Even looking at the page in this way
needing to shit, needing to shower
needing to eat, needing to rest
not really needing any of those things
just needing to feel how it felt.
That pattern was a necessity
now it comes as an option
and therefore loses its urgency
and all its meaning
even though I know I could always make it mean.
See, somewhere in between falling asleep
and my alarm that wakes me
in to an unemployed world
so that I hungrily jog to the boxing gym
where I spend an hour feeling just how disposable stress is
even amidst the bills, the cancer scares and the knife.
Fourteen rounds on the bag and stress doesn't stand a chance.
But, somewhere in between those two beautiful moments
is where the parts of me I haven't met play.
They show me videos of trophies covered in human skin,
boxes of misshapen dirty teeth that I store in my mouth.
They show me a moon close enough to kick
and a young boy I know milking a cow as it lays down on its side.
I have pieced these little fuckers together.
I know that there were four sides to the trophy and four layers of skin. I know that teeth dictate anxiety. I know that the full moon, larger than usual, speaks of the feminine side and I know that cows get milked standing up.
I know that writing for me has been dangerously ordinary.
It bared no more weight than a sneeze or a good stretch.
There was always more life in a good meal, a good fuck or trading blows.
It was disposable. I write fast. This will take me under four minutes. I don't think about it. I might stop to scratch a part of my face or raise my eyebrows and line of sight in question of why I bother. It's fast. Dangerously ordinary. I feel the direct application of more skill when I cut an onion.
It is life that holds it. That key they search for. The question that is thrown about. The mode of comparison. The Achilles heel of the wounded trumpet. The trick is a simple one to master, but at the same time a vicious prick when it wants. You simply open yourself up. Like the asshole of an unloved queer in the unexpected company of a stud who got too drunk or the starving cunt staring at me from a stranger's bed. You open up; you declare that you are hungry. You remind yourself of this every time you awaken.
You accept that you know nothing of the minutes
that are yet to pass
And you open up for what they might contain
Then you are living
You are soaking up moments
you are painting them silent before they have spoken.
Now I am using words.
Now I have to remember my obligation.
Now Four minutes can become half an hour
Not because I have to think about the order
or the form
but because I have to think of you.
Do you get it?
Then it hits me, the final line
the one that means I could highlight everything above this
and hit delete.
The one that you take to bed with you
The one that opens you up...
The 'now' only passes in to the future
if we decide to take it with us.
Remember that. That is the closer even though this comes after. If you are not enjoying your now, then drop it before the resonance of the second hand ticks away at your inability to act freely.
You are cordially invited to enjoy yourself.