soul depository

I took a walk this morning, all alone. Well, there were birds flying all around, bugs through the green grass blades and holes in the dirt, but they weren't people, so I felt alone enough. I locked the door behind me. I could feel the difference between the inside of my house and the edge of the air outside. There's such a difference. When you're outside the sun's right there, no roof to protect you now, exposed to rain and fire and whatever wants to come get you. There were clouds so thick that it was totally impossible to tell what time it was, because there wasn't a sun. It was wasn't there. I turned heavenwards and all that was visible was cloud, thick clouds that had no edge. They might as well have wrapped all around the planet.

I didn't know where I was headed. I just had to get out. My house had been fine until just a few minutes prior to my leaving, when I realized I had been inside since waking. To get outside was to experience something new. I must always have something new. It is the reason I am all right with short relationships. Bang.

The air smelled very faintly of burning word, a deep pine aroma that had a singed touch. Somebody had a fire in their fireplace.

Grass grew faintly in cracks that ran along the side of the road. Sometimes the cracks were very wide. Sometimes there were veritable canyons making their way through the concrete. My bike tires did not like these spaces.

I flung my dresser shut. It creaked, like a grumbling porpoise who'd had too many cigarettes.

I like using eyedrops. I used to hate using them, absolutely hate, and it was horrendous because my eyes are so bad that I do not refer to a normal optometrist; oh no, in fact, I atend a ophthalmologist, aka witch doctor, who loves to splash things in my eye as to blind me, and it is, in fact, the point to blind me! But now the sensation is great. The greatness lies in the fact that it is so jarring, the drops splashing on the eye and then at once flowing across the surface, falling into every last wrinkle in the corners, and relative to body temperature, ferociously icy.

We found the right spot on the river and jumped,
And that roiling mess took us
Down and deep through the cracks
And tumbled our shapes, laughed at us, gave
Us every false hope that we could ever want,
Before yanking it away, rope burns still simmering
Across our palms.

I found a room one day, a new one, made
With old parts, familiar and friendly.
A door was on the floor, and I jumped on it.
Fell through, as I knew I would.
The tunnel led to more tunnels, ever branching,
Ever narrowing, until I must use my fingers
To yank at the roots that now burst through the ceiling.

The drinking fountain smelled like vomit. I had stumbled upon the fountain after sauntering into a movie theatre at the corner of Chesyard and Sylvan. I didn't know what time it was, or where I had been coming from, or why, for that matter, I was standing there, in front of that low jutting waterworks.
I reached into my pocket, and sure enough, bright as the sun, shone a movie ticket, with a bright holographic sheen over the logo of the theatre, the Grand Majestic. Various colors floated around the edges of the logo. My head throbbed. My short term memory was shot full of holes, and thoughts leaked and brimmed over endlessly. The movie was The Treasure of the Sierra Madre, 11:45 PM, theater seven. It was a real spaced-out moment when I realized I had no recollection of buying the tickets, or wanting to see the movie at all. I sat down just outside the door to the theatre, on a low bench with popcorn squished into the cracks. I tried my hardest to recall any recent memory of where I had been. Finally my thoughts began to coalesce, although rather dully. I was finally able to ascertain the last thing I had remembered: I was sitting in the toilet stall in the men's room of a dive bar on the edge of town. It was a dive bar with no windows, a joint that smelled ferociously odd - something between strong vinegar, mildew, vinyl, and the gunk in your car's center console, the stuff in the corner that hasn't been touched since stuff began to accumulate. Not a pleasant odor, for sure. I did not know what I was doing at such a place, seeing as how I don't drink, and don't have a whole lot of friends who drink a lot - but that's besides the point, because who says I do what my friends do? I just remember sitting in that stall. Now that could have been earlier today, or last night, and hopefully not anytime before that. Last night, even, was quite awhile ago.
As my thoughts drifted I just breathed, in and out, sometimes counting to five on the way, just one two three, you get the picture, then five, and I'd hold it and then let it out, counting from one again, to five, and then doing the whole thing over again, until I realized that I did have a movie ticket, and the movie was probably about to start. I didn't even know what time it was, actually. I pulled out my cell phone and was greeted with nothing - dead battery. My phone's battery lasted probably about ten hours, on average, before bleating about needing its electrical nourishment, wasting precious energy of its own in the process. Now it was dead, and I wasn't going to be able to resurrect it till I got back home, whenever, however. I got up, stretched slightly, and headed for the theatre door, hoping for the time to be somewhat close to 11:45.
I must had been going through a lot of bad luck lately, because things looked up. The previews were going, but also ending - the screen was now on theatre ads, threatening those without popcorn, sodas, or Milk Duds. I looked back, for a seat, and spotted, about a third of the way up the steps, a good spot, clear from people for several seats in either direction. I prowled up the steps, trying to be as quiet as possible, just for fun, but also because it was polite. I reached the proper row and hopped over to my seat, head slightly bowed in politeness. I bounced into a seat. Springs in the seat were very springy. They creaked loudly. Whoops. I stopped at once, like an escaped convict caught in the beam of a flashlight, holding my breath. Excruciating moments passed, endessly countlessly infinitesimal moments blipped across, and then I loosened suddenly, let out my breath, and slunk back into the chair, the delightful chair, and sleep was upon me.
I dreamed that I was a child of seven, in a park late at night, close to my original home. I dreamed that there was a giant monster in the park, on the other side of the jungle gym. I dreamed that I ran away from the jungle gym. I dreamed that he chased me. I dreamed that he caught me. I awoke with a start, saw something on the screen, with a cigarette, perhaps? It was all fuzzy and then my eyes were closed again, and I was not dreaming but merely thinking, thinking while asleep, and though I can't remember what it was exactly it was something about physics, and higher dimensions, and math, and it was over soon enough.
Something grabbed my arm. I was asleep. Then I awoke. They were still grabbing my arm. That's odd, I thought. My dreams had never came with me. The man looked slightly mutated in the face, although it was dark in the theatre.
"Out," he slurred.
" Wjuzahh?" was all I could come up with (the beginning space indicates several seconds, if you couldn't guess).
"Now - out!" came out of his mouth, louder this time. I stared into his eyes. I couldn't see anything in this dark. Slowly, I rolled forward, picked up momentum, and got on my feet. I walked right by him, and he didn't even move. What nerve! I could've kicked him. Really, though, it wouldn't have been the smartest thing to do. So I just coughed really loudly. It was all I could do without fear of getting punched, and even then I felt kind of daring. I crept out, increasing my pace and then skipping slightly. I reached the exit, and flung it open, hoping that it would hit somebody. I couldn't believe what happened next.
I spotted my car, a cheap thing, small but it could maximize its gas-sipping. And sip it did. Fifty miles per gallon or something like that! Optimally. I liked to slip it around corners, out-in-out of the curves and sometimes the back would come off the ground, or very nearly, and it would slide. Had to be careful about that. I got close and it made a little pip squeak pop noise when I pushed a button on my keychain. I walked up, opened my door, and began to sit down when I noticed the body in my backseat.

Sing to me, softly, hardly a whisper,
And remember it, this moment, please. The leaves flick
Effortlessly, through the air, whoosh past our ears
And smell like the scraps of lawn and organic drippings
That you let gather in your gutter for years, and allowed the rain to fall upon
Until they were no longer alive, but only a pulpy mash
That some wandering cats nibble upon, carefully,
Led there by their own noses. Gaze upwards,
Towards the stars, the stars that spin forever in circles
Over our heads. I open my mouth and all that can tumble out
Is filth, unrefined gunk, completely indecipherable to anyone.
The louder I shout, the more your ears hurt.

military ministers
plead into office,
their knives backed
by mothers' throats
hanging the sign
to poverty 'n' crime
two fingers stiff
pledging their vote
gallop all men
into opium mouths
clamors their hearts
where Cronus gropes
un-intelligibly
all suffrage sacked,
fools crowned God
and novelty's a Pope

                           
                               -oIo-

here i am cccrying JACK kerouac's dead!
fflat a s earthh.. fifty years late, exhausted.
kerouac's m i s s i n g; addicted in-stead!
where ends meet in right & ends meet their ends.
DEAD, Dead--..
A libation, young spark, blessed to bed
The road, swept! & lilacs hang over head
Yea, sleep! home in cherubim throne to wed
With Time eternal & ends where pen ends
Blessed to bed--
            Goodnight, JACK KEROUAC..

My mind's racing
By that I mean, it's
Tumbling around and
Being bombarded
By every thought that
I could ever think.

Why?

I couldn't ever tell you
That, because I'd probably be
Making it up. Or
It'd slip out of my head
Gushing into nothingness
And disintegrate, discorporate,
So I won't say. The
Real answer, is that
I don't know.

They still won't sit still,
Even though I've
Put the pen down for awhile.
You wouldn't know that,
So I'm telling you.
Metaphors, then? Birds and
Flowers and flames, and
capitalizations and whirpools
(With eddies accompanying)
But it just doesn't add up.

And now, we soon will see
Who showed up, looked at me
Perhaps by accident,
But what is ever meant
By "accident"? Begone,
Cruel meanings and curses!

No, now they've turned away,
Mouth shut, clamped, over
Nothing, to think, or say,
But to feel, mm, indeed,
To feel! Unravel, at my
Feet, slowly, but I
Don't notice, won't ever,
Until I grab at you, last
Chance, invoke muses,
Cross fingers, splinter wood
Through knockings unending.
Anticipation boundless, my
World will never end, or

We leap, and hope to
Land safely. Were you left
Behind? My apologies.
No? Where have you gone?
Where have you gone?

You're back, of course, but
This timeline, odd, when
Am I? I can only hope
That it is today, and then
Is tomorrow, and tomorrow and tomorrow!

I glimpsed a note on the ground,
addressed to me
I picked it up and opened it
and found something wonderful,
beautiful, and it looked at me.
It came and fluttered up
in front of me, so I reached up
and it flew away.

(this is not a poem, this is only the first step, it's got many more stanzas to come in the next months or maybe it doesn't, but I'd like to think it does)




We've barely spoken.
I've been too busy out, about,
around, under,
and maybe I've brushed your shoulder
accidentally, but before I even realize
that you're there, I'm already too far
down the path to stop, because why
should I turn around?



Wrote you a letter.
Re-wrote it a lot, made scribbles,
erasures, holes in the paper, all that.
You wouldn't know that, though.
Left it on your doorstep
and ran off, cowering
but I couldn't find anything
to hide behind, so I waited, for anything,
I waited some more
and more, and then a bit longer.


I wanted so badly, more than anything,
to build a bridge to you
but I couldn't find very much of anything
to make it with.
So I took a match, lit it, and dropped it
and watched, waiting the flames crawl towards
the meek rotten planks, transfixed,
nearly there now,
but I felt a tugging
somewhere deep inside; I
glanced up
and across the river,
there you were,
blazing eyes, grinning.

things splayed as things are
my mirror
missing

hallucinations knocking on me
windows open
winter flowing

voices breeding in the back
nevermind
no one's home

at five of coins,
the Fell still falling

the towel, tired,
dripping with human
musk & hung by hook
      -a blister'd touch
      these frozen months

as phantom freaks
creak in black
sterile night,
      as violent hymns
      hum, "we survived"

smoke gulped and
lungs pulp'd, buried
beneath electric sleep
      tossing to screams
      of father's demons

Comus now upon
the crown,
an hour before
the sun-- a
laugh orgy
erupting
scum, native
only
to Goya

the window shut
the sun outcast
and ants remain
from winter past
no orange warmth
nor Christmas cheer
for Christ sleeps dead
and winter's here

like
choking a kiss
from tragedy's lips,
my mangle of mess
      Miss Baudelaire

...

riding high
she's a friend of mine
drooling eyes

etc--
 

 

Petrified personalities, stills of 5th avenue; Industry! The love tax aether. The tiny taxonomy: pillow management, raven hearts.

Cinema! Dead comedy actress.

A face planted in the garden--red vibrations.

Consequently, he survived.

Walking past a chapel, an apple passing by.
Yellow cherry mornings, but smiles torn shy
till I pass by. A foreign whisper wanderlusting
for sense in young and old--for what I hold is
not a gun, but an English muffin pie.

Not a familiar face, whispered my reflection.

Life.

Hah! That last one was a pun!

Mystified, the Stooge speaks only in idiot syllables: "Puh, nay oh minh!" Citizens fooshing forward fanatic faces of greeen disgust. "Cursed," they mutter.

This really happened. I had my bike with me, a sweet red one with a bell; but a tire popped over a loose nail, so I walked home instead. Left the bike there. -Fucking trash. I threw the nail into some homeless man's eye. Then I stole his money. Poor beggar, cryin', "Spare me other eye! Pleash shtopff--" That's him choking on his own arm. I stopped at the market on the corner, Horatio's, tiny Mexican pad with everything locked up. I walk in, pull out my gun, and demand cash for all the coins I stole. Horatio's used to this. Except this time I shot him. Twice. One bullet for each kneecap he owned. Naturally, he didn't call the cops because I murdered him. Instead, the customers tried but I murdered them too. Afterwards, I realized the time and rushed home. 9:26. In four minutes, my most favorite series on television would begin. I arrived at the credits. The station had changed the time. Slightly perturbed by the station's lack of consideration for me, I marched into the kitchen and munched on a few tranquilizers and opiates amongst other things. Now here's where I don't quite remember all the details. I think I calmed down, phoned my nephew, and threatened to take his life if he didn't pay his debt to me. Last summer I bet him a dollar he couldn't dive into the pool from the roof of the house. And the stupid son of a bitch tried! Cracked his skull. Near killed me with laughter! Now when I was six years old I was already contriving mathematical formulae theorems. Not fuckin' up for a dollar. My nephew, scared and confused, hung up. I immediately destroyed my telephone and went to bed. My head hurt. I think I might've stabbed myself while in the kitchen. Yeah, yep. I'm still bleeding from it in fact. I must've fallen asleep real fast. I don't remember a thing after that--

A story conjured at Weston's insistence, to whom I give incredible thanks for making me find this in a drawer in my head:


_____________________________________

"Living is easy with eyes closed, misunderstanding all you see.
...
Always, no, sometimes, think it's me,
but, you know, I know when it's a dream.
I think, er, no, I mean, er, yes, but it's all wrong.
I mean, I think I disagree."
-John Lennon

___________________________________________

At the precipice of a dusty, gloomy moor, overwrought with the thickest of ivory vines and tendrils of rose stems bursting with thorns stood a mysterious sort of fellow, draped from head to toe in a old brown cloak. He peered out of the thing through some loose bundles worked apart near his eyes. His movements were slow, but full of great weight. Each step was considered very carefully. He looked back, upon the path he had been taking for all of these days. It had all led up to this. He had the chance, finally, to revisit old nightmares, and explore previously unknown corridors and pantries and who knows what else. He took a few steps back, and reached into his cloak, for something, near his hip, finally grasped it, the hilt shining in the blazing sunlight, and he lifted it (his sword, of course!) straight over his head, took a few running steps, and jumped, slashing downward at the inpenetrable barrier of the brambles and bark and spines and horrors, ripping patches, holes, thrashing and getting thrashed...





Several hours later, he blinked -



An hour after that, and another blink.

Ten minutes later, one eye opened, slowly. A few seconds, and the other eye opened. No that time meant anything here.
He felt around, blinked, struggled to his feet. Had it worked? Was he still asleep? Was he dreaming about a butterfly dreaming about...
The flowers around him twitched. Yes, still dreaming. But it had been awhile. How long? Awhile, at the very least. He had never gotten this far, surely not. What was going on in his head? When would it end? Where was it taking him? What could he possibly be conjuring up, or, what could possibly be conjuring him? Were dreams some sort of link to somewhere else, a proof that there was something a bit more menacing about reality that we had yet to understand? Could we be reaching a state of higher consciousness, only to have our dreams usually erased after we struggle to remember them each morning? Could we be living absolutely separate lives somewhere else? Where was the girl that I had been looking for? Could we meet, somewhere, if only for a moment?

He took off at an incredible pace, nothing slowing him down, continually accelerating till he was at a breakneck sprint, dodging between giant plants, flowers, and trees of every sort, sequoias, banyans, eucalyptuses (or is it eucalypti?), redwoods, and all the rest, spread all about the place, this place. What was it? He had seen it before, he had seen all of this before. Somewhere, some past experience, some distant, distant memory, had conjured up all the glorious forgotten remnants of his childhood, memories that had gotten themselves stuck into his head, sometimes accidentally, and sometimes intentionally, but usually somewhere in between. They were all here, staring back at him, and in the same way that incredibly distant stars can appear adjacent in their constellations, so did these memories juxtapose themselves in the oddest of manners. Here was something from third grade, there was something from the second week of the summer after eighth grade, and here was something from some unknown time, some mysterious and fantastic time. A past dream, perhaps. A past life, perhaps.


After much more time had passed, and after he had breached the edge of the forest, he stumbled into a vast, open field at the bottom of some incredible canyon. Off in the distance he observed the spires of a castle, amber light leaking from its stone windows in the high towers. Again he began to run. Something tugged at him, somewhere deep within him twitched hesitantly, and he halted. He heard a pattering, like some sort of tapping, incessant, until he saw it - a horse. A horse, a big brown thing, with reins and everything, at his service. How wonderful.

He mounted the beast and was off, wind ripping through his hair, and it all felt so incredibly real. The cold breeze was biting, and tears streamed down his face to his cheeks and lips, which felt slightly chapped. The sun had crept noticeably closer to the horizon and as he approached the heart of the canyon he became engulfed in a deep shadow, relying on the horse's dexterity to keep him out of harm's way. He had seen a gradual path at the back of the canyon that seemed to snake its way to the doors of the castle, but he wasn't sure anymore. All he could see were his reins, leading off into the black. He was not frightened, which surprised him. He was unsure of what would come of this. Fear is natural, and healthy, but this time he felt nothing.

After a time he could feel that his setting had changed. The horse's hooves' rhythm had changed, to a stuttering stumbling beat, staccato interplays interrupting the solace of the wind and the sheer feeling of emptiness that pervaded the place. They were angled up, on some steep path winding into the heavens. He was alone here; at least; nearly.

Off in the distance, lights slowly faded into view, pinpricks forming themselves into discernable shapes, definite forms, a tower, built of stones and earth and iron and rust and memories which were the fabric of this dream, but what's a dream anyway? To steal from the venerable Chuang Tzu, am I a butterfly dreaming of being a person dreaming of being here? It was impossible to say.

His eyes finally adjusted to the darkness, and he could tell the fortress he was approaching was magnificent and grand and yet had an intensely frightening, Gothic disposition about itself. He dismounted the steed (which quickly galloped off, as if yanked away), approached with tense, quick steps, slightly crouched. The door was pitched open, ever so slightly, but even a very acute angle at still means a great opening on these vast scales, and he stepped through. He found himself in an incredibly vast room, drenched in scarlet hues all around. A double set of slowly twisting staircases stood at the end of the grand, mirrored hall.

He was close. At this point he felt a presence, accompanying his soul, finally, once again he could feel it, and he took a step, and another, and he knew that it was right, finally, all of those nights of fruitless exploration and he had accomplished the impossible. He tore up the stairs, faster than ever, took a leap and found himself flying, bounding over the steps like they were trampolines. He had it. Labyrinthine hallways stretched everywhere, but he knew exactly where to go. The energy drew him. He turned, ran, leapt, sprinted, stumbled, struggled against his fatigue, which was setting in unexpectedly. He was almost there, his dreams had almost fixed it all, he was almost to the right door. He could see the door and he ripped at it and fumbled with the lock and he threw open the door and staggered in, limped to the bed, and he saw, and it was indeed exactly everything that he had hoped, and he had been right, all along, and he had made it, and she was beautif-


His eyes snapped open. He was in his bed.
Minutes passed. He slowly closed his eyes. They fluttered a bit, before he finally realized that it was morning, and he was awake - but what had just happened? He could distantly recall something, somewhere that he had been, and his stomach had knotted in that extraordinary way that meant that something very big and important had just occurred, but he didn't know what it was, and the memory soon faded, and he got up, put on his clothes, made himself some breakfast, and forgot all about everything, for the time being. But it had still happened, and somewhere, deep within him, he knew that it had, and he wasn't sure how he knew, but he knew that she would be there, waiting for him, one day, and this time, it would be real.

i hear them clasping the edge of the knob! howl unutterably AHhhhhHH fangs tilting towards my very certain doom Pounding AHAHhhhhh a red futuree...!

A certain familiar strain, doctor. Wh-y-what?! Yes, very similar to the incident at Delta 9-87... BUT STRONGER! The doctor snatched the report from the nurse. No, ,.Unbleivmeable! How...'d they MANAGE?
Shrieks erupt loud -- A rushmore curse! An epidemiological mutant. Parasites- fangs, tongue, and gills. Oh and don't forget wings, lazers and shotguns.--! Yes, these parasites, iinvade the mirac--- god help me--- le DRUG! What fatalities bound....

Lungs collapsed. Imbound explosions tarnish tarnips and tartiles tickling the sensitive phemoral glands. Oh, posh! a blank! not a drip of saturated steam. Nothing.

No fragrant bliss of bad cologne no silver sleep for men and gnomes no thinking cap no magnet naps no nothing forgetting something...

Forget weed. Let's shoot RAID. Yeah, who needs weed anyway? It's just dope shite, literally: Crap. MmmMMmm, can't wait to try some o' that nitrous oxide hustlin'. Murder! That Gets MeREAL high. Nothing else.. Used to be something else.. But that deead naow..

Grey oozed into the lovers, burned holes terror rifle bullets oogling out the eyeballs urging ugh enough.. a breathh.

red bubble pollution, spitting graves fungus fire shatter colossus ebony nether opium mothers, dead toxician laugh violet tearable blossoms vesuvian oppression

ughenoughughuh..

you have disappeared from this world
I know, because I've looked,
I hear third-hand accounts, but I can never find you
I search every bridge, knoll, tower, stump, and stream
With no result.
I'm in the wrong world.
I can't find the key.
I don't know the magic word.
Wherever did you escape to?




I could just let the ivy overgrow
and seep into the cracks
and let it disappear into nothingness
but I come back, and rip back the vines
and stare into the exposed layers, searching
for something that must be there
but I can't find it.
I could simply let go, but I like to keep things.
And watch them grow.
I find new doors, but each path
may have crossroads, in plain sight
or hidden.
I've been taking them awhile. Where do they lead?
An end appears. Hinges. A knob.
The door, which had been sealed shut,
opens.



Her car, passenger seat, I
notice a scrap of paper;
upon closer inspections, I spot some letters
poking through and peering up at me.
I slowly read the strip-
(in black ink)- "You affect people
more than you know."
My fingers tense, involuntarily, and have never
fully relaxed since.
I wonder why she had kept it.
I look up, slowly, back to the road
and smiled to myself.



Later
looking through pictures
noting resemblances
not caring, but knowing
that they existed.
More interconnected than I could imagine.
Same hair, same eyes, same words and insight and
mystery. New connotations, and euphemisms, and
personalities, but look hard enough
and they all look the same.
None of them look right, though, till now.

This one's been sitting open for a few days, waiting to be finished:


tendrils of thoughts reaching through the night sky
towards a branch in the tree, a gnarled old oak thing
beckoning for something, something we could only hope to ever know
luscious locks and dreads and sorrows and cacophonies
forever overarching the trail of dreams leading into hell
searching, feeling their way over the textured surfaces and organic architecture

a secret, what's this? I've found it on a shelf somewhere
and I know it's been hiding from me, but I never lose anything
even if I'd really like to.

ebullient
flowing
rivers
lakes
parade
streamers
laughing
running
lungs
fire
bridge
water
fish
koi
porter
kresge
trees
trees
stars
dreams