Thursday, June 25, 2009

Days that were going to keep lasting longer the shorter they got

Woke up this morning with my tongue around my head.

Someone had been writing on my arm meat:

The sun came out and killed the South. Killed the south with where. What son. What I am, son said. Sun one. Killed the which, I is.

There are a lot of things you could have done with a substance on which music has been embedded.

Lots of small starts and no beginnings.

I finally found my Mickey Mouse shirt with the paint flecks all over it from where I painted over a tall wall. Doesn't feel like it used to feel to wear it.

Today someone from Texas googled 'personal relate to the copy family by blake butler,' if you write an essay on this and mail it to me I will send you a copy of my head and face through this machine. or.

Famously Jean Genet was writing Our Lady of the Flowers in prison and had the pages taken from him, and then rewrote it in his head? Or I am getting the story wrong. Or it was never in his head and never on the paper. It was never in the book.

There is not a book.

In grad school I almost wrote my graduate lecture on the necessity of dreams in fiction, against the old tirade that dreams do not belong in fiction, instead I

I don't know what I believe anymore.
I need to get up earlier and go on more walks & in more sound.


Rauan Klassnik said...

my dad's in Texas... i think he googled that.... in his head

xTx said...

arm meat

death-hustler said...

oh jeez me too, more walks,and to expand the earth proportionally! Not just to walk into a space which would receive me, but to open or invent such a space as I go, out of non-circulating necessity.

sasha fletcher said...

i am walking to mcdonalds because i am hungover


ron, i wish yr dad liked me

xtx, mmm

death-hustler, i have missed you

sasha, surely