Exodus I & II
i have been asleep for the past few years.
Not physically, but mentally, spiritually, incandescently,
radiantly, gallantly, arrogantly, etc.
i missed the entire era of self destruction, of degradation,
of a time where it was okay to tell people they were
acting like shit eaters! Instead i woke up to a burning
soliloquy of blatant disregard, elegant euphemism, and
drowning hypocrisy. In this era, the shit eaters are
the Kings and Queens and we are merely holding the
electric candles to create their shadows.
All i want is true nihilism. i can't even get that. All i
get are fake tans, bleached hair and bleached assholes,
pseudo social independence, mock class, and a whole lot
of incomprehensible sensitive bullshit. Not even the
good kind. Not even the kind i could tolerate on the
other side of a bottle of whiskey or rum or wine.
There are sights and sounds all around me that coincide with
my desire to sleep and sleep and sleep until i can
sleep no more and then go back to bed and keep on
sleeping, but instead i sit around in my underwear
daydreaming of the last time we fondled the night away
undressing each other in metaphor and we both came to
the conclusion that sex is the only respite and then we
would fall asleep pretending we knew who the other one
was only to realize that either neither of us had a
name or we were incapable of remembering them.
i thought of you again for the first time since the last
time. i thought of you in Black & White, then again in
i thought of you in the same way a moth might find itself
thinking of its pattern of flight, curiously inspecting
the leaf on which it wants to land, or perhaps my
thinking of you is more closely related to the way a
body's radiation might stop to think about the
condensation building on the window dripping water and
lust onto the windowsill.
When i thought of you i got a sharp pain in my pancreas and
my gull bladder started leaking out the naked memory of
you, because that's where i feel you on Monday mornings
when it looks like its about to rain... Perhaps
tomorrow when i think of you my intestine will begin to
function again. Maybe next week when you come to mind,
as i'm crossing the road of some busy intersection
where i don't even bother looking both ways because
thinking of you is really beginning to take a toll on
me, maybe then i will feel the need to have another
Meanwhile, you might be sharing your precious flesh with
someone else and maybe for a brief moment you will
think of me, maybe you will close your eyes and in that
moment of pure ecstasy and bliss you will mouth my
name, not even causing a break in the still and quiet
That is enough for me.
where are you now? what have you been doing? are you happy?
is it still winter?
Can he penetrate your bones and hide behind your marrow the
way i can?
i feel as if you just left me here, sitting on this
proverbial bench which could very well be my need for
you to come back. You just left me here and the months
have passed by aggressively, with a subtle resentment
towards me. As if i could control the weather or you or
myself or my erection for that matter.
Perhaps if i could, you would come back to me in the form of
shadows in the rain.
Oh! it is always fucking raining here, even when there isn't
a cloud in sight.
I'm still thinking of you when the guy walking across the
street drops his bag and from within the bag falls
pages of words that hide eternity in their disfigured
symbols. i'll never know what they were or what they
said, or if he wrote them or someone else did, and if
that person wrote them for a lover or for some cunt who
broke his heart. The same way I'll never know what you
think of me.
i think of you now, but not as your own person. At this
point, i'm not even sure you ever existed. You are
nothing more than an extension of me. You are an extra
finger on my right hand or a third leg or perhaps a
second chin. You are my memory.
You have shown me that there is no way to prove the
existence of God, and yet you have inspired me to look
for a theory that explains what isn't there.
A way to explain you.
i can smell the eggs you had for breakfast. That is to say,
i am sitting in some symbolic cafe, listening to some
woman yapping on about her husband's new assistant and how
this young nubile creature might be exactly what
her husband wants, with the sun burning my skin through
the glass and I am picturing you had eggs for breakfast
and i can smell them on your breath. i still remember
your breath. The faint underlying notes of slight
disillusion, and a hint of the mint leaves you like to
chew on at night with your tea. i can still smell the
aroma of what you had for dinner last night. It's
embedded in your skin. i can even tell you the names of
the cross streets of the place you ate at last night. i
can remember the tones of the way your breath sounded
when you breathed heavily after running or fucking, and
believe me, no symphony will ever be able to recreate
such inspired unadulterated morbid beauty.
i haven't seen you in ages.
An eternity really.
And still i see you wherever i go. i'll be walking past the
Veteran's hospital and think of all the wars we never
fought in; the thoughts replaying in my head like the
loudest silent film. i walk past the hospice and i feel
older than the undead statues inside and more calloused
too. i walk by the theatre on Main and my memory starts
to act up again, but this time by reminding of all the
movies we never saw. And yet i know how they all end.
i know how everything ends.
You told me everything ends horribly and i believed you. Is
that what you were trying to prove with this?
Where are you?
The Past & Present have all become obscured by the reality
that tomorrow is going to be the Future, but even then,
this moment, these goddamn fucking words were once my
future, You were once my future, but now this is really
what i'm supposed to be looking forward to? working
towards? Every moment, every insignificant scratch to
my face, every yawn, every meal i've ever had or
skipped, every fuck, every shit, no matter how hard or
soft, or burning piss i have ever taken has been
leading me to these words. This moment.
God! i sure hope i'm using the right ones. i wish i could
say at least two words of this to you in person, but i
have no idea where you are.
Could it be that i will find you under the bed? i haven't
looked there yet. Maybe i'll find you at the bottom of
a cereal box right next to a hooker's smile and a
decaying old man who still has the ability to dream.
i'm writing all of this hoping you'll care, but i know
the reality of this: you've forgotten me, and why
shouldn't you have?
You've forgotten all about the time we waltzed through
museums and aged alongside the crooked taxidermied
priest and the rotting alter boy with his pants down by
his knees, the Mona Lisa and that figure of Elvis that looked
as if he were melting, and then out of sympathy
we started melting too.
We tapped our way amongst the jaguars and the lions, past
centuries of orphans who were too busy looking for
parents to notice us.
We jived past the useless prosaic librarians in their
thriftshop flannel, and we stopped for a cigarette by
the three lovely lesbians who were discussing Pompei,
the wooden cock, libertarianism, chicken noodle soup,
life, liberty, and the existence of the Five Hour
Orgasm, all the while writing obscene stanzas of
verbatim'd vernacular and jibberish on their arms in
the name of post-existential feminism and the sexual
We lived an eternity in that museum.
We aged like we lived;
with balls, with dreams, with endless swagger.
We remembered our past lives along the hallways; how we
wrote the earliest creation myths, and now people
insist on calling it religion.
You still call it bullshit.
Do you remember when we lived on the moon and we would spend
entire afternoons, days, weeks, months, years, laughing
at all the imbeciles who needed oxygen to survive, when
all we needed was each other? Do you remember the first
time you read Kafka and you cried because you said he
was talking about us?
The last time i saw you you were walking into a sea of out
of tune pianos, all of them playing some baroque garb
on an infinite loop which resulted in this catastrophic
symphony which brought tears to my eyes, and reminded
me of what it means to be human, imperfect & horny,
unaware of all the limitations i will never know, like
my inability to ever use words to express the emotions
my bowels feel every time they think they catch a
glimpse of your silhouette through department store
windows, or the desperate flowers of thought that will
never bloom out of my ears.
All of these are the worst forms of torture God or anyone
else could have imagined.
That was the last time i saw you.
Do you remember when you told me it was okay to be a
bastard, but to always be a gentleman about it? Do you
remember how you told me that it was just fine if i
couldn't believe in God, because at least you do exist
and as long as you existed i didn't have to believe in
anything? That it would be enough for me to breathe in
your eternal youth and to slowly open my eyes to you?
Do you remember any of this?
Where are you?