This is where I'm at right now...
About suffering they were never wrong,
The Old Masters; how well, they understood
Its human position; how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;
How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting
For the miraculous birth, there always must be
Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating
On a pond at the edge of the wood:
They never forgot
That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course
Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot
Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse
Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.
In Breughel's Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away
Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may
Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,
But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone
As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green
Water; and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen
Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,
had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.
This is where I'm, right now.
Falling. Losing it. Unable to hold onto it any longer because it has become too much and I want to get back my sleep. I want to be able to go home and sleep like everyone else seems able to do. I don’t want to hear Miles Davis’ riffs, imagining him in that garage shade back on his dentist father’s farm, trying to clean himself out, the trumpet glowering at him in the evening as he sniffed up dung that blazed up like golden stones in the dark. This is where I’m at.
I can’t hold it anymore. I don’t want to hold it anymore. I want to sleep; I want to be able to sit still again. I want to be able to call up Michael on the phone and concentrate on talking to him, cease all action and live in this moment, need nothing else. Not my fingers gliding over these black keys, my eyes going over these Boondocks pages forming my mind forming thoughts it would never pursue with ideas flaring in the dark, brief matchsticks, to sit still again. I want that. I can’t hold it anymore. I don’t want to hold it anymore. Let me be. I want some rest.
I’m tired of all these thoughts, these new plans, the dreams that never stop coming, the warm breasted hope, this hunger, these needs, I want to be gone from all that. Stop! I don’t want to be walking along watching the sky in the clouds be the only one to see the woman lying on a couch in the clouds, can’t you see her hand under her head, she’s dreaming… No more! Release me, Hemingway…
This grace’s run out and Fitzgerald is the drunk, open mouth, mop of hair head grinding the map of his absent heart into the wattle walls, you always had a girl’s lips, I want these dreams to stop! How long have I been looking for you, Okot P’Bitek, your son’s phone number is in my phone book and I looked into his tired eyes looking for you, what happened in Nairobi, I think I know though you would not take me there with you. My Nakivuubo days, Kikubo days, Kisenyi nights schooled me, where am I now? Go away, Iwaya! You’re going to start again.
Don’t let these blues over take me. Not now. Not where I’m. You said tell me three things she can’t live without, don’t think hard, you’re the gift, oh hell, I have not seen that smile since we were students together, walking to the university main hall to do an afternoon course work and you said, “My afternoon has been very good so far, I fucked his girlfriend and look at them now!” and you smiled the most beautiful smile I have ever seen in the world, it would not go away, you wanted to prove me wrong, no one has ever had teeth as beautiful as yours, I remembered this. Oh well. It's not like you have never heard this before...
1.She can’t live without me, she loves me completely. Why does this bring me sorrow? I’m the expert in sad smiles.
2.She can’t live without her phone because that phone was a gift from the only other person she has ever loved; she fought a man, a thief in the taxi park, to retain that phone, it is a part of her.
3.She’s loves her job, she’ll work any day of the week and while I listen to Lost Ones by Jay-Z, she’s convinced it’s a matter of time, it’s only a matter of time, she’s going to change the world, her job’s going to help her, ah well.
Some things you can’t talk about, you’re not allowed to. Once upon a time, I knew a girl…a beautiful girl…I read your text, over and over, you said, “women are incurably dishonest,” do I want to challenge that? I read your message over and over.
Oh, only if you knew where you’re going!