This About Faced


john moves the movement of the verily meaning into this sound horning into liquid breathing moving into silence. you see, one could say exactly what one meant to say but that would be dead now wouldn’t it? john findles the floppenheimer catch to the 22 second. he curdles the flame into incense spiralling ringling brothers. and john aka minuteman to his cousins takes the whiff of attempting into the bosom of misunderstanding. midnight yell. pigs flashing their fucking lights. one can flip them off but what does it do? the violence builds into shut out buildings shadowing over lives struggling to die noisily. and johhny-o-boyo, our lad, deciduates into the undertow, pecking languages that are only understood in the marketplace, selling. how could one possibly express, this amazing shit and blazing florescence that is your every day? john takes a shit. john takes numerous shits, at allotted times in the morning. a day moves into a night and then a woken up by shrilling alarm to dress cordially for another
round standing of drinks. quaffen deeply. it could be assignated meaning–but then again, that might be dangerous. move on, move on brave christian warrior. live to face another day to run again. john intaken of the nargila. john shisha’ed to headspinningness of southern comfort. Ricky Tea. somewhere in Louisiana. lost to the the remembrance of fuckedupness.
johnny delites in the sunny play of knowing the meaning is meaningless. still the struggle, word bile billowing up to be buried. be good. or not to be. success. failure. connected attempted but disconnected unable to compute accurately the rate of the font of teriyaki. i remember the bells, says john, the bells of the pre-school ringing presbyterian over the courtyard where i remember standing briefly on cones tied through with string. walking like a stork to the sandbox. i remember walking on macaroni in a cardboard glittered spaceship because the teacher made me and i liked her. but she made me sit in the triangle once and for that i felt bitter. i once called her later, upgraded to elementary school, and heard the voice of her (what was it, spouse, daughter? i can’t member) and hung up. john pontificating. john pontius selecting which to draw back out into to the light by the people yelling. i remember the shames made to be felt in those systems, the glory to be felt in winning the certificate of student of the month. circles of the fitting in moving inward. i seeming to be a part of even while observing, misunderstanding, miscalculating, shy. there all along, and so not wholly questioned. but now john. john. trying to say too much. what is it that could really be known from those long days of despair and triumph and running running running? will we forget? will we learn? will we ever learn?

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Author: manderson

I live in NYC.

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