Seven, eight treaties

Here is how I sit. My shoulders pull themselves hard trying to rehabilitate. My legs are always crossed except when I walk. Then they are straight and I look down to see too much fat. I can always feel my stomach fat. I’d like to count the black curlies curling up but if I look hard I ache some and want to bash in the twenty year old mirror and I have looked for years and they blur, I wish they wouldn’t blur. The knot. It’s always talking about a pill or some talcum or something next, next, next, always unutterably proud of its next. I am about a yard and a half long and I have teeth and I feel them always.

I threw some limestone I found at a woman’s head once, and a book at a man’s head. Never was there such a blind-eyed duck farm as the one I made, them quacking, them gurgling. I am no murderer, I cannot murder. I did rub my Christianity against a dog a few times, was early I’m told, burst some thin thing. The best I’ve ever had was at seven, or eight, somewhere then.

I don’t nick myself shaving because I shave every two months. The skin hardens at that point, takes iventory of itself, seeks novelty, drudges toward novelty. I sometimes hear the ground guzzle if I walk on it right when it rains and I dare to go outside when the eyes, each in a ball of rainwater, aren’t looking, staring so intensely. I walk into a room after pausing at the door talking to it some, it says “Geiger never mentioned you, I hope you’re sanitary.” What has never laughed much won’t laugh at a door, it being a block.

A year I spent in school where I pet myself having bug-eyes rocking into stupidity thinking I think therefore I am, well no, I thought I was not and therefore was in a wifebeater slugging back my father’s water if he’d pour it right titrating between his upper and lower organs, each of them thicker than the last. The words never made sense, neither did the numbers, or strands of fiber that pulled and caught each surprised rabbit face in a mosaic if each quarter was believed. Surprise, a glare, what’s coming? I dropped to my ankles after hearing numbers are sometimes not real, kind of pulled at myself where the lines meet. Thought, well thoughts don’t reel in so good so I’ll just say what I did: I gashed my gums on a cup some kid broke on me and I chewed my thumbs for two hours after the tall woman who can’t wear herself in stared at me some and walked off to her office and kept walking back out to look a little. I first found empathy when she died of a heart attack in the middle of class. She came in and observed and wrote notes and screamed a lot. Thought she was high or something but she was very low.

After school I started jumping on things. Anything. A lamp, cord, glass with Scooby-Doo on it, old keepsakes, new keepsakes, never a face or genitals. Jumped on the grass and it wouldn’t push anymore. Jumped on my hands but fell. I jobbed in a thrift store then a home business but could not count so well and I forgot eighteen or eighty years of my life, figured I was born by a magpie that got drunk and didn’t duty to its species, or a native parasite of birds that saw so much sun and myths and neuronal growth it just pulled a leg from its genitals and another leg and bit its arms out of its mold. I couldn’t tell so much since I had my head cut into, the corpus was halved, the back parts were tattooed some, stuck a noodle in my skull I used to knock on for fun when I couldn’t wipe myself, ended up feeling my gums compulsively after neuroleptics and waking up masturbating I say “no one could wake up between here and there, there is drift, there is a stroke,” slobbering some can feel its sea on myself, “I want, I want, I want, I want, I want, I want, I want, bitch thing feeler cunt evil slut I want I want,” a gasp if you’ve ever felt one, “I cannot come!”

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~ by Jeremy on July 24, 2011.

One Response to “Seven, eight treaties”

  1. I don’t recall writing this, which means I wish I hadn’t written it on strong opiates. Pardon me.

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