No One At All on Sundays                                        Sunday, November 23, 2003

My mind is closed, close, closing in, a fog

Hatred and anger, angry

I want to take paper and pulp

And smash

Crash smash dash hash with a slash and a gash

Dash and slash,

Slash it with charcoal, pastel,

Hard and chalky, a knife, razor sharp edge, slit and slot and tip and tot

Rip the green paper, the white paper, the heavy paper

Rip rip rip it to shreads, meaningless and mean, hating

Hard anger

Furious anger

With reds slashing blacks and oranges…blues

Blue

Blue

Blue sky, blue sty in my eye, hurting and pulsing and

Tears, hatred and tears and solemnity

Sky reddening

with anger and soot, and mind

Sky above

Sky below, sky high

Anger and paper and tints of color and hue

I want to slam

The canvas with brush and knife

Just slam it, and shred and slap it with paint

And render it

And rip it

And burn it, in effigy, nay burn it in hell…burn it to ash and hope springs run dry and out

of the ash might rise

The one huge lie… life.

I want to toss clay, earth, heavy, sweating earth high

In the air and rip it

Tear it, beat it with a sword and

A bat, to bludgeon the

Heavy weight

Into submission and

Raw sheets of red, brown earth, pieces flung

Like dung, showered in shit, and clay

It’s a war and I the

Warrior railing

Against art and thought and meaning

And time

And memory and excuses and

Te depression and the insanity, and the medication, the drugs,

the wanting of liquor and cocaine and being denied by my mind…by fear

and frustration and the raining of sounds and smells in the brain.

Fundamentals come

And go

And wither and sigh

And slowly die

Fundamental religiosity and Christ all mighty hanging on wood, on nails… bleeding and

dying and sighing and crying up to god himself, like a baby, like a whiny

little baby. 

And the images and words and song and sound and touch and feeling all leaving the

foggy mind… as I twist and I try and I wriggle and I die, die, die my tie, red, beet, gulag purple teats….  Spilling black milk, squirting putridity and want.

Closing, squeezing, destroying, suffocating

Thought and memory and

Little gray cells, all bouncing with joylessness and neurosis.

Nothing comes to mind, and nothing leaves the mind its tight, closed, solid like lead in a bucket of red, and

On Sundays and I sit in complete

Despair, suicidal at times…times suicidal at times.

Times I want to kill, times I want to spill blood, times I want to shoot semen from a hood.

And times I sit crying and only knowing that I will die

Having been

No one (and nothing) at all.