futility
another day‘s useless energies spent. i keep imagining myself dead. not the followup, the throwaway, the obliteration and obliviation, but the physical junk of death. this breathing and burping ceases, the scratching my balls is no more, however itchy conditions might really be. thye say your brain remains alive for a half hour after your body gives up, and that one can hear or sense the activity around them as the sheet is pulled over them. similarly, when one is decapitated via guillotine the head remains alive for the seconds in which it tumbles into the basket, or into the crowd, where the onlookers have gathered to kick it around. i don‘t expect to be guillotined, though travelling executioners are a hazard in some areas, these rogue vigilantes ramble about convincing innocents that they blashphemed The Lord and that the headchopper in the back of the truck is meant for them.
i am reading Slinger, by Ed Dorn. this copy showwss the title as Slinger on the cover and Gunslinger on the spine. is that part of the gag? i think it is. it is good stuff. i want to see ed dorn‘s tomb. it is tall and has a lenghty poem inscribed upon it. it is in colorado. book 4 of Slinger is titled “book I I I I“ hah
i remember how i used to try and make time for Slinger. when i had a car i thought i could use it as an excuse, on those days i had to move the car 10 feet from one side of the street to the other, i would drive around on those days and go to astoria park and sit on shore avenue, in my car, reading books and listening to the hum of the east river. i did this for some time. a few months, a day here or there. it was uncomfortable. unnatural. constipated. if i want to read i can read at home, on the couch, on the can, but i maybe do not want to read. i idle, i inertiate, i do as little as possible. general rust rises over my steel. or whichever metal is cheapest, as that would be the stuff of my inferior vessel
i need a nap
