Cross Section

-cross section of a saturday afternoon-

the radio sings to me, hears the end of the world
between the stabs of needles and powder,
I have set sail on a river paved south
            riding down a little notebook life
                        of ambiguity and fog.

flying down interstate five, I leave my life
to the ice pick tongues of dead men,
packs and bags, deadweights and deadwants,
crumbling into a sea of diamonds

and blinking out like last year’s christmas bulbs

remember:

write me a letter sometime
when I’m in that cubicle of infinity,
that desert life of dry tongues
and powdered words,

when I’ve become an afterthought
            a home lost in the hills
                        of ambiguity and fog.

the radio sings to me,

catch me, oh spiral arm of galaxy.

[Original Post Date: 04/09/2003]

The Greatest by Cat Power

Once I wanted to be the greatest
No wind or waterfall could stall me
And then came the rush of the flood
Stars of night turned deep to dust

Melt me down
To big black armour
Leave no trace
Of grace
Just in your honor
Lower me down
To culprit south
Make ’em wash
A space in town
For the lead and the dregs
Of my bed i’ve been sleepin’
Lower me down
Pin me in
Secure the grounds
For the later parade

Once I wanted to be the greatest
Two fists of solid rock
With brains that could explain
Any feeling
Lower me down
Pin me in
Secure the grounds
For the dregs of my bed
I’ve been sleepin’
For the later parade

Once I wanted to be the greatest
No wind or water fall could stall me
And then came the rush of the flood
Stars of night turned deep to dust

Space Invaders

They breed in darkness, first in guise as outdated gadgets
Then slipping in amongst the stacks of papers,

Every time the gray feeling comes
They are there, rustling and dividing. They crawl out
And become dusty books, the ones I’ve never read;
I can hear them fornicating into ticket stubs, trinkets,
Into letters, postcards, an old forgotten shirt.

Last night they spilled out of your box,
Clamoring to be heard.

Body Text

It’s a lot like writing a book, he said, a sheet a day until the shadows lengthen into graven grimness. I tell him that I seem to have buried my week with filler pages, caught in revisting what has been transcribed, wondering why the dialogue seems so stilted, how the plot drops off. When the hook appears. Where the action begins. A condition: you can’t revise the past. So you go forward and hope the next words come out right.

And it’s been an existential week, full of vague ideas. You smell the cheese behind the fog machine, understanding that a single perspective will only get so far, maybe just an outline. This changing of perspectives is like the swapping of colored spectacles. Several lenses later, you exclaim, this is a streetlamp, that is a brick wall. It is a mountain, it is a bridge. I’m standing in a canoe. I should’ve known. There’s never any certainty.

Certainly, there are no sequels.

Weekend in Brief 16

Dec 28 Ray’s farewell dinner at Honda-ya with Anna, Jennifer, Jimmy, Jasmine, and Wilson. Work.

Dec 29 Work. Coffee with Brittany at the Gyspy Den, a stroll to round-the-corner Memphis Lounge, cheap wine, and long conversations.

Dec 30 Work.

Dec 31 Work. New Year’s Eve at Decos in the San Diego Gaslamp with Rajat, Arjit, and gang. Exceedingly fun.

Jan 01 Dinner with the Family at Black Angus. Work.