Visiting

does it make a difference if you’ve tried and failed, repeatedly so that now you look broken and ugly? that knock of the world upon your soul, rapping hard like the pigs do when they come to find you; take you to the camps just to remind you that the pain they inflict will never be worse than that of the separation from love you have endured from your own failures. The simplicity of it all, when you’re there looking down on it, is stupefying. Does any of that actually matter? It seems a grain of sand in the all the dust of the universe, one single individual’s attempts at connection with that stream of life. are there more chances, after this one lost to the nomadic interests of a child’s mind? too many questions to be worth anything, so it must not matter.
I smoke too much and drink too much and jack off more than is healthy – any doctor will tell you – and in all that I find myself closer to god than … nothing, i’m lying. I am no closer to god from one moment to the next. I am god and it can only reflect poorly on the institution. But again, what difference does it make? I wish I had some pills.
anything to dull the memory of the elusive good that used to be, that was, the then, back then – remember? oh christ how I bellow the death of life and ignore its breath upon my neck. there is the failure – every time. ignorance is no safety, it’s history that is our metric for sadness. and lets not even begin to touch upon the reality of memory and that foundational failure, cracking between the seams, shredded on the edges of life as though the flag were actually the thing it represented. the only honor is in the method – the hanging, the cutting, the torching, the gas chamber – only suicide holds the validity of life in its hands. only suicide. there is no other god when creation is done.
Visits!?! Visits!?! And we never think of our own hypocrisy! spread out in peer judgment separated by tribal loyalties and regional warlords, with the one legged slow kid struggling to understand the confusion between the candy in his hand and the mine that took off his leg. I can’t think of anything good that ever came from the west but we’ll keep on trying to convince ourselves the stupidity and beauty of our dream house with all the amenities and facilities for 300 will make things better. It will. promise me that it will because i don’t know anything but love and desperation for a breath of air – free from the slotted reality of the blinds half drawn on a spring day outside and in that knowing, there is no room for the west. but you’ll see it the same way i did, painfully and regretfully. and the dreams afterward, after the visits, are the worst – corridors that never end and skies that collapse like moments on the edge of a bed hearing and not hearing of death. Visits!? Visit hell up on me and I will know that heaven existed in a bed in white’s-ville with soft lullabies floating from the chest where my ear rested awkwardly. Visits – the west visited the east with bombs and promises; never trust them.