Evening on
Evening on
by Bogdan Puslenghea
Roll myself a joint, shower
get dressed and split.
Take the bicycle, stop, smoke a bit
and ride; get there, pace, talk to
the fuckers, listen to the music.
No friends.
Toostunned to complain.
Go home, pace, I want this summer
to end. I can’t sleep, on my bed a window,
in the window Easton, look through the
window. He tunes in to a monologue ‘It
would have been better if I had gone
that far.’ Don’t get it. It’s like that book I’ve
been flipping through. Only here.
The white sign, empty sign
your soul lips isms, dicks
Get on. Get off. No dream.
arbitrary fixed in the S of all
Keep on. Keep in on, dahling.
over –beyond –above, the hypothesis that
matters against manifold logical
exclusions. More than you would
have me believe. I’m preserving
energy. I keep mysterious and therefore
more interesting. It makes sense.
UnFazed. Two- faced.
Right.
I am there.
I never arrive.
I forget.
Pretty amazing. Starts off with nothing much to do–between “get there, pace” and “go home, pace”–wanting “this summer to end.” “Can’t sleep.” Then whoever Easton is “look(s)through the window” and imparts the message, “It would have been better if I had gone that far.” I and we “don’t get it,” but “it’s like that book I’ve been flipping through,” something esoteric (“your soul lips isms”)but as empty as one night sex (“dicks Get on. Get off.”)–“no dream,” “arbitrary,” “the white sign, empty sign.” Yet the I keeps on with relationships (“dahling”), maybe just with oneself, “over–beyond–above” to a substantive idea that overrides exclusionary rationality–“more than you (the societal you) would have me believe.” Then we come to the alchemy: “I’m preserving energy. I keep mysterious and therefore more interesting. It makes sense.” Boredom transmutes into a timeless, placeless, “two-faced” yet “UnFazed” experience, whose persona transcends it, if only to “forget” it. But the self-knowledge endures.
identity confusion? &anxiety. but who cares, bc the honesty is sunlight-exposure for a demographic of my feelings that are totally in denial of their honesty-thirst right now. tales of a stubborn person. the authors blueprints and my blueprints should form a club but the rules are i need total control over everything and we could write a book together and they could write their own stuff freely but another rule is it can’t suck or else you’ll all turn to toads and i’m going to speak up about my mandala/medicine wheel/avatars ugly salmon color making me notice it. also, this poem doesn’t need an overstated/sized picture.