No Posit Vol. 3, plus

Peruse.


Audible but indiscernable, the t.v. in the gym, the fuzz of the a.c, the deep thrum of the world behind that. Two dudes play pool, one black the other south pacific, maybe. The black one leans his cue against the table and leans against the table. The south pacific one see-saws his cue and talks quietly on his cell phone, then prepares for his next shot. It sounds like he didn't do well. They talk quietly and takes shots irregularly. The black one lazily pushes the balls around the table when the south pacific one goes, I think, to check on his laundry. Two black girls come to play pool on the second table. The black one and the south pacific one (laundry in a stack in his arm) leave.

PLEH, part 1 through part 4, part 6

As blimps, as many times before, gloating overhead and silent, a patch tethered to a thunderhead. Which hits at a patch. Noises like the flaring nostrils of molasses horses.




Stranded at work. Doomed with you.
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Ever waited for something while finding it utterly impossible to imagine its occurence? That wasn't actually a question. Sorry. The wait only lingers infinitely in my head. The reality of it is improbable.
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Jenia. Wake up! Unless you are dead which would mean, of course, that you cannot wake up. You're gone. Gone gone. I'll miss you, Jenia. Your head deflated in a pond of blood and bone. Your face blown out aghast in a wall.

ballast

That's me right now

I'm bored maybe once a year. That's me right now. Bored and antsy.. I don't feel like doing anything that's available to me right now. Go to bed. The moon moves overhead. What time of day is it, really. Setting behind a doorframe. My internal clock is screwy. These days time goes by very quickly, so it feels. It was August a week ago. Tomorrow is November. Italy was a month ago. Time's not fast, it's meaningless.

Three more hours

I have three more hours left at work. Here's an excerpt from a book I'm reading that I like so far, but that is a lot more depressing than I thought it would be:

One thing or another in our lives hadn't worked out, and for a long period of time we struggled to overcome it. We took showers sitting down and couldn't get out of bed on weekends. Finally we consulted HR about the details of seeing a specialist, and the specialist prescribed medication. Marcia Dwyer was on Prozac. Jim Jackers was on Zoloft and something else. Dozens of others took pills all day long, which we struggled to identify, there were so many of them, in so many different colors and sizes. Janine Gorjanc was on a cocktail of several meds, including lithium. After Jessica's death, Janine and her husband, Frank, divorced. We understood divorce to be a common repercussion of the death of a child. There was no bitterness between them, just a parting of ways. Now they each lived alone with their memories.

I don't know how to describe what I'm feeling right now, which I've been feeling for the past however many months. Something to do with jobs and money. Of course.
Writing "jobs and money" just made me feel more strongly this way.

1/10 an eye, 1/1000

Light-sensitive patches in old, tiny skin
half of an eyeball, half of an ear,
1/10 an eye, 1/1000
the sharp notes of my shit:
an overture to a heavy dump
a blast of timpani, cradled
wet
4 for thirst then 4 then 4
then 4 then 3
3 for thirst
then 0

I - at some point - want

I see the news or Noah Cicero writing for some reason and no matter what it is i'm watching or reading I - at some point - want to sink onto the floor and sorta shake. I can't adequately say how fucked this country is, probably. And then I read about denominationalists and stupid white women.

-also-

My ma sent me a small box roughly 5" by 5" by 2". It was packed with fresh meat, and the meat had swollen or grown since she'd wrapped it up. I think, maybe, it still had blood coming out of it but not enough to soak through the cardboard. Ma, you crazy but thanks.