(1.) I want to See, in which Direction, your Head will
Turn, the exact Moment, before the Bomb goes off
(2.) Okay,
there was that one Great Scene: The Grandest of Staircases in the Monadnock Building
and your Body, Scattered below
(3.) A lengthy Massage, in which, you Describe for me, the
Evolution of the Knuckle’s System to Enhance Productivity
(4.) “My Son, My
Son, You must Shake Hands with
Everyone.”
(5.) The Question begins: “Will I ever be able to Remain in Silence; even in Death—[?]”
(6.) The very Absence of Love and what it (-en) Acts upon
the Body
(7.) She
keeps me Separate, as a Secret keeps itself from what is Visible; She leaves me
in Chicago, in a State of internal Emergency, and like Pneumonia, I begin to
Inherit Cellars, Staircases, Nooks and Crannies in the Body, while Graciously calculating my next Movement,
my next Attack upon her attempt at Imposing a Punctuation, itself
(8.) My Life depends on how I Address each Accident, how
Effectively I Reel in each Failure, absolutely-so,
and long before it Comes, it Corners, my Face, which is here, straddling the Ibid’s Place
(9.) Honestly: Everyday of this Existence, instills in me more
and more, how Rare it is for a Moment to be accurately Described; how almost
Methodically, when a Story from my Life, has passed from my Lips to another, it
becomes Translated as something so far from the actual Expression, that it makes its further Repetitions of
Recounting, a little more Bitter, a
little more False, and thus, it
Circles back to Expose, that I myself, as the Narrator, am the most false Interpreter of my own Existence
(10.) In
Other Words:------------------------------------------------àThese are Vexations, they
are not fucking Dialogues
