CHARLIE

 

(harbinger of ghosts?, fertile guard burst of insomnia lash dive of tired eye into the light calling to border the hours until giving residence to the sun of day --- shadows that I carry in my cloudy heart prison feet on the ground surrender to the cold of the old description of the self that all absences collect with the help of the taciturn outline --- there remains a sentinel speech water in the basement carving silences in the afternoon where I hide from myself, the word that rejects the glue of thoughts enters burned into the breviary of my regrets while the world turns retaining unloved amalgams at the tip contained until undoing in the abstract reverse transcription of the veins faith the lost embraces where the fear of another's mercy floats in the hot mush of wounded pride, ripened in the hollowed-out core of ruined nerves that shelters its jungle of lights and irritating noises in the labor of regurgitated memory --- I feel that my mixtures (call it 'writing' or burning) are in the caves of childhood intoning all the splendid faces in a cultivation shielded by tortures of destinies loaded with doubts faded in the heart of each pupil in their provisional prayer of nods and premonitory improvisations in a distressed and laughterless language that still laughs, elaborating itself in the unbreathable impossible of the lamentations of the imposed senses and of the spare hours of fear from which arise the trap and the mistreated numbness of instincts moved to the point of capitulated weariness --- the senses of the body nothing more than pierced targets of the undone existence in the immense wound of the mirror withdrawn to its flower of death, enigma and murmur of insomnia culminating in the sickly boredom mournful breath haunting and hunger for life of other abandonments discerning eyes impressions to search purge dreams in the eternal immobility of the illuminated and profound avenues that the submissive flesh heals in the resting gaze where the fertile voids of death dock unfolding tied limbos where no journey is sensed announcing the curve of the revisited routes until the last drop of bile stirs the ballast of useless frenzy whose sentinel landscape is the path of space miserably abyssed in the very nothingness of new beginnings, amidst figures of chance and museum in resistance to truth ignored, bones spasms sobs, as the tunnel of arteries throbs in the sinkhole of the aged underground, bordering Lake Austin with its blade-like breath of the Pennybacker Bridge, which mutes the water's dreamy grass with its crushed promise of artificial lights and moonlight, contorting visual paths in the distance, since in a city of low buildings it is the air itself that transports the eyes in its harvest of veiled panic embedded in the wandering muscles, intense acrobatics that the sweat on the hands avenges, making the gemstones of toys imagined in the invisible slide into memory, in the moonlight tower in Zilker Park where the giant spiderweb statue describes the motionless park captured at the edge of the great dead eye of the soul --- the arteries ache with the thought of fate's commotion, this resentful absorption of chewed-up disaffections where the tedium of the uncontrollable desert of the heart summoned by its own astonishment hums --- ripen there where the Bridge connects the Highway Loop disguising under lights the anxiety of a thousand remains of a thousand hopeful coincidences, in the muscular uncertainty of the pulse that presses like a point-blank trigger, a thud that adorns the chest navigated in its own plot, passed in the trap of its own patient wait to go mad in the light of the park tower confessing its own shifting, furious grief, entry into flames --- sublimated ammunition?, juice of shattered temples launching its mortal desire into the madness of silhouetted time that arms itself with labyrinths of women sketching in the mirror their secret battles in the scattered life, oblivion, streaks of drunkenness filtered by the blood that invents for each one a mood of the senses, stores in the stationary dementia of serenity its backyard of directionless winds, its deplored nod to the ceiling of the sleepless cloister of the flesh, "the blood that is in my life on both sides of my head," a print of pain woven in the air, falling into the dusk martyrdom of red foliage, one sees the pinnacle from which the heart fell raising mere empty and inhuman pulses and shadowing the throbbing fury of the ground, making shrouds for the forgotten silence of the skin, courting cold dreams of a drug addict in the abyss of the nerves, full of palpitation, field of broad and difficult renunciations where all the words of the heart die, where distance corrodes the line of all encounters and creates its dry and haphazard stain embedded in anything thought, a daily invisible mirage of a spiral of retinas sown in goodbye, the breath of shop windows pierced by specters creating their incorporeal scar, their urgency of immaterial lights defending themselves from the shattering of borders there where the ash of dead longings spread like the cremation of all the wounds of the mind --- dust of a time not even lived, dazed, staged and soon abandoned without even a real staging, a clawed visage of what is gone, all those hours of day and night invented for nothing, to pretend to burn in the emergency of a search not even begun, to escape indefinitely in a fateful plunge back into an empty daily life where accumulated epochs of that same emptiness continue to draw their unattainable mountain range, swarm of flies in the contours of each attempted gesture suddenly become stored and compact clouds above my eyes when I lie down, there is where time stretches out in its roar of a latrine full of corpses, announcing the embrace of old age and death, individual and collective ---  absence again, its ontological substance, its essay of hallucinatory memories that the disordered soul sparks, forgetful, raising to the blindness of time its moonlight tower in permanent conflict with the atmosphere of incubated openings, of shifting resentments that echo intoxicating flashes frozen in the avenue of instantaneous multiplications of sameness planted in the pain of shadows, in the evaporated mud that simulates worlds and lives, absorptions and spills of lost hopes that level the universe in its bubble of solitude, in the stretching of an indomitably abstract world where all false paths and opportunities tremble like ants cradled by grains of pain and winged bitterness, rain where a frayed insomnia floats helplessly, where all the mollusks of speech exercised in the language of the desert whirl, where the diluted gaze recharges its retinas of hate to take aim at the restless dust that slowly drives it mad --- here indeed is where the subterranean language dismantles its tearful vehicle and opens fire on all the portraits tracked at a gallop --- here is where the fever armed by every pore rests vaporously, flowing ghosts in its gnawing whirl that the murmured and doorless madness canonized with its gag --- alarms piled in the ear buzz their impure hour longitudinally where the heart is a dead stone germinating danger, digging in the invisible knowledge their vertigo of mapped mismatches and propelling the hands with the moonlit tremor of the new revelatory wait, all that marble anxiety of a statue in civilian clothes now gasps a malignant epitaph in arid rebellion --- young, crazy and rebellious, my idea of a film is more than a time summarized by images, it is the combat that swallows the moon and its towers to vomit perfect silence of a desert onto the reckless slide of a microscope, its world of distributed drops, its silent soul, its populated and indifferent mirage, its texture of abandonment contained in the language of nature, announcing unthinkable communions with the macrocosm, its moist claw of desolation in the mystery scrutinized in the agonizing legend of the world, long resonance tearing the trembling juice in severe soil --- all this ritual of fatigue, however, still keeps its culminating area in the night of its sparkling waters, ethereal ecstasy of the plot that slowly enriches its actualization, extreme vibratory unction that tensions its bow while throbbing pinpricks in the flammation of darkness)