Raw Goods

at work

the problem is not that we do not have an inner life but that the buildings we occupy belong to someone else, the speech of the common breath, where line is but a thing to toe and and rent is more than what you did to your garments; in these houses, we accuse and perturb, present and describe: an abandoned mint, a brick warehouse, an obvious whorehouse, a gregarious mansion, section eight tenements, waggle of brow and curl of lip - before the time when i recognize of what exactly i am capable, the sidewalk burns with frozen flame (were we ever alone? was i wrong? how did you know?) and the accident of our silence

then again, the bed wasn't always adrift, and our sexes combined for mass-market consumption. meanwhile, back on the thousand islands of inside jokes, our collected memory trumped pianola reflections and chin glares based on petroleum deposits, so, for the last time, this is the reason why this, and this, and this, doesn't belong. it is an incommensurability of deceit, where my lies don't add up to decrepit deceptions, and the local play of title and life lends more amusement to backyard escapades and drunken-cat calvacades than all my caged fear and preconceptions. otherwise, it doesn't mean a thing, not this. nor that.

how to play it back? you were right, that was a ghastly smile. and no, i don't believe it's shameful to let you in on our secrets. you swept while we napped, and if you want it, you got it - just so long as (cancel that, i make no demands - but that's not right, either) this is where we live, in the tips of confused grimaces and hidden grins, in the marble counters of mis-en-place and kitchen fixings, in the left-overs of the re-elected and never-consented, in the dash towards a finish and the sketch of this coast, this one, this one here; and in this way, perhaps, we have a new landscape.

posted by judy j @ 2:49 PM