imaginary memory

something just happened, somehow such that
it came known i'd been there.
now i beseech thee, compose
for me what i'd smelled there.

the rouge leather couches of cozy melodrama,
someone singing slowly but through the radio.
curls of the cavendish and burley fighting
where i first saw her setting.

compose, compose further for now she is saying
she was never there, in that night parlor.
bring out the name of the song, of the artist,
on the radio, bring out the art of it

show them, show her; twas not my misrememberance,
compose!

Sometimes I Wake Up and I'm Only A Leg

Then there are the nights when I wake up at 3am and I'm just a leg. I am my leg, but just the leg, and nothing else.

"But what does that even mean? Just a leg? Is there a thigh? A knee? A lower leg? Any hips?"

No hips.

"Why is it always so dark with you?"

I'm a leg. I don't come with eyes.

"Well, one time, I--"

Yeah, no. I don't want to hear that.

.

Nobody spoke for at least nine million years. Then someone asked:

How is it coming along?

"Still researching inverse kinematics, why don't you sit down and relax a little, Anxious? Make use of that fine pulmonary system you have flowing there."

Aha.

"What."

It's just. Just you'll never know that I am only a pair of lungs. Floating in mid-air.

Also, nobody knew that inside human legs, there is a very secret and very long middle finger.

There is Absolutely No Reason to Feel Bad

I know it is a bold statement. And I am in high horses.
I can't fix everything for you, but know that when you hurt
I receive the tear (as in paper) in my eardrums.

I recognize that things aren't so optimal with you.
You sing these songs when things aren't great,
these beautiful things in my presence, sending

my brain scattering.

I think the best of life, in all its permutations.
Think. Actively. Not just contemplate but manifest
thought to light, and sound, inscription
There is absolutely No Reason to Feel bad

The cynics among you are already ganging up on me,
because your flesh is heating up due to this being Pompeii
in your imagination. (If you are reading this you're aren't in Pompeii)
brains just scattering all over the place

everyone must register and affirm existence.

seance end ;)

My Vision Is Star Stuff

I apologize in advance for all the spelling and grammatical errors. It was a long post, written fairly quickly.

I promise I'm not stealing this from J.M. Straczynski (learn, small children, learn: (studiojms.com). *Even before* yesterday's devastating post (newsarama.com/30468-why-j-michael-straczynski-is-leaving-comic-books-in-his-own-words.html), I was walking around, feeling a little bit like I might fall off at any time. This has been occurring for a couple of weeks now.
 
It's like, a strange weakness in the legs. Legs are fine, body is fine, but brain is worried about HP on the legs.

Unlike JMS, I I think I may have found my solution, though. See, I already knew that it was a kind of vision problem. A doctor had already warned me that in latter years, my vision could become an issue. Except, JMS is almost 90 (how else could he have been there when I was a child?), and I'm, like, barely 38.

The doctor (an ophthalmologist), had mentioned that I should start wearing sunglasses now, to prevent future disaster. She recommended some of the sunglasses available nearby. They were even in the same store.

Being wise for my age, I declined. "I haven't worn sunglasses since I was a teenager," I told her. "Not only do I lose sunglasses so easily to the point where they become pointless, but it was then that I realized I did not need such accoutrement in order to look cool.

I'm too cool to wear sunglasses," I said to this woman. Would it have made a difference if the ophthalmologist was a man? No. It's just that I'm too cool.

"You've become old," she replied. "Not as cool anymore. Trust me, wear them."

Today I was feeling the worst of not listening to advice. It *is* a vision problem. My brain *is* getting fucked by the sunlight due to my fucked up eyes. Then I came up with a solution.

I began walking around like the worst possible asshole in the universe. Seriously, I was walking around pretending I was Larry David. I began to imagine I was Larry David, walking around with round ass sunglasses. Now, if you saw me, you'd never see the resemblance. I mean--I have an ex-girlfriend who kind of looked like Larry David when she put on her sunglasses. But me? Nah. Totally not Larry David.

But I was. I was a total cynic at the entire world around me. I watched and observed everything:

"Why do we need 10 more Indian people on the street, these days? Does my presence not sufficiently cover the entire spectrum?"

"Is this what they call legs in New York, these days?"

"Do we really need more construction? What the fuck are these people installing? Some decent Internet for a change?

Seriously, why don't you take your fucking shitty big little drill and fuck off, unless you are installing real infrastructure."

"Who the fuck needs the Chelsea Hotel to be that shitty red?"

"The Sun is shit too. Better get the Hayden Planetarium et al. to update their program to reflect reality."

I was doing a quip per foot. And just like that I was okay. I was totally fine. I didn't feel like I was going to fall down.

"My legs don't need HP when they have full MP!"

It wasn't intense. It wasn't going to give me a heart attack. It was easy. It was always so easy to be a cynical little shit, that I had left it off when I was a teenager.

"I don't need fucking sunglasses. Because I can just *imagine* them", I laughed, later, at my eyes. I think they're still worried, though. "Forget watching the Cursed Child in the theater next year, fellas," I like to tease them, "we're going to be watching Braille". "Inspector Morse Code".

My eyes are like, "Please, please, please tell this motherfucker he's not a teenager anymore."

Seven And Se7en

"I thought you were NEO! It's not adding up!"

"I gave you those sweet white rabbit sweets, where you can eat the wrapping paper."

"Well, I have a new boyfriend, now, and I don't need your sweets anymore. Can you leave me a lone?"

"Twenty-six fifty?"

"That'll cover it."

And that's how I decided I would join the police department of New York City. They figured I would end up dead in some kind of penitentiary or something. After having shot someone point blank in the head for making an arrangement with UPS.

"Why aren't there any true detectives around?" asks a woman who has misplaced her child at the pretzel vendor.

I give her a pretzel and suddenly she walks away, happily. Like my detective coat means nothing. I *was* the pretzel guy. Her child looks up at me, concerned about the receding apparition of her mom.

"I think she's teasing you," I tell the baby, and pick her up. We walk fast across tourists, and return the child to the mother. Nothing special. Matter of fact. Expected. Mothers don't lose children in Times Square. It doesn't happen.

I watch them walk into the stars, together.

.

My coat shatters. I feel that I am not a true detective.

An Anime Idea, Part 10

As they walked into the blue darkness, where streetlights would light up everytime they came near. They had been discussing about their families, and the different sources of their powers.

"That woman over there," nodded Kurimusoda, towards a woman wearing a very short skirt and pulsing under one of these ethereal lights. "Don't you think we should try to help her?"

"I am here. You are *holding my hand*!" said Arata. "Avert your eyes!"

"I just mean that I can feel her pain," said Kuri. "Why should a prostitute not be given attention to?"

.

As she led him into the city center, the tarmac was turning into sand and mud, and he could feel her leading him into it. He felt that her hand was getting more wriggely. Like she may be having serious doubts hold his hand anymore. They were walking into a thick jungle, together.

"You're driving me insane," said Kuri to Arata. "I don't know how long I will be able to resist not simply holding your hand, at this entrance to the Shrine."

Arata poked him in the ribs and scolded his ankles. "Do you see the trail lines furrowed to such fine precision, for the hermit crabs?" she said to him.

The moon was pretty round tonight.

"Yes, I do," said Kuri. She was wearing such great shoes, he had to have her there, under the moon.

"This is your friend, Akira's house," said Arata, and suddenly she was riding a beast motorcycle too, and she rode it into the air.

The waves started to come into Kuri's ears, so he collapsed in the sand next to the hermit crab, and pulled out a cigarette. He had not been prepared about sea-shore ornaments manifesting themselves in a lush tropical jungle.

Anyway. Like he was ever going to drive a motorcycle that was that cool.

An Anime Idea, Parts 8 & 9

Part 8

"I don't know if you're ready, yet, y'know, Kuri?" said Arata, stroking the young man's head that appeared entirely dazed upon her lap. She was wearing her favorite skirt, a floral pattern she had seen in the night markets that intimated at her about space--as in 'space, and the universe out there'.

"Whaddya mean not ready yet?" asked Kuri, some of his eyes rolling aft, others very stern.

She laughed. "You don't even know anything about sailing, or ships, right now, do you?

No, what I mean is that you seem like a man who is sometimes very rich and textured, and fruitful with his intent and direction. Other times you are like a canoe. Wish-washy."

His head sank lower into her lap.

"I think you just need a little more soda." She poured a bottle of Pepsi over his face.

Pepsi-face sat up suddenly, and moved an inch from her.

They both sat in the dimness afforded by the poor bulb, with their heads between their knees. She, orange and reddish hints surrounding her form, and he with blue soda dripping down off his face.

.

"I-I have always known where the pain comes from," said Kuri. "It's when someone from my family is hurting. Then I know who and what it is, and how to stop it."

She nodded. "That's what happens to me too. But lately, even though we have transitioned into the summer," she said, and a firefly sat upon her shoulder, "and everyone I care about is healthy, fit and fine, I have been undergoing these shrouds of sadness and fear."

He tested whether he could lean against her, and she allowed him to. Their heads drew close.

"You smell like soda made of coca cola," she giggled at him.

"You're like a very tangy marmalade," he ventured with his lips.

Suddenly someone drove a very futuristic looking motorcycle into Arata's apartment, and skidded right against their face.

"Save the romance for a time when you have enough alcohol!" screamed the rider. "My name is Akira, and my mother is dying you slackers!"


Part 9

"I'm sorry that you feel putting a vinyl along the side of your moped that reads 'fU turistik' makes you feel that your vehicle is very futuristic, and allowed to crash through a wall into the apartment of a citizen," said Kuri. "And that you are offending the tourism industry of Chile with it."

Arata got up and went to her fridge. She came back with a bottle of whiskey for Kuri, and one for herself too.

"Come on guys, aren't you even excited to learn about how I know you feel other peoples' pain? And that I may have a idea as to why Dr. Chesterfield knows you experience it? And how you aren't imagining everything?" said Akira.

The couple murmured between sips and kisses of whiskey. "MMmmm...mmm..tongue tongue...lemme...tongue...guess...i twist here, you twist...your...slushie lip, dripping stubble...mom...is somehow...your hair feels amazing in my fingers...to blame?"

"You have let me down," said Akira, and he drove home a little less excitedly than he had entered. Somewhere in the all the noise, they heard his scooter slowly putt-putt-putt away into the city.

Eight minutes later they both dressed into their respective clothes.

The light in her apartment went out, and in the darkness he said, "It was, erm..."

"Painful?" she finished for him.

He nodded sheepishly. "I wish it would have been, you know--without the thought of Akira's mom on her deathbed. I mean. Not even just the thought of her. Her actual dying feelings. I lost my grandfather this way, too, you know?"

"I'm not interested about how your cherry popped, Kuri," said Arata.

"What I mean is, that is how I found out about my unusual condition. I was left in a coma for almost a month." The bulb flickered for a second, and her saw her face. "How did you realize who you are?"

"There's a hole in my apartment wall," said Arata in the darkness. "I guess we don't have any other option."

Kuri shook himself from his gloom. "I guess we've both found out why we're feeling all this pain. Somehow we've evolved, and my trait has gone beyond just my family."

He heard her walk, and then saw her bloom under the pale blue afforded by their city's street lights. She went dark, then bloomed again. For a second, that floral pattern of the universe appeared. Then went away. Dark. Then bloomed again.

He ran after her, until he reached her side. Then he held her hand, and they walked in the direction of Akira's home together.