|Andrew Lindemann Malone's Internet Playpen|
I'm in wherever I am,
sitting, grinning, stealing
a chance when I can, taking
what I need or what I can
find around me. You are
supercharged, exhaling sparks,
crystal iterated to the nth power,
searing the social landscape
like laughing flame god's breath.
I should know how this goes,
but I haven't been there before.
Chrome and iron are paper and rock;
one covers the other in idealized games,
while reality finds the stronger beating
time on the fragile covering, or
shielding it by supporting it from storms
outside. Society is a game you choose to play.
Your cat's cradles collapse into net-traps
of strings, and you need a scissors, a rude Alexander
to fend off the complexities which arise
when wishing to preserve every strand
of something ultimately useless. I have a sword.
I have hacked up my own life to bits, said "This
is a game and this is reality," gone where I needed to,
done what I had to. You are learning this
fitfully, a backsliding betwetter,
making trauma and asking others to clean it.
I have done enough of my own laundry
to see where the extra detergent is needed.
But I watch the same TV shows as you do
and see chrome elevated to art:
mirror of my researched desires, I see peaks
of physical perfection and sarcastic humor
or passionate declaration reached at hour
intervals. By people like you. And I see
you in the world, living this, and see what it
does to you, and still I think, "Isn't this how
life is supposed to be led? Isn't that what
I watch this thing for, anyway, to be shown
what I'm supposed to be doing?"
(I am, of course, young, and we rebels
are prone to such pack mentality.) Not for
escape; that is the province of those who couldn't
live this anyway, having lost their former pulse. See this:
I should bare my chest, move to New York,
club and fuck and shoot up and go down.
I know how it ends: crying in a room, cell or
hospital or bedroom, whatever, wherever.
The calling card of Too Much Fun.
But for a moment you apex, you combust,
you sky and circle and laugh and dance,
you do things I never would, go places
I've never been, be the pattern young person
of our generation. Pretty corpse optional.
Or maybe just the dead soul I hear on phones,
ranging over topics, variety in grooves,
drink and strip and regret. You can see only sixty
seconds into the future. Flashing and laughing,
you embrace these seconds and wonder why
regrets creep up later. Why not ask why before?
My regrets are contained in ignoring moments;
I shrink from them, fear and pass by hoping
to go unnoticed, figment of the corner
of everyone's eye. Your regrets are explosions
of bombs you armed yourself. The passionate
declaration of hate, the callous leavetaking,
the object hurled from across a room
that just misses your head. Meanwhile,
Am I so happy? I sit here, sometimes,
not crying but bleeding out of my eyes,
and I feel a need, a duty to myself to find
smoke and aspirates to swirl and trash
the air hanging in front of me like an
empty white box, to put the kindest
inscrutable gloss on what is the essential
emptiness of living in the world, for me.
I don't know where to find substance,
and I don't know whether to be sad.
You hurl yourself at the void
and I shy away from it, and we both
end up deader than souls should be, now.
At this age. Are these the alternatives
that we have been presented with, or is there
a third way? I can't tell, and you don't care.
So we will blunder on forward, separate, together,
seeking each other as refuge from the night.
All this tasty writing ©2002-11 by Andrew Lindemann Malone. All rights reserved.