september ("fisherman")

teeth grit,

bowspray crackling

against leatherbound cheek. 

flint-hued eyes

set like stones

in the sockets of his skull,

casting out small, flat chips

of the same color

over the endless ocean,

vainly,

after the horizon's fleeing back

his red red heart

curled like a fist

around ropes of blood

the hat he gave his son

that his son left in the garage

now worn & frayed,

discolored like an old tooth,

is lifted, jammed back down

& shifts, back & forth -

brim pointing first forward

then back,

like a compass exposed

to a man-sized magnet

above, the old sky

still appearing new,

and the veiled threat of fall

nestled sweetly

between the words

of the wind

the electric universe (scraps)

the new world!
a blinking whirl,
a dizzy shimmer,
this lurching carnival &
sudden, dreamlike drift -
           have I been here before?
 (electricity's invisible kiss, a clock's devious hiss)

& the atmosphere is crackling
with unsung words
pickpocketed from the mouths
of drunken poets

(this winterbound city
purses her lips, hesitates,
crumbles, burns, shivers,
reassembles.)

the old street still lives
beneath the new street,
the old hotel rooms hum
inside new apartments,
like a clock within a clock,
one pair of hands
in a desperate chase
after another,
sweeping indulgently past hour
after hour,
gathering up seconds like gemstones
as the face yellows
and clockguts rust

(& the rain falls outside
desultory, indifferent,
gathers strangth,
exhausts itself,
spatters, stops)

we are creating a new history
all salvage & twisted rope &
rusted links of chain,
feebly attempting any connection
between empyreal and concrete,
lashing down whatever
embattled spirits we can
(some nights i roll over
and there is a phantom
between us, eyes shut
and hands fists (as though in prayer)
beneath the eave of her chin)

and time clothes itself in
the discarded garb of our old enemy -
Death -
as we inch nearer
to the edge of
an unnamed cliff
only ever trangressed in dream -

(even it, doubling in the
drunken field of our vision,
reveals itself as hologram)

and time,
that awful invisible tyrant
who lives in the wings
hushing every actor
who has yet to
make their eager entrance

dis orientation

hard cider: a sweet compromise between beer & wine.

i began with cider at about three in the afternoon, out on the front stoop, reading "harry, revised." pretty much ensconced in mark sarvas' story, i failed to notice that my roommate had returned, and had somehow found a seat for the spare bike hanging up by the back door. that, with lock & key, meant mental diversion. as much as i wanted to know exactly what was going to happen to the unlucky Harry as possible, the sun was extraordinarily warm, and there was enough of a breeze to make me long for the outdoors, for the whip of wind shearing over my face. my chance came with an invitation to go meet E's friends: S & C, nearby. so i stowed the book in my bag along with some other things, and off we went.

portland is a small town. and when i say small, i mean, it's a tiny weird curve of a peninsula, a fingernail clipping, in the atlantic. it is crowned by the east end, munjoy hill, which drops off at the eastern promenade, a street of large, Victorian houses with pillars & huge windows. beyond the promenade (and the small, sandy beach) are the islands, extending for miles: rocky clusters that, from above, look like pieces of the ocean have been torn out of the world.

all of that was to illustrate the fact that we biked about five minutes, maybe less. two? it would have taken ten to fifteen a pied. the exhilaration of the rabbit overtaking the tortoise. so, of course, sped by this new frenzy of motion, i ride home after a cider, try to read a bit more, but am consumed by new distractions. now, i can feel the alcoholic buzz creeping like electric moss over the surface of my brain. on the bike ride, the cuff of my pants was snagged in the frame of the bike. i was ill-dressed for such activity. i needed to change clothes. but what? then my train of thought completely derailed, and with a sigh, set down "harry, revised" again. it took a few minutes to decide, based on this new criteria, what to wear, and as soon as i was dressed, i was tugged out the door, back to the street. i was so tugged that i walked quicker throughout the house, although my steps inside are always sort of rapid and flat-footed.

the dismount is going to be a problem, i can tell. i like everything i do to appear practiced and smooth, even if i myself am not eighty-two percent of the time. i struggle with the bike, unfamiliar with it. i realize as i am unlocking it from the wall of the house something, a little darkling in my brain, about the way i treat things, which communicates into how i treat other people. i realize my discomfort - or at least, cautious hesitance when it comes to this bike, this thing that operates in a way i am familiar with and knowledgeable about, but if it broke, i would have no idea how to fix and it would become another rusty thing left behind somewhere in the trail of apartments. either that, or wait for E to be able to fix it, which means relying on someone else -

the dismount is going to be a problem. i stutter to a halt, applying brake pressure with my left hand, and ramp up onto the curb, tilting a bit to the right, and stepping down. then, i swing off of the bike, right leg rigid and awkward. this is something i am going to need to practice doing. i have very poor balance as it is. when the bike slows down, i find that the front tire wobbles, that i become very bad at steering. i do not ride with confidence: i am unaware of traffic patterns beyond the markings on the road and the lights in front of me.

so: hard cider. then a little whiskey, a red bull, beer .. none of these things are things i should have done last night, due to winter still being stuck in my craw - and quite literally, i do sound hoarse, i am congested and strange-sounding coughs scrape out of my throat. i am finding that my thoughts tend toward the why of alcohol lately. last night, i enjoyed the vague blur that occurred. events, people, conversations, drinks, cigarettes, all phased into one another, bled from bar to bar. i was able to converse (or at least, perceived that i could) comfortably, relaxedly.

eventually, 1AM came around, and i turned into a bit of pickled pumpkin. M. was one of the bars - the darkest one, with the dim pulses of red and blue, with the frizzy-haired bartender who always sees me at my drunkest. M. was dancing on the floor, white shirt unbuttoned halfway down. though he appeared intoxicated, his eyes remained steady. i found it very easy to pick him out on the dance floor, though the alcohol in my system had reached a boiling point. i needed to chill out.

i could hear the sound of tiny things, cracking, in my ears.

a few cheap beers later, i stumbled up the hill to the bike, where i'd left it locked on a NO RIGHT TURN sign. surprisingly, somehow, lit a kretek cigarette (bummed from - or donated to me by - B) pressed play on my iPod and shot off down the empty streets. i became exhilarated. took the long way home. circled around the block, around the deserted playground. sped around the west end until i became disoriented, chose a street that looked promising and sped off down that one. i'd chosen the wrong one, of course, and was headed in the opposite direction of home - although it doesn't matter. everywhere goes everywhere in portland. you can't really get too lost. just keep going, and you'll either see the ocean, the park, the highway, or congress street.

maybe that's why i chose this city to become a drunkard in. you can't really get lost. there's no real danger. you can ride your bike down the streets at two in the morning and there's no one to say different. you can ride your bike drunk down the streets at two in the morning. as long as you watch out for the shiny gloss of police cars gliding their way by, like weird white eels in the inky night.

supposed to rain today. i am watching the clouds roll in.

the hetrarchical hagiography

revisited my novel yesterday. touched lightly on the meta-worlds of sorry and claudia and moe pelican and edwin oak. it's this damn hofstadter and his authorship triangles, and his axiom schemas.

last night: tentative plans, breached in the glassy brown light of bourbon & beer. maybe some hiking, in the woods, said james. new york city, in the fall, said johnny and ryan. and all the while it's cold in the summer city, and the wind makes the dead leaves skitter all around on the sidewalk. this town, one street in particular, is full of ghosts. i have got to get out of here. i've been having panic attacks, for no particular reason. especially at work. last night i had one at johnny's house: it gets hard to breathe, suddenly, and i lose my balance, all sense of orientation. it's like the universe is paying back for faking epilepsy in fourth grade.

it never fucking stops, you know. you think you've got it by the balls, but it turns out the only balls you're grabbing are your own, and don't you look like a fucking moron then.

and every girl has the same face. and every moment has millions of possibilities linking it to the next one, which is really only one of many possible outcomes, and the bifurcations are driving me insane. i better figure out that there is only now and deal with it, or else succumb to some kind of insanity; be shot through the heart by Zeno's arrow as it flies from point A to point C on its way to point B (on its way to point D, (on its way to point E....))

and so i drink again. bourbon is better than beer is better than being sober. and if i end up like Papa Hemingway, insane, owning many cats, and a shotgun, oh well. people tell me not to talk like that. but i do. and then they get mad at me, because it never fucking stops.

my therapist wants to put me on anti-anxiety meds. to stop the "hum" underneath it all.

johnny says the hum is what makes me make things.

it's like locusts.