kari EDWARDS
my way becomes the devoid
water as usual, but reconstructed mostly, analogies with plenty of
holes, nothing quickens sounds, or worlds divided, like electrical sockets,
imbedded in language whirlpools as saniflush for the soul. the ground
looses villages to fatigue. flat or flattened in golden shower
utensils and "never you mind" judge's the judge that judges the
materials based on the two prong effect: birds flutter or a sea horse
of a different color cast aside in senile sounds. it's just a space,
no more than half a dozen to a million, does not produce a melody—
assigned error in forklift ignorance. disoriented simulated wood grain
reveals or multiples in hospital beds. statistical delirium pines
description as ice to water, air to a four cornered hour, the secret
word becomes lost along and the moment is missed
a year that was nonrenewable
I grew up among utensils: knifes, forks, and protruding metal
thoughts. life for the most part was a deposit of urinals and street
narrations. the fiction was elsewhere . . .
I'll begin again.
I go to meet a hat of desires. the police bore faces to remember.
there were the usual article flashes and experimental nouveau roman
narratives. on hormones, with cancer and un-self critical coup d'etat,
I was a transvestite hooker by day and an angel by night, with the
usual address loops, and a glamor of invisibility that curved away,
pulling me towards my own black hole.
I will start over.
once upon a time there was a naked singularity that seemed to trap the
light of my life over its shoulders.
let me start again.
that was the year that was nonrenewable.
the land of dreams
in the land of dead dreams all shout—"yes, yes! no, no! more, more!
stop this, stop that! do this, do that! do the fandango, do the bunny
hop.
in the land of dead dreams there are shameful body aromas and
different customized body styles.
in the land of dead dreams, everyone is equal, until someone punches
the clock enough to get a gold star, then they are allowed to keep
punching the clock until they die.
in the land of dead dreams, hope is a commodity exchanged for desire
exchanged for good will exchanged for a thousand free minutes on
AOL.
in the land of dead dreams everything counts; three strikes—your
out, second in line, a one-in a million-in-one, 7.8 % on all non-food
items, $10.00 co-pay, 6% annual interest compounded daily by the hour
or by the minute, each and every second of each and every day the
clock ticks and your heart beats faster and faster . . . there's
something in the basement . . . the lights don't work. . . . there is
a gurgling sound . . . you know you must go into the darkness of the
basement, alone . . . . .
in the land of dead dreams kingdoms are constructed on or in
excrement, cigars, and telescope steam.
in the land of dead dreams . . . no that's somewhere else.
in the land of dead dreams you have different clothes and special
foods for every different occasion, and all the streets are the same
name with the same gas station gourmet coffee gift taco shop every
three blocks.
in the land of dead dreams, there is "the new white meat" for brighter
whiter bones and bigger badder teeth.
in the land of dead dreams, to get to the super bowl is what life is
all about . . . that, and a good cold one, ay?
in the land of dead dreams there are endless options all based on one
true-false questionnaire given at birth.
this is all too motionless for rubber words
this transit service, this kinesthetic theme park, the best routes
with deep throated spikes, starved in luxury fat chairs, beguiled in
all that forms the air to a danger larger than a bunraku master with a
head of smoke, a drift, to become a fetish interpretation. this is the
way that heralds more rigor-mortis warm time in high color regular
shapes. a dangerous love of science. words lifted for magical
seduction, exposed like the inside of my rubber climate control
devotion, or detailed marginal rotations, or lines that meander wildly
over general wounded dumbfoundedness. this was suppose to be the last
stock joke, a remote staccato upside on the inside, a motionless
terrorist in my private vaseline insomnia, buying groceries through
the angels of a chemical process, located outside error crayons. a
holiday character, not my history, or my history not the holiday
character ignites determinist parallel text inside the only "I" I can
muster, unable to resist the blows lifted from a provocateur at local
tables and gauzy alcohol extremities, where all crave warm time
machines and magical seduction.
~
the act of pealing takes over in a year of group soul, the arena,
american trauma, rubber and tar, the principle of the insulator, a
fragment prayer fallen from a collection of flotsam roaring in the
waves, all the characters are a theme at the best of show for the
final all cry of souls. I still look for a vacuum and 7000 oak trees
in their pure reason.