Strange People

There are strange people in my house. I’ve met them a five or so years ago and they keep showing up at my house. I do not know what they want. I do not know. But they keep coming from the fringes of highways, rolling lost hills, the crevices of rocks bound to desert sand slowing moving across leaving trails. There is the father. He is lame and an idiot. The mother is foreign. Two daughters. One is gone off to her own devices; the type off girl I need to explain words to, so many increasing in numbers, birthed from a failed system, they are the system, from it they are born like cockroaches. The younger one is downstairs. I bet she sucks cock. Or a lesbian clits. Not particularly attractive, plays basketball, ignores words, a child, not my type. Still dirt accumulates under her fingers leaking to cover her being, maybe leaking from underneath, pure filth from her being, something lurks in her depths. I am worse, nothing to give me away. I play it cool. I am the master. I am worse than them all because everything is under control. Or all under chaos. I am ordered through chaos, the math provides direction that I can delineate, manipulate, transform into shapes that are frightening and alluring. My fingernails sparkle. I don’t speak to them, the family downstairs. They converse with my family. I let them be. All they are is be. When I talk to you; a sign that you are something more than be. Leave that insidious hive you buzz around bees. It wants to waste your body on wasteful stings. Stings the skin and CLAP! I need to leave the house.
The tessellated roads lead to Olivia. I turn my head, when I pass driving, to Olivia’s home. I could hit a car and I wouldn’t care; I’d be staring blankly at Olivia’s house as my blood pours out with consciousness. She is tall and a tight cunt. I get hard for redheads and she was my first. The second I fingered in a studio someplace dead, for the rest I just fuck casually forgetting names that form Olivia. Now I turn my head for the hundredth time and she is not there for the thousandth time. I remember the taste of the hundred tastes. She had the sweetest juice. Her things convulsed and the bed sheets twisted in her hands as I made her come with my tongue flicked her clit in waves and waves and waves. Between her thighs she squeezes my head and messes my hair. That is what I remember the most, the taste, of everything the taste. Besides that she was terrible. She destroyed me. I thank her for that.
I will forget her. Then remember her. Every time she enters my memory the image will be weaker. The time span between remembrances will decrease exponentially as it approaches infinity; when I die she will be the image of death taking me to sleep. I need to get home.
Burial plays on my laptop speakers. The rhythms I write to, I write with this rhythm superimposed onto the rhythm of life. All is life and music lives. The beat and popping sensations like a virgin destroyed or freed and I am with Elena and she massages my spine and my temples and Elena soothes me and Elena rubs my neck and I fall asleep and Elena is there and she sleeps next to me. When I wake up I leave. She dreams of someplace else. Somewhere she is still whole.
I go home and take a shower. The exterior is clean, cleanliness only goes epidermis deep. Why am I so self-deprecating? Deprecation is violent. Ennui needs violence to whisk it away and I commit self-violence to free me from my self-stricken bonds. The modern psychiatrist seeks to cure unhappiness; the common unhappiness of living has become regrettable. How are you so strong? You are such a survivor! They say this and you must exaggerate this in you. Do they know how to deal with masochists? Freud is dead. I’m fine with him being dead, not his complete death where not even the dust of a corpse remains. Happiness is the drug. The medication, a supplement. You will cease to understand yourself as you create a persona you become lost in. What darkness lurks deep? Who are you? These clichés no longer matter, they are all that matters. The only knowledge that matters are self-knowledge as the lama says. Not Chopra, he forgets what is human and his divine emptiness fills to the brim with rainbows, rainbow colored shit. All I need. All I need is to understand. Fuck all else.
I’m reading By Night in Chile and wonder if I was meant to live in those punishing time, those glorious horrible times in a gloriously horrible stretch of land. Meant to, crawling up walls, stone birds perched, ancient texts, Bolano and a priest. Where are you Roberto? Poetry is shit. I write a poem about the night, delete it, empty my recycle bin, 3 am and I am asleep.
Dizzily I fall off my bed and dance across the room. I pour a cup of coffee and sink into my couch, my body falls endlessly into the cushions. I drink the coffee. Sip after sip after sip.
This coffee! This is the greatest fucking coffee I’ve ever had. Oh my god I’m so in love with you, a pleasant smile on, in love all the way. Who wants waffle cones? Why is everything brown and murky so yummy? This coffee is damn good. Warm down my stomach churning, probably looking like shit, another cup and I’ll be pissing every hour. It worries me that days must continue when all poetry in the world can be found in the morning sipping coffee. I must go on now. We all must go on. Hot coffee transforms the essence of being like a penetrating will into the swollen motherlessness of life we hang on like a crutch with our fingers resting on the little edge, to stimulate the world into consciousness until you feel it and I feel it and it comes.
What is it I think of when sipping the mug of light? That the only thing you can trust is your dick, but even that lets you down in the end. You have empty hopes with empty genitalia, you sit up and lean on a wall as a dizzy spell comes over you, in the moment of dizziness you see men with holes in their backs spilling acid, leaving trails that follow them through dead streets that smell like formaldehyde and semen. Semen? Whose Semen? With alcohol breath and raging cocks, they move across blurry lines; this they can count on day to day until time sprinkles it away. Too soon. We have not come far enough and now what is left? The curtains spread, the cunt closes, the door opens, the day scares away night. Here we are awake and in need of coffee to keep from lulling into the certainty of sleep, certain that not waking up isn’t that bad of a thought or half-thought or full contemplation. So we sit on the edge of our seats waiting for the climax to occur, but sex and novels give us the wrong impression of life and the climax never occurs. We sit and sit and sit. All when flags need to be burned and put with the cremations of fathers who first put spots on maps, when abysses need to be danced wildly upon, and when there is still passion at the bottom of cups never finished. Make me move fragile wings I will not fall into numbness again!