habit and rancor

–

–

–

GJK, 16MAR2017

from WRIGHT THE BOOK

–

–

–

–

‘habit and rancor’

–

–

–

–

hello, predictable. hello, habit. hello shitty diner coffee

that i do so love with every fiber of my mortal being, every mote

of the ephemeral essence that is not me, yet, in truth, is entirely

me and you and every living thing that ever was and ever will be (which means nothing because time is a fiction) and because, as we have learned and understood for eternity — time is not real.

–

–

conversely, timelessness is also not real. confusion enters

the mind and sugar is stirred into the ‘brackish black liquid’

and down my gullet it goes and once again i proclaim:

–

–

Sentence structure be damned to the deepest bowels

of the most foul, vile and wicked lake of fire

that sentience itself has ever imagined within

the rancorous confines of earthly existence!

–

YAWP! grammar, to hell with thee! freedom, expression, caffeine! exaltation and liberty!

–

–

* * *

–

–

flung

—

whether or not you open your eyes it is there staring at you

taunting you breathing its demon-heat upon you it is only reality

no need to fear or hide from it but goddamn some days

you just want to stay asleep.  your eyelids droop with the

gravity of toil and regret and you want to forget you want

to disavow everything want to coil inward refusing to

acknowledge that anything is real.  and you’re right.

nothing is real.  but you are in a dream that requires your

participation and you are too weary to lift any stones today

too worn thin to be burdened by anything too wretchedly spent

to even tolerate awareness of your own existence.

oh but the day is passionless it cares not for you

or anyone.  it is flung upon you and it can be a shroud

or a sail.  you wonder whether it matters but grudgingly

you try to summon a ragged wind.

—

GJK

21OCT14

silence

—

silence whines eerily thwarts all attempts at

meditation so what what do i do?  fevered, addled,

sweating-then-shivering languishing in sickness i am

tortured by the mosquito-like scream boring itself into

my ears and temples, labored breathing, reality askew.

dxm and pineapple juice in a glass cup oozes down into the cracks

of a stoney afternoon a sick day an infirmary for one

for myself the sticky meltiness clings to the throat and

teeth the fucking insistency of that sound!  that electric

swarm of hornets surrounds me with all the fury of

an unbridled sun burning away consciousness with its

all-consuming glaring barrenness… it shatters

peace of mind, this wedge of calamity.

—

GJK

16OCT14

from WRIGHT THE BOOK, FUCKER

chapter thirty-three

—

i feel the end is near, this tale is winding down; it could go on forever certainly it could i could just keep typing scribbling sketching poeming for the rest of my life, which i know i will, but no one wants to hear all that – no one has time and after all i’m just a guy with too much time on his hands a man a feeler a healer a player of instruments and my best is in this, in worlds of words of whirlwinds of spiteful emotional bursts and ecstatic beamings of the divine… my whole life is here for you to have, well, not the whole, but most.  i cannot begin to comprehend how to end this, this book, this beginning… i am spinning.  it has to end somehow, some way.

—

but how?

with a lesson?

a conclusion?

naw…

with more UNABATED UNFURLINGS of the self.

—

GJK

22MAR12

—

Krabbykott

PR Wars Continue Over Holiday Weekend

by gjk, 7 Sept. 2010; Marquette, MI –—

Local U.P. mining company, Krabbykott, expressed concern over the Labor Day weekend that Bee-Pee, a foreign oil giant, is still monopolizing media coverage of global ecological disasters. A spokesperson for Krabbykott said on Saturday that “our company is doing everything it can to raise our profile from that of ‘an environmental nuisance’ to ‘truly mind-bogglingly-incompetent.’” When asked who Krabbykott considered to be their corporate role-model for such an up-tick in notoriety, the spokesperson responded by saying to this reporter, “Bee-Pee, obviously… those guys really know their way around a U-Toob channel and network news sound-bites, and they sure as shit got one hell-of-a chain of command. Boy, when they screw the pooch they sure go all the way!” (It should be mentioned here that Krabbykott has recently purchased stock in a Bee-Pee subsidiary that specializes in petroleum-based lubricants, whose motto is “GET CORN-HOLED WITH SLIP ‘N’ GLIDE, FOR THE PET LOVER IN YOUR LIFE.”) When prompted, the Krabbykott PR wizard could neither confirm nor deny whether or not corporate policies included such things as corn-holing, or being corn-holed, by ones pets.

Jimbo

　—　

All you wanted was a bag of chips but what you got instead was a

scorcher of a migraine. You made the short walk to the convenience store

on the corner without incident, but on the way back you got accosted by

Jimbo. Again. That drunk prick is a constant source of consternation for

you, what with his propensity for unprovoked confrontation. This is the

fourth time this month that he’s ruined your evening, and you’ve had

enough.

—

This time your mistake was to have the gall to be smoking a cigarette as

you passed by his house, and there he was, drinking on the porch and

drunkenly drawling HEY MAN DO YOU HAVE A SMOKE FOR ME, as if you and he

were friends, or as if you were a vending machine. You are definitely

neither of those things, but in the spirit of the brotherhood of man you

went ahead and said YEAH MAN HERE YOU GO. And that moron Jimbo, that

drunken lout, went ahead and set about the serious business of lighting

the cigarette with the wrong end in his mouth and the filter sputtering

a pathetic flame that stank to high heaven. So you said, as calmly as

you could, YOU’RE LIGHTING THE WRONG END. Jimbo stared, uncomprehending,

and tried again to light the filter. By now your fur was up and all you

wanted to do was either walk away or smash some sense into Jimbo’s

addled brain.  You chose to walk away and you figured you were doing the

right thing, but no, you weren’t. You knew you did the wrong thing when

you heard the word DICK spill from that stupid fucker’s mouth. You gave

him a smoke, you tried to help him out, and this was your reward…

DICK.

—

By the time you got to your own porch the migraine was in full swing. It

is now hours later and still all you can hear clearly amidst your throng

of thoughts is that one derisive syllable. DICK. You don’t know what to

do, so you do nothing. You sit alone in the dark and wait for the echoes

to cease.

—　

　

GJK

22SEP10