the animal/vegetable problem

1)

I want this song to never end
whatever song it is

     (please tell me
     what pokes through what's real
     is real too)

you do not exist
outside of time therefore
you are always in motion
or
you do not exist

because
there is no conditional tense

because I hold my fear in both hands
I cannot shape it, cannot make it fit

as if you're listening and so what comes next
is a revelation
     snow in my impatient hair
it's not really random but the moment would still be gone

     sound passes right through me

what they say about the obvious:
I want this song never to end
its incipient staccato or
a paperclip stuck into my heart
I cling to each note
I wonder at collision, curvature, incessance
tiny columns of ice and nothing else
     is this clear

say
"everything" could dissolve

 
the skin grows back though it's not really the same skin

     (this song could repeat
     indefinitely)

we have abbreviated ourselves so that we
can pretend to understand

2)

what should not be possible
is sometimes all there is

must I repeat this brokenness?

flying in the face of
swooping/sweeping
something else jagged/clumsy/flimsy
or whimsical
(the third person in the room is 'us')

 bits of me fall away:
oddly lovely and somehow freed

3)

I neither like nor dislike these words
I am unarticulated—unspoken, unbent

(at some point being able to spell rhythm doesn't get you very far)

the ache disappears: a return to the obvious
where a soundtrack alongside this apparent narrative
mostly flatters
this obsolete technician whose skills repeat
this darkening around the edges
this fade in the middle where I forget

I am often hungrier than thou

that same old game

I'll spend the rest of the day making fun of making fun of things

4)

no good dreams
no new titillation
no report
nothing to discuss or decide

literal darkness, not just some
abstract lack

this bruising and the impulse to touch
where it hurts: it's how
we are written

5)

the song usually starts again at the wrong time
so we both in a sense miss it
so we both misplace
what's modified
over and over
so we both start again
at the wrong time, so the song in a sense misses us
so we both are misplaced
so we are both
modified

6)

time is dealt under the table
and everyone loves a bank robber story:

when did I think this?

when did I not think this?

in any other slow place
this would not happen

not entirely dissatisfied with motion:
if you turned around again I would be
     right there

(right there)

Random Stuff, Fraught with Peril: the impression of stillness

Random Stuff, Fraught with Peril: the impression of stillness
   or,
    A RECORD : I do not want to be living in a French film (I do not want to be living in any film at all)

The record is almost as good as having had the experience. Thank you.

Longing is a good starting point for art. It is even pleasurable at times.

Describe: The illusion of connectedness. The illusion of illusion:
   That trumps everything—
Say this again:

(I do have my demons.)    There's lots of dark out there.

Balance is not stasis; it is constant motion.
Closing. Closing things. Tangential. Say something. Enlighten me if you please. On some level I still believe…
Flatness does make for good skies. Is this proof that humans need art? Art does not seem to need humans.

I am sad. Nothing more to report.
Thank you. You make me think things I should not say.

You use these words intending to mean meaning, as in, you point. To where?

Your response is logical, yes. I register your logic. But my feelings are not logical.
I seem to be failing.
I am sorry.
My worlds collide.

There is a long scene toward the end where I remember one sees nothing but a bit of the white collar of the man walking around in near-dark. I may mis-remember. But that is the impression I had watching it. Lots of walking around in the dark with a bit of white bobbing... That's what love affairs come down to in French films.

That’s what love affairs come down to

That's what love affairs

My not wanting to die alone is a pathetic clawing against that inevitability.
I'd like to respond to this logically.
Reason does not keep petulance at bay. (Theory is great, but practice makes perfect?)

and I keep talking myself into corners I didn't realize were there.

I haven't yet run out of wine. But I note I am running low. There is dust on the screen and I do not wipe it off. It sparkles. I note that too.
I am sorry if that was the result.
I'd like to respond to this logically.
It is a different kind of place. The anger is hard to attribute. It resembles the anger one expects to find in parts of the South. The lushness is almost oppressive to a Westerner.

Consequently, I have to say that both truth and reality are illusory.
both are
sad sad sad sad sad sad sad
both are
angry and hurt

I can almost touch what I’m trying to say. I can almost say it. In the distance,