09-30-2015, 10:30 AM
-----the machine
You try for what feels right. / But what feels good? / You are trying.
Eyelids
You could close your book and eyes.
Count ten twice.
The flashing lights might stop then—
then, they might stop.
They won't.
You could run into a field of corn.
You would hear the crisp snap of the leaves shattering upon your advance.
You would smell dust.
You would get tiny, itchy cuts.
It would feel still and uncomfortable, and
you would be self-conscious because even though running into a corn field seems natural, and maybe even wholesome,
it isn't done,
and the rattling sound betrays you,
and there are corn snakes,
if there are corn snakes.
You could stop mid-stride and echo-locate the road fifty feet away.
You could stop mid-stride, and huff and pant, wondering at yourself for this queer election.
Maybe you are powerful that way.
You could whistle loudly.
You could whistle quietly.
You could be a soundless animal.
You could pretend to be mad in a public place.
You could stare at the thing you're worrying about.
You could masturbate in a gas station bathroom.
You could wash off with pink soap.
You could ask permission first and, after hearing no, cause distress by going into the bathroom anyway, for normal reasons.
You won't.
You could cry out in pain. You could do it whenever you decide it would help.
You won't.
You could refuse to continue to not be on the roof of anything—your car, your house, a crayon rendering of your house.
You could drink water in the shadow you have made.
You won't.
You could ask irrelevant questions to the pretty girl until she ceases to be joyful. You could hate yourself, then.
You could carry yourself through Minyards as if in no past life were you ever once a slave.
You could practice holding eye contact,
how to hold an orange,
how to hold this orange.
You won't.
You could find someone to love.
You could stop phoning it in
all the time, all the time, all the time, all the time, all the time, all the time, all the time . . .
You could make yourself open to being wounded.
You won't.
Over and over.
You won't.
You'll continue not to have past lives, or important secrets, or the ability to wink charmingly.
You'll have this life. This one.
And you will try not to blink when they come for you.
It will not matter.
You will blink.
You are not allowed to say what you are thinking.
[audio: https://dl.dropbox.com/s/xupfp2p5yc8v7vz...e.m4a?dl=1]
You try for what feels right. / But what feels good? / You are trying.
Eyelids
You could close your book and eyes.
Count ten twice.
The flashing lights might stop then—
then, they might stop.
They won't.
You could run into a field of corn.
You would hear the crisp snap of the leaves shattering upon your advance.
You would smell dust.
You would get tiny, itchy cuts.
It would feel still and uncomfortable, and
you would be self-conscious because even though running into a corn field seems natural, and maybe even wholesome,
it isn't done,
and the rattling sound betrays you,
and there are corn snakes,
if there are corn snakes.
You could stop mid-stride and echo-locate the road fifty feet away.
You could stop mid-stride, and huff and pant, wondering at yourself for this queer election.
Maybe you are powerful that way.
You could whistle loudly.
You could whistle quietly.
You could be a soundless animal.
You could pretend to be mad in a public place.
You could stare at the thing you're worrying about.
You could masturbate in a gas station bathroom.
You could wash off with pink soap.
You could ask permission first and, after hearing no, cause distress by going into the bathroom anyway, for normal reasons.
You won't.
You could cry out in pain. You could do it whenever you decide it would help.
You won't.
You could refuse to continue to not be on the roof of anything—your car, your house, a crayon rendering of your house.
You could drink water in the shadow you have made.
You won't.
You could ask irrelevant questions to the pretty girl until she ceases to be joyful. You could hate yourself, then.
You could carry yourself through Minyards as if in no past life were you ever once a slave.
You could practice holding eye contact,
how to hold an orange,
how to hold this orange.
You won't.
You could find someone to love.
You could stop phoning it in
all the time, all the time, all the time, all the time, all the time, all the time, all the time . . .
You could make yourself open to being wounded.
You won't.
Over and over.
You won't.
You'll continue not to have past lives, or important secrets, or the ability to wink charmingly.
You'll have this life. This one.
And you will try not to blink when they come for you.
It will not matter.
You will blink.
You are not allowed to say what you are thinking.
[audio: https://dl.dropbox.com/s/xupfp2p5yc8v7vz...e.m4a?dl=1]
A yak is normal.