ἐκβάλλω

Turnstile caterwauls of dotage,

The means of which fit your homage.

Particles of you dissipate to the sea,

See me free yet short of the tree.

The rope dangles at angles so few,

Far beaneath the leaves thatve lost hue.

I am the visage of myself,

The portrait of you yet to be shelved.

Pinpoint the point in conversation,

Uncertain certainties of concentration.

This parcel of consuming fire,

Ebbing eyes toward false desire.

You beacon of bastions,

Clay formed lover of astral runs,

Is it you I beckon at the waterfront?

Is it you my fears have yet to confront?

I seek your soul by the consonant shores,

Golden east and flash flooded to our cores.

I knew you were lost,

But have you means for what it cost?

The end begs your beginning.

A reckoned rhyme scheme for sinning.

I no longer tether to night,

When you die, I'm coming to get you.

The veiled celestial specters cascading down rampart tears of trinitarian prismatics slip the slope to our space in time. Touching the crest of the world and showing our dead who we are now. Do you see me? Are you watching us with your Christ?

The air fills with the essence of who you were wandering these halls, preparing in your room, wondering about me outside, always coming in too late and shutting shutters slightly too loud.

Do you hear those innocently depraved footsteps climbing your Cotten staircase after midnight? Did you recognize when I fell and pieced my peaces together on the floor of rooms I can no longer enter?

Turnikit love. Imminent dove. Bypassing my shoulder, out of shot and mind. Et tu moi? Yet still I was baptized in the moments given to me. 4am knowledge and red eyed weekdays of the unreturned.

Where am I joining you?

I cascade the prominence of possible down my cheeks on your coast, coasting to the bottom. If I waste away, I know I knew better.

I remember your machines. I feel your wordless eyes, and I pray god showed up when I couldn't see him. I made promises. Married to the grave in my most honest. I wouldn't let you down. Down to the roots that raised me and repurposed you.

In a blind fury, I'm coming for you

Turn her over.

The ebb and flow of oscillation is enough to forget the end of your means.

I turn tale and fly solo so high. A picturesque portrait of what was promised lying in wool.

The undutied sentry at my door with the key to the lockbox. They’ll attempt a break. Spawning others so perpetually unfit for fitting the promises veiled in subjugation of idealism and promiscuous violence of the heart.

Here we lie.

The ails wale from the whalestow straight from your jacket into the wilderness. You can’t tame the sold and the fortune tellers of cartoon dreams, schemes and obscene messages left on your mirror. You souled the everafter promised in the everpresent present presence of nevermore.

I caw and yawp at the door of the mind unsightly and unseen. It yerks against the veil being torn asunder under the flaccid fornication of another night absentia the real.

Could we meet in the backstreets of heaven. The question is posed so syphilitically erotic that your boon becomes bane borne back ceaselessly into the before where bayonets are welcomed alternatives to your touch. Touch left off of me in blessed bereavement. Not mine. Nevermore.

Here the end of trials awaits in the everlong longing of your psyche against spree ever widening. My eyes enough to cloud with judgment and justification of youth. You know not what you do. But, you do. I think not of you. In prayers and speech of affirmation and breaks, the lamentations on the lifeless givers that act as placeholders to my future.

The you you could never hope to be.

I cover the earth in dedication and dead leaves. Folios fortuning the favored yet revealed. But as she is, your pale complexion will pale yet again to the fervent attribution of the adamantly adjectival in word and deed. You are lost to the sea that sees all ruin, all pain, all deed and finds you wanting.

In the hereafter, the evermore of terraces and beachborn proposals. Your face drowns in the deepest saltwater, further than the loved ones I buried this past year at your side.

I have grief of knowing your name still of sitting on my window sill. I do not pray for you anymore.

The end of days and the beginning of yours in yours up yours around yours yours yours yours yours yours yours yours yours yours. Always. Till the heavens melt and burn the circular firewalls about my feet your needs are met by some forsaken entity that loves you more than me. Who do you pray to?

I’ve drank the entire weight of the world in denial of your existence. I will forget things you love, all I’ve done and the onset of future dying between us.

Nothing lingers here but fear and loathing in your lost v. But I believe without stretch you are torn taught from limb every dollar drink night you are self invited to.

Your fam ill y is the destroyer of husbands so much better than you’ll ever know. They’ll tear you from inside out and keep you loose to the morality of those closest to you.

In the age of becoming; You’ve learned nothing and I beckon your ruin at the wakes and wanes of every pitfall you create for man.

Posing posey pushed past the perfection unworthily bestowed on your pushy hole of an existence.

You will breathe the last and darkest of my conjectures of human kind. I burn the birds at my door because of your frailty. You have left me with nothing and taken the seeds of the entire town I tried to protect you from. They can take you now to their alleyways, broken futures and empty promises. Nibble from their palms as the kneeling knees you have become. Pose yet again.

I can’t stand your breath in this place I live. I distain the taste of your terror and will destroy any recollection of it in due time.

This place has no memory of you. It does not smell of your desire or disdain. It has not looked upon you in the shallow mourning of forgetful flighty fancy. It has not heard the vile words of your others placing humanity on a dollar spectrum or fame facade for happiness. It does not touch the places that you choose to spread. It has distaste for the abandon that follows the mediocre and the silence that falls in self absorption.

Through the dimly lit balcony window is my ledge. Where my beautiful Raven perches and sings to the streets of the very souls of humanity. It calls to the cars and passerbys of the essence of the other and the moments that can be shared through nuanced giving and understanding. It now acts as the steadfast defender against the melodies of little yellow birds chiming in their self affirming praises and discarding all those near. With the loving shrill of absolution it clears the airwaves of notes too high pitched in soleful pride into a consolidated harmony of entreatment howling “yawp, praise be to thee virgiling entities seeing souls sold to their merit in the enumeration of capitalistic baptismal light. You are free! You are free! You are free!”

I watch my dear Raven as it sends out the beckon call that corrupts the intentions of those that have destroyed the beauty of this world. I place small seeds on its ledge and see the truth in the dark eye that seeks to change the world. It shall through the nether dispatch that which has brought the noir to its visceral spectrum and reveal the very blight of all.

The light lies behind the shadow of the eye.

“In these final days, a meeting would take place to decide the fate of humanity. Those that posed in bows were brought to their knees once more and the revealers of the world rose to set the stage for the world to come.”

In the air of nature and sea,                                                                                  the celestial cleansing of aquatic orbs                                                                 circle and pirouette about the faces                                                                      who’ve first seen each other.

Drawn to the cycle of rebirth in the                                                                      calming palms of new counsel.                                                                           Salt sustaining atmosphere dancing                                                                    through the airways as the group opens                                                             the minds and centers of each, pushing                                                              to their new family of friends.

Eyes open to see the others as a piece                                                                of the universal heart. Breath shared in the acknowledgement of life and death. Particle, even molecular energy driving eyes wide and wet discovering  new brother and sister that the world had blinded them to.                                 Fingertip touch, shoulder grasp, chest to chest, face pouring out the waters of  revelation on the backs of understanding. Shedding the distance and disdain for the new Zion. The moment brings humanity to its                                    most centric elements.

The oneness in the shared smile bestowed in sacred seconds.                           Conventions crumbling at the feet of these few that truly see on the black sand  shores of firelit night.                                                                                           The warmth of the arms given so freely in radiance of ember lit area.                 Where death peeks to sea that which it may never know. Where God looks on  to see himself found out.                                                                                     Where the world slips over the horizon and plunges into ethereal night.

I see you in this moment.                                                                                     I lose your name and discover                                                                             what I’ve lost behind the open of your honesty.

Teach me your joy.                                                                                               Tell me the secrets of time.                                                                                   Lead me to the waterfront                                                                                     and dip my toes in the cleansing movement.                                                       Let me taste the moment of creation and know                                                   what it means to truly live.

Bhaisajyaguru,

Makuahine, Kaikuahine,

Why don’t dudes talk in public bathrooms?                                                   Male species, this is concerning me. Do women speak through stalls chatting of Timberlakes and obligations?

There are these unspoken rules for bro’s when it comes to public urination:

The First Rule of toilet club is you don’t talk during toilet club.

The Second Rule of toilet club is you don’t talk during toilet club.

The Third Rule is never make eye contact.

4. You pull your own paper towel.

5. You don’t stand at the door and hold it open for someone else to enter in like, “Hey buddy! Let’s go on this excretion journey together!” No, you push the door wide enough open that hopefully they can speed their pace and catch it. You do not look back after this push as Rule 3 takes affect the second you touch the door.

6. You stagger your pace so that you exit the restroom at separate times. You spend an extra minute admiring the stall artwork and contemplating if calling 846-7214 has really given someone such an amazing bj that they had to permanently etch it into the stall. Did it happen right here? Am I potentially standing in the same spot this phone number fornicator fellattio’d? You ask. After these extra moments have passed allowing the other occupant to clear some safe distance from the door, you are free to exit. This avoids potentially logical conclusions that people may have about you both coming out at the same time from some “High five! We did it bro.” epic journey that may have been completed in there. This of course does not apply in crowded bathrooms where the rule is in and out, as fast as possible, don’t touch shit, don’t breathe through your nose, you can’t stand close enough to the toilet because of the soaked floor so you add to the mess, no time to flush-fuck it keep moving wash your hands or don’t, just don’t stop, jam up.

7. If one bro enters said restroom and another bro is occupying the urinals solo, you enter into the stall. To do otherwise implicates something that neither of you can be sure of in that moment, so best to avoid it altogether.

Of course...                                                                                                           This all goes out the window after alcohol makes men remember they hate rules, and there’s no time to wait for someone to finish, just share the stream, sword fight, sink the cheerio, whatever. Bro’s arm over shoulders singing Closing Time in line and hugging and high fiving at the sinks.

Scathing pens flying for decades over my parchment tell tall tales of five convinced of after life. When hope was snuffed between Pandora’s lid and I as a man ran and hid.

The projections and projects trained the brains of those shaping the psyche. Framed in the art of the pulpit and purposed spending ending in a generation of confident cultists.

My robes, tearing through tearing and abandon. I’ve made my way to the woodlands of my mind. Tethering torches and tortures of what capacity man has to shape man, when vulnerable or planted of his own seed.

I make friends with the jackals betwixt the trees and the devil in the details now works for me.

Our silence howls through every space shared with those passing to the other side.

I have metered memories and spent your gifted coins on the swill of townships since removed.

Though, as I ramble through my now empty ashtray, a nickel.

There was a time when Joanna spoke his name in front of him. Shoes were left by the door. Lies beneath the porch awning of musical midnight movements.

There was a time when snow masked the roads and safety of sharing an evening. Braved by those with more focused hearts. Survived to shambles.

There was a time when the creator was contrived conjured and the plot was lost from whence it was learned. What living is this that he has done?

There was a time when she came to take another’s name. When handless bands emerged from the cryptic repression of the lost in another bout of an accustomed trudging through winter weather. A summer begins in the souls of a world barred from spectation.

There was a time when he weighed less and more in semi-distant places with formers forming now new dispositions. Apart a part of abstraction from seeing cure in tea.

There was a time when he had a home made before necessity begat invention. As man in the first forging identity in the barren woodlands of the unknown world, comforts crucified themselves.

There was a time when his soul lover was alive. When she lay in wait in radio filled rooms for his return and lingered in frail embrace. A space made for making moments momentarily, now tethered in tubes draped over lowered earth.

There was a time when existence purposes itself and Kanted creativity from the essence of essentiality. Canned goods can’t be counted on. Many have

Expired.

There’s a difference in the shading of the world. When hues are cues to expectations of self and estranged.

           It has been 23 years since Renée was trampled out by a steamstress[i]. The consolidated beauty of a mind erased with a single flit of whimsy. Dashed out on the ground. Yes, I have also been creating a collection of words in the suit of Shakespearean invention. My bitterness towards the poor laundry girl has left me in sorts to have forgotten any real name she may have been called, and instead refer to her occupation to encompass. This has been my follow up to my childish ideas in my Journal of the World. If someone were to encounter that (the last entry following the pavement splatter) I would be thought an absurdist at best and a potential Marxist in any other light. It's not that I didn't feel what I was writing in those moments, but I believed I had revelation of nuanced life at the point of impact. As I stood there beside Kakuro, I knew we had solved something. I was dead wrong.

           I sit in her chair. Feet dangling slightly as my height never followed suit with my waist. Waste. Whatever. My sister moved away the following summer permanently (some North African destination for academia. Who knows). I assumed she would send me a line through Zebra or be paraded back to the hotel on an Ivory throne after she had become the leader of some obsolete village with all her carryings on. Hide nor hair. My parents in their age pushed out of their comfortable chambers here to head south to Nice in order to enjoy their ocean. I'd say they followed outplayed ideals held by Westerners in what they should do in retirement, but it's their business. No one is unique in dying, so I guess you may as well go out in the sun sipping cocktails. When they left, I could finally be alone. There's no need to hide if there are no people to hide from. On my 25th, the elderly changed the tenancy to Madame Paloma Josse, handed me a neatly wrapped box of madeleines and headed south. Homeowner. Of sorts. Homeowner and hotel concierge.

           The replacements that came after Renée were an icon of embitterment and sleekeyed[ii] avoidance. Their dispositions of elitism paled to even the most snub nosed of self taught psychologists. I couldn't stand them. If perhaps I had gone down a Kafka road I might could have saddled up next to them and tried to see if they too had some underlying spark of intrigue that might situate the world differently in this space. Overhearing praise of a cyan silk wrapping on a parcel one had to deliver pushed that idea out for good. I carried on without acknowledging them and gathering my words. I too tried the road of academics after completing Lycée (do to my parents imposition), but my poor instructors were deluded with Dostoyevsky and the national scale to the point I couldn't keep from coming up with words for them. Befugglers. Dostoyites. Eurotrash (the currency, not the contrived slang for all Europeans). Millwonks. Baggetboffers. Universiterian Monospectrsits[iii]. You get the idea. So after my second semester at Université I decided I would do better to keep my own readings and push forth some new way to exist in this world outside the confines of the confound. A position opened. I filled it. The interview was less of a discourse on my "qualifications," and more of an inquiry as to why I wanted the position to begin with as a named tenant. "But, you realize this is not a high paying position correct? How would it look on our establishment if one of our own was to be in such a labor here?" And on and on. I eventually stopped the yammer with pointing out the necessity for the position (despite my disbelief of that) and rerouted the argument to prove that my name would prove my affinity for the hotel moreover than my denouncement of class. Either by need or beguile, I was pushed through to Renée's seat.

           There really wasn't anyone else I could stand to see sitting here. I'm not sure if it was homage or delusion, but I felt that this role should be kept by the seers and the watchers of the world. The untamed intellect stoutly brooding over the menial farces of the todayers[iv]. There should be some kept secrets to keep life worth living. I have become the mystery that no one even knows they should try to solve. The overlooked and wanton. The classy classists only question is to why one of the highborn would want to deliver their messages. Canted eye glances and chagrin grins titillate me still. It's unbelievably humorous to watch Madame Lucé's continual unsurety[v] when I take her daily letter to Corporal Major Lucé for delivery. I'm sure she suspects I'm not sending them, or writing my own note d'amour in hopes to ascertain a 48 year old man at that rank. Truly I would, just to set wheels in motion, yet I refuse to degrade to the anarchistic mentality of pushing the world to flame. Though, one time I did come close.

           It was not long after Renée had stained the walkway that I began to cling to Kakuro. I would spend days hiding away in his place, devouring edamame[vi] and flushing his toilet in hopes to run the battery down and force the treble clef an octave lower. Over the years he would push me in some fashions of intellectualism and give me insight into Eastern ideologies to keep me from losing my mind in Lycée. We had truly believed that something had happened that day we lost the concierge. Something between us. Something sacred and universal that would seek to show the plight of all humankind in our inevitabilities and necessity for shared interactions before the missed heartbeat. I believed Kakuro knew something I didn't, and in many ways he did. He just fell fallacy to that which encumbers anyone who is not satiated with their own neural pathways and breathing. Comfortability[vii] kills. Even more striking in those closest to the grave. Seeing one's end oncoming as the sun-revolutions quicken will make people revert to animalistic tendencies and find a new sense of necessity. I learned to stop pedestaling paupers. You've heard the expression "Anyone is capable of anything." Yet, people hardly believe it with the amount of blind trust they give to those that they "love." I've found it's those closest to you that do the most damage, and are always undoubtedly the triggerman/woman. Before I left to waste a year at Université, Kakuro called me to his apartment for what I imagined to be a heartfelt goodbye and potentially some soybeans for the semester. He greeted me as fatherly as always and we sat over tea to discuss what I would major in (Psychoanalytics) and where I would be staying. It was about our second cup of Chai in that he broke out in tears. He plead. Leaning over to me and holding around my waist he asked me to stay with him. He wept. At first, this was heartbreaking to the point of endearment. All good things end though. He pulled up about my face and confessed his love for me implicating that I was his Renée that lived. Weeping on my forehead he exclaimed he would leave this place for good if I did not consent to stay with him. He extolled of how his years were upon him and he needed someone to "have." I knew he knew what he was saying and that this was not a linguistic barrier. The thought of my entity being encompassed in another's brought stomach bile to my throat. I had trusted him. I had shared with him, and it was never I that he looked for or after. It was he. To see such a kindhearted and respectable person derail themselves into a fit of this sort unraveled years of my perception. You know when you find out after a while that someone has been lying to your face about something? Amplify that by a childhood and eradicate paternal trust. As Hamlet, in silence, I left.

           Two months into my time at school, I received word that Kakuro had left. Despondency set in, but I can't say part of me wasn't relieved to not feel trapped away from returning to the hotel if I so chose. When I made it back, the Madame Lucé had already moved into his apartment and was flitting about redecorating in a Victorian fashion. Everyday a package from Rue 18 and some other piece of chic being toted to the elevator. Miserable at best, these that find their sitabouts[viii] personified and base their eluding delight in the new mirror adjacent a golden crane on a birch. Revolting revolution of commodity. This is the new age movement that continued into tech industrialism in interior decorating accommodations I deal with now. Plumbing symphonies are old hat in this era of digitization. The future and present blend and I encompass the past (passed? either way). I watch the world rotate around me.

           I wanted to stay because it was my choice. Maybe Kakuro had been right about me being a living Renée. Perhaps that's why I sit in this old chair as the only thing that hasn't been updated or remodeled. I have become something outside myself and allowed my mind to wade in a body that doesn't need a name. I cannot say that reading Russian philosophy, conjuring my words and conjecturing French existentialism is always enough. Yet, I refuse to lose myself completely. No matter what, I will live and die true to my nature; never bending to waning body and mind in the false pretense of needing comfort in my ending. I too will receive the world at speed and collide with the pavement of reality when the time comes. It is in that moment that I will know the sun for the first time and feel the difference in the alive and living.  

[i] See Journal of Words (pg. 1)

[ii] See Journal of Words (pg. 27) & Appendix B. 112

[iii] See Journal of Words (pgs. 45, 47 & 49)

[iv] See Extra's and Literacy's Part 2. & Journal of Words (pg. 4)

[v] See Webster's Dictionary circa. 1913 Gloss. U

[vi] See Eastern Asian Cuisine (Nichiren 1275) Ming Dynasty & Sodium Surplus Dieting and You Vol. 2

[vii] [Kuhmf-tuh-bihl-iht-ee] 1350-1400 Middle English < Anglo-French & JoW (pg. 92)