call me kitten again and i'll fucking scream

(and other notes from 2007)
#1 from the opium log

i'm bluffing again, the hand is bad, i should fold. fold! i tell myself, i tell the laughing girl
she's got her teeth sunk deep in the howling beast, writhing still, a mockery, an insult– bring out the long knives! come out with them drawn!
all her spears buried uselessly in the still heaving hide
–having glanced off the ribs.
–having missed the reddest meat.
bluffing...and the words are all spoken improperly, floating dumbly down in the thick air like all the swans dead at parc de bercy, feet up. sleep well you drunken ballerinas, fall gracelessly from your pirouettes, eat mud.
she, a gladiator here, not choking on the smoky air, on the dead fowl. dawn invites her to meet the dancers. a mirror faced challenge. who falls?
goodbye, leg
you taken limb
goodbye armor
goodbye tulle
it's only the still heaving hide underneath
everything but the vanity shattered and a dead drunk mix of broken glass and ash all over the floor
i'm just floating up on the ceiling, just watching her flag and fall, long night, no night, no spears, no skin.


in retrospect, i spent most of my time at 19 rue notre dame de nazareth being hysterically sad, happy, or enraged. a good and terrible time. always choking on something/myself. later at passage des arts, often numb. they'd say: abassourdi. deafened. figuratively. it's not scary until you stop moving

the past is sometimes easier than the present. i hate you hospitals, i hate you lungs, i hate you bad coping skills. i had the foolish idea of transcribing all my journals so i'd never lose them. there is nothing you never lose. entry one:complete. a bajillion to go. see you in my old age. in the mean time, no one hang on tight, it only gets you all tired out