Stars

When I let my eyes relax while looking at stars the sky appears in its entirety, in some illusion, all the points of light in my peripheral field whether they are real or not--since the mind fills in blanks with continuity: I see some stars, so I see all the stars. At 3am, I'm watching the stars move.

Stars are beautiful, but my gaze falls to the blackness between them. Like the melancholy and stagnation that haunts me quietly, inescapable as blackness draws in light.

Rudy and I stare upwards. He pats my back, I nuzzle his arm, we confer, we sigh, seeing the same stars, but drawing our own constellations. Above one of The Dippers, I think The Big, is a bit of symmetry, a kind of Rorschach pointillism--Nature, artist-- and there I find the night's purest medium for feeling at once insignificant, as stars are want to impress, and grand. The stars stare back, and I meet Rudy's eyes. We confer, we laugh.

My coherence is constituted by my sorrow, my vapidity, my disappointment, my search, my futility, my desire, my body, my capacity, my taste, my flexibility, my anguish, my resilience to my anguish, my love of the moon, my love of no one.

Cry. Cry because you have life. You must want to, cry, I mean. You have my blessing, and because I too feel unfounded anguish, I have sad authority. Cry because laughter is to sadness as desire is to pleasure. Is beauty happy or sad? Happy on its impression, but sad in its extension; and crying is pretty beautiful.

A good weeping is good, is the maternal consensus. Collect yourself, recover, recycle, reboot, gasp, suck in, moan, sting, persevere, forget, weep, for your sake, let ink fall out with the salt and water, drain, die, birth. Whatever melancholy has been cultivated is an exaggerated attempt to stem the flow, and the release/restraint practiced daily in all its forms can be summed up by those heaves of desperate fury. Shake. Quiver.

And while suicide is typically marked by comfort in its freedom, its sad nature hints at crying as a flash attempt at drowning oneself with droplets. I've never heard someone say they don't like the taste of tears--salt water may hint at the allure of sinking to the bottom. Wallow.

Cling to a person, or hide your face, or scratch the walls, or tighten your body, or vomit a little, or beat yourself, or beat an object, or beat a person, or writhe, or suppress the retching, or scream, or run, or stand and stare, or shower, or shower an object, or sing, or flush red and hot, or turn cold as tears.

Cry. I give you permission. And see me outside my home and cry that you found someone (I found you) who doesn't necessarily want to see you cry, but who is comforted by your sadness. Though, I can't remember the last time I cried.

Daily Flirt

A girl wants to have sex with me (you wonder how I know). It's wonderful, young guy that I am--it's great. I wouldn't act on it, but there it is.

So while I masturbate I think about this girl along with the others. In the shower it's easy to lose yourself, give fantasies and dreams more heed than during any other part of the day, or maybe that's because my bathroom has no windows, only artificial light, and, of course, the nudity. We're vulnerable while naked, but sometimes the opposite.

And I'm masturbating.... masturbating.... masturbating... a flash of dark skin, another of red hair, a blonde paleness, black mound, sun spots; feelings of regret, resentment, vapidity, self-love, acceptance, confidence, irony, rape, impotence, power, novelty--am I masturbating to introspection? My neck cranes, I don't breathe, I shudder, I sink/sink, light floods back in, I come back. Bits of me are in the drain where they belong, the water long having gone cold.

a truth

Light and night fall at the same time, and it's all I know. And with floating time, however I forget myself each day, one or two more truths might show. How my soul works. Or why it is that I WOULD want someone. What makes me hate?
The carpet's gray but many colors, some abyss drawing my gaze and I.
I'm just disinterested in what's around me, what I can't see, and what I can't see yet. Space from the period, point! Dunka dunka dunka this here consciousness is pathetic rewind

Light and night fall at the same time, and it's all I know. staring 1234 staring 1234 staring 12 idea, that girl is so fi'hn.

Light and nigh- I'm concentrating on my breathing, and the cool air that's been conditioned--I like feeling it cycle something out, allowing something cleaner in." Notice it's opposite this sentence from the quotation mark.

It's been harder to operate despite other people. It's been harder to find myself at the center of it all. It's been harder to break from patterns. So I tell myself to break out, man up, man down, realize that my time is best spent with myself and not with others, in context.

This week on a boat will be good for me.

inside sounds

the throat bubbles, creaks. it's the sound of you swallowing, oh so good, some french fries. and whether it's the heartbeat or the intestines that pound blood, i can hear your insides from far away. i can hear you not thinking about me, feel you not making eye contact with me, smell indifference. the vibrations--jesus vibrates--reach me.

decibles.

so your insides--are they for me to hear? i guess i should turn away, fingers in my wax, but i can't really resist peeping at your pulse without having to have my face over a breast (a vein by the mandible is clearly seething), judging. you love?

come closer. no, i'll scoot over, glance over a book when the stomach sings, repress my glup of water. are my insides compatible with yours? do i fit?

since two people more or less make the same motion during sex, i think penetration just kind of disappears and is more or less replaced by the drive to merge. back and forth, i wish there were some elliptical or angular mode of sexing. so i stop being a penetrator and you an embracer, just connecting at this one point from which radiating connection spills out. wrong sound.

Descartes' Angel

For a method to writing, a structure for building words on words to raise a convincing and compelling idea, where should I begin? :

What is impressed on me most? Then, how would I express it? Good, good. Then... well no, that's about it. But this isn't objective, and so my method to writing fails. Or does it, the method being no method?