Andromeda, Thinking of Men

Now I put my faith in astrology. Not the heavens, but their turning
and the points of light that break the void. Let me assure you
though, it’s all chaos up there, and they’re only myths I whisper.
Tell me I’m more beautiful than the Nereids. I’m not afraid,
I stopped believing in monsters, and chairs.

I’d still like you to save me though, to find me by the shore in chains.
I know it’s not very modern to want for you to come to me
here, bringing me the heads of the women you loved before.
Carry them over your back until you find me on the rocks,
you don’t know how long I’ve thought of men.

Before you came it was only uncles with jewels and hands,
but we can put that behind us once you’ve loosened things up.
I’ll let you run your finger along my gums, they say you can learn
a lot from the teeth. They’ll tell you things if you touch them right.
I really am eager to meet you, you know.

I told you it’s the turning, not the heavens themselves and it’s true.
The stars have houses we can’t see and they have ways of returning
like whales and certain turtles to the places they know. The stars are
faithful, and so I am too. Because I know you’ll come back to me
if I just put myself out there. Out here.

You can read these lists as much as you'd like but they won't help you unless you let them.

It's not that you're ignoring their words or pretending the diagnostics are faulty because they've never really been inside you the way that only you could ever be, because what's the point of thinking about things that way. It's exclusionary at the deepest level. It's elitist. It's more about this reluctance to apply these ideas to your own mode of being because you just don't really know what your own mode of being is. Can you paint a landscape with language? Is that even something you're concerned with?

Though even this is evasive and intellectually dishonest. The common theme running through every entry is just that you need to write to be a writer and that you aren't going to get better if you aren't doing it. Thinking about writing isn't practice and you need to stop pretending that it is. You can hone these critical skills as much as you'd like, train yourself to be able to really finely dissect the anatomy of these things, but do you really expect that to help you create? Does the anatomist become a better sculptor or does he just become more aware of the mistakes in the marble; the problems inherent in these materials?

"I'm fairly certain that playing videogames has given me unrealistic expectations when it comes to solving real problems. Independent of the scenario - a race of ravenous sentient robots, a wife lost in the folds of a parenthetical metanarrative, and so on - I can be expected to deliver a satisfactory resolution in twenty hours or less. More than satisfactory, in fact. I will recalibrate your entire concept of success as it relates to human endeavor.

I might leave a crack somewhere in the proceedings, something to allow for a sequel, sure - Navajo rugs, and so forth. But this oil thing exists at a point beyond my ability to usefully file it in my mind. I have a naive, quasi-religious faith in the capacity of people to resolve problems, borne of three decades plowed into interactive power fantasies and utopian science fiction. It's left me more or less paralyzed by the world-as-it-is." -Jerry Holkins

black hat

and you look but there's just nothing

and you're scrambling for some justification

because you can justify anything

but there's nothing when you look

so you have to wonder if maybe this endless recursion

of feeling bad because you don't feel bad enough

and feeling bad because you know you're bad

but not feeling worse because at least you know you're bad

as though anything's better

repeating to yourself over and over that you don't understand

how anyone smart can feel good

because anyone smart must know how horrible they are

how horrible and bad and not good they are

i am horrible and bad and not good

but doesn't it feel good to say

to justify anything by knowing how horriblebadgoodnot you are

so of course you would act horrible

act bad, you don't know any other way

so in finding nothing, you find something

to justify anything because you are so fucking smart.

quiverhold

it is, eat or be eaten.

she's the only one can feel the underearth burn through concrete.

stinks like carrion, arrow-ridden exhibitionist.

she's the only one can hunt spiders, come out reeking like rot-blood and fir mold.

temptation rings in the ears. permanent damage. saltwater soft stroke.


you were gorgeous you were everything. potent congenial. bee milk galaxy. dischord sleepwave. everything.

moon dance, heart twist, hands wrung, sun shift.

blood memory. scar conscious. blood memory.


war voyeurs lick the blood off the battle scene
like starving kittens

you cook your bruises on the concrete of a dead-air summer

while you sweat out spring water,
arrow held fast and warm against your cheek.

'in medias res' as an indication of trauma

and so we look for anchors to keep us aligned

pressed, pulled more accurately, more accurately

because there are places we need to be

and these dogs need to be walked four times per day

that's why you can't lock yourself in the bathroom

that's why you can't lock yourself in the bathroom all day

It's easy to sink, it's the floating that worries me.

(--I need you.)

i miss you, sincerely

softly. slowly.

cheers to doing what feels good.

latest history lesson is how to rip the pictures out of the book.

there's a parasite in memory.

already slipping

I could brush my teeth with the stains on my sleeve, but the potential to progressively think I'm losing my shit costs more than toothpaste on cuffs after a morning ritual of coffe, rinse, repeat. Oh how terrified I am to cut everything out,to feel insanity, to succeed these ties and rip my pearls out by their already slipping roots.

Static

There's this film between us, a static hissing and a loose vertical hold
but through it I can see you smiling and laughing, your voice somehow higher
rich and familiar, confusingly warm. We make these videos to remember.

Coming home to a wife and baby, feel her bend into you,
"Welcome Home" against your cheek.
You can do anything, we can do anything.

It changed though,
time changes you.

Maybe it's no different than with spiders, and in coming to know them you were able to find the knives to betray them. You knew in the end through having observed and measured each arm exactly how to cut these strings, though I don't imagine even now to understand their knots or where they met the ground.

Then again, maybe not.
It's just like these movies and the hiss that wasn't there until we looked back. Maybe you never cut these strings, God knows I editorialize, but maybe you did.
I can't remember, even with these tapes.
Even with tapes and tapes and tapes and tapes.