … or at least.. at least the world I wanted you’re going to manifest destiny…. Oh man oh dear god ar you crying? Why are you crying? Why are you being such a god damned baby? I’m so sorry . I’m so sorry I put a hole in the ten thousand dollar painting. I didn’t mean too. I was just playing. I was just playing. I was just trying to be a boy. I was just tying to be a boy a boy in a house a boy who runs a boy who is rosy checked and freckle dusted, but I pulled the ruler too far back and the ripped the canvas through the skin. I don’t want you to see me cry. Yo’re gonna have to learn to be a lot braver. Did you take anything. Listen to me? Did you take anything?
No.
The door is going to smash open and the veins are going to ignite my throat will squesse with heavy cream sin hands until air is gold precious fuel for the highest grade Beamer. Don’t touh that. Shit. I’m late. Don’t’ tell you’re mom what we talked about. Tdont tell your mom what a scumbag I am. That’s a direct quote from someone. Why are you driving so fast? You’re scaring me. No. you’re hurting me because my throat needs the air. The throat needs the sky and the leaves of the trees, and water and friends, and the scent of bravery. But mostly the throat needs love. There is none here, this is scalding water on open wounds where there is salt that is supposed to heal but burns right through the skin until later in the night, later when I try to pull the sheets over, my side yellow jelly bellow underbea tightens and I’m stung by the garden army of bees. Please don’t let him in. The doors are poison. The white towels are poisen. The orchids are beauful killers. Tricky tacky theifs of life. Leaches of substance green to live a sunbeam. But the white only flashes momentarily and then there is a realization that my shoulders can’t move because the muscles are sending signals to each cell that that cells are in danger, the the skin is in danger, the skin is pink with the rising cost of blood temperature tincture of time cucumber nimbus clouds benaththe hazel trees where the horses trot by and bring me back from where I dream, where I long to dream again.
White orchids delicately fall, draping themselves over the hedge of the granite-top/ granislab… by the sink, in the room where we sometimes watch a shownow. , in the room where white and black keys are touched to tucker a tune. Tough they grow for an inch for a mile, though they may wrap their leaching burning filaments around my throat until my breath is stuck… while that may happen, maybe, just maybe, there’s a way that I can tell myself that’s its not really going to kills me. That whatever doesn’t kill me—the white, the broken cat rack line egg, the drilling of the magnificent doors, the ice cream the melting vanilla that leaves the beans behind, the milk, the veins that look like they’re going to suffocate me—maybe there’s a chance that someday my heart doesn’t have to run heated over bone drums. The reaction to pull the shoulders up towards the ears is instantaneous, but for some reason, tonight, I recognize that its just her feet. And she’s walking towards the door. But tonight she passes by and does her thing. Tonight is not all the other nights. Tonight, though it is ugly and screeching, and loud, and very much unwanted, it is very much, absolutely under no circumstance beyond time travel, anything other than tonight. Not the other nights. Not the other days, but the night that is.
Popping filament glow strings
Burn
Snap trap boobie clap ‘’ save us, save us, save us all.”
Tennis ball grenade is launched
And ready to play
Acid Reflux puke star
The dress of a fresh tornado
Dished to the strings
Pierced, pulled, released, the aluminum lid of pain
hisses like a drop of water on iron grill in flames to steam
pssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss
“how great thou art…. How great thou art.”
Its so dark tonight
The Viking hums D4
One of the lightbulbs popped dark snapped to black
Fur – beast—noble – snack—loving tail beating hare stare-fixed horse-wide eyed with the smell of meats… just now steady breath has found his place of rest
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