Automatic Writing 2
War is a four-letter word that rhymes with rigged, as in a sailor’s rig, and the meaning always comes after the fact, after the word—a great and deliberate post hoc drama. And it’s beautiful that there’s deliberate drama; it keeps the boughs of mighty trees glistening with the sweat of forgotten worlds, forgotten words . . . with words forgotten. Forgotten.
“I think he said they were forgotten.”
“He wrote it, you idiot; he didn’t say it.”
“Damn, Clarence. Okay, I get your point.”
Take it at face value: you’re a dead set ass-pain. A pain in the seat and seams. Shit, that’s the truth though, ain’t it?
Dialect. Memorization, temporalize me into the beautiful fractal that I am. (I could do this all day.) full of wind, as I am; dissected, as I am; disseminated information, as I am; breaking patterns, vases, and other such precious metals, as I am. And I don’t care. Do you understand this? The little boy in me is throwing a fit. The little boy in me will break the previous vase. The little boy in me wants the antique spanking. The little boy in me . . . thrives on repetition.
But not completion.
Never end it.
So throw war to the worlds; they’ll eat it up, right after rigging it to the mainmast. Blow the popsicle stand like the bridge over the river Kwai. (I saw that movie in high school, and I think about it sometimes, intermittently, for no clear reason other than maybe that I found it a bit slow, a bit dragged out, a bit old. But they say it’s a classic, so who the hell am I? I’ve yet to reach classic status. I’m just some Midwestern boy, some prairie child, some backwater mistake that is hard to kill and refuses to go away.)
Anyway.
It never ends.
So dance.
