repetition

Answering a question with a question. Devolution. A refusal to continue the leavening when told to. Can repetition save me? Sucks the fun out of everything. A barking dog. A missed appointment. A sentence on the page and in a four by six cell. Black coffee mornings. Practice makes perfect. Heraclitus says that “you can never step into the same river twice.” Process. A simultaneous wandering toward the unreachable center. Waking up next to the same person everyday. Safety. A question. Spiraling into Nietzsche’s eternal return. Goodbye. Hello.

Here you will find a repetition: There were as many chairs there and there were two a chair that can be found everywhere a rocking chair that i to say a rocking chair can be found everywhere. (Gertrude Stein)

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question

Asking. Always answers with another question. A Zen koan. Mosaic. See repetition. Where the gaps replace the narrative thread. Disparate voices in colloquy. Exile. The strangeness between us. How the text writes itself. My personal mythology. I am created by questions. The mark at the end of my sentence. A catalyst, and then the death of the speaker.

“You might be able to retrieve your secret password at the website if you answer your secret question.”
“What is the name of your favorite pet?”
“What is the name of the street you grew up on?”
“Which one?”

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hella

“Really” and “very” followed by coolness. The accepted economy of desire. Coming to Northern California from Brooklyn via Indiana, Nebraska, Wyoming, and Tahoe in a rented blue minivan with plants lining the dash and my home zoo crowding the floor. A foreign land. A turning of what you believe, inside out like a glove. A realizing you are old and make comments like your parents did in 1994. Of course it is always possible that someone can misunderstand. Do they realize that we did that ten years ago too? Quirky diction, orangery. Finding and losing cancer alongside a favorite wallet. Means continuing the narrative after abrupt syntactical shifts. Either you agree with me or you are a fool. The West Coast and a room with a better view. Otherness and the implied “I.” Two scoops of John Ashbery and some Gertrude Stein. The Mission, Fillmore, Potrero Hill, Bernal Heights, but definitely not Noe. A campaign of words is not needed. Ocean Beach and burritos. Home. If you touch it, it is yours.

Everyone on Mission is so hella cracked out that I think I got a hella contact high that lasted hella long yesterday.

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