Terror

I am in love with the terror of my existence.
I am in love with the terror of my existence!
Sometimes it is like a drill coming through my temple,
slowly digging into my brain.
So slowly that it would take my whole life to drill through.
It pulls at the edges of my skin
and wants to tear my face off.
I am in love,
with terror!
With terror!
And there is no end to it!
I want to cry,
and I'll die, too!
I am...
It's...
It's a gun!
Somebody give me a gun!
I want to kill,
I want to shoot them,
and tear them apart with m y nails,
with my teeth.
I want to drink blood,
but I could never get enough.
I could drink until there was no more,
And I would still be lonely;
My own blood being the only answer left.
Is the only answer,
My blood is the only answer I have!
I-
I-
I will spill it!
And I will pour it,
and throw it,
and I will shower you all with my blood
and I will drown you in it.
I will suck up the sea to make
MORE blood
and drown the world with my blood,
and I will swim through it,
breathing it,
and I will still be alone!
Whatever blood I have left
will again be the only answer.
I can't kill you, love, terror,
I can only kill myself.

And when I contemplate that answer,
it's just too goddamned easy,
and too goddamned funny
to realize that I don't really want any answers.
Leave it alone,
Just leave it alone.

Shards

It's not human,
but it wants to be.
It is sucking warmth,
a hole because it is broken and fragmented.
Shards of a face
stare back;
a little piece of chin,
half an eye, blinking.
It looks empty, but has a semblance of face.
Where is the terror? Where is the love?
A low, steady keen is filling the space,
which swells to brittleness.
The floor shatters around the shards.
It is too much to ask,
to be held up.
It is not a given.
The shards fall, the keen recedes,
and as it does,
it loses its pervasive monotony.
The sound, growing softer,
acquires pauses,
and tonality.
It is saying something,
but as the sounds form (words?),
they become quieter,
and as I listen,
something so close to coalescing,
fades away.

wine

I just watched a short from an episode of nova on aging. They were discussing how certain genes may allow for longer lives in creatures fortunate enough to have them; fortunate, if the creature wants to live longer.
It was mentioned that resveratrol, a compound found in red wine, extended the life span of mice by ten to twenty percent.
They then said that a human would have to drink one thousand glasses of wine each day to achieve the same effect.
"Salud! (Please drink responsibly.)" - Nova

re-introduction

I have just re-acquired the internet in my home after a long dearth, in the form of dsl. The flow of bits is now constant, according the flashing green light on my little electric box, mailed to me via the ubiquitous network of brown vans, sporting the fashionable "UPS" symbol.
If I could get one of their jackets... I'd be the talk of the scene.

Scenes.

I had a conversation tonight, during which someone told me that they'd had to leave the scene for awhile, as a reaction to a bad experience within the scene.
I asked, "What is a scene?"
I was told that it was the poetry scene.
"Ok, " I said, "I've never really been in the poetry scene here. Just in and out a lot."

This is in Chicago. Scenes seem really foreign to me now, but it didn't used to be that way. When I lived in Utah, the first scene that I became a part of, outside of the horrid high school scene that I had fought for survival in, was the rave scene. I was definitely a scenester, then. I knew who everyone was, and I knew what was going on. I got satisfaction from that, and felt badly when major events took place that I wasn't aware of.
Later on, I became a part of the poetry scene. I was getting to know circles of people in that crowd, and I wanted to know when and where the events were. Satisfaction.

The person I was talking to went on to say that s/he was back now, and feeling alright about things. A quick bearing of hir immediate sense of wellness.
How much is my own ability to feel good about going out and socializing a measure of my own mental health?
Like everything, I feel that it's the middle ground that is the nice place to walk. Go out, talk to people, communicate as a happy human, and then go back to aloneness, and find some satisfaction in that solitude.
The solitude allows me to write this. The happy human gave me something to talk about.
We're all happy humans, sloshing about in my belly. With some beer. And tea. And a squishy little rice cake with a dot of sweet, red bean paste in the center.
Welcome back to my home, internet.