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Recording the Recorder

In Reasons on June 1, 2010 at 9:33 pm

[Author’s note: A couple of weeks ago, I had a conversation with a local writer at an abandoned food-stand during his lunch hour. Artist to artist. Figuring out for ourselves what this century’s-young process of putting a new face on The Muse means. What he didn’t know was that I had a tape recorder rolling during the entire conversation. Invasion of Privacy? Maybe. Laziness on my part? Perhaps. But when you have this unexplainable need … an inherent, undying want for something … you’ll get your hands on it no matter the way you get it. And I’d had no idea what would happen when I pressed ‘Record’ all those weeks ago.]


The artist becomes a saxophone for the dead messenger hardly speaking these days. Vacant in mind; vagrant through the curdled calendars passing off to the garbage bin, as it searches for a new identity that doesn’t lie within the strengthened – albeit waning – tensions of helpless fingertips furiously typing with a worth of entangled madness point of clarity obscure of view unremembered in meaning and still satisfied through the ruins of lost trains of thought, night. Twice. Restart. I’m insane to even play with the thought of being sane, in today’s world. Like a dame without a dime to her name.

I know sometimes think dreams a drink to swim for, of; stumbling through one more rolling avenue on the search of unbelievably huge bulges over every scuffed highway shuffling through the same deck of mental cards spewed through secrets upon hidden veils of another fantasy, thrown to the mind’s pipe drains like a dime without a year to its shine.

I don’t see life, life looks through me. If there weren’t words wrapped ’round my spine like a close lover, post-orgasm. Mid-laughter. Ready another waterfall t’ween lavishly flowing thighs. Buddha-awful night to become something without hampered resentment for where flows I flow and live-as-flown through. Emptied of shapes; construed images attached to meaning pulled through torn-through, rotten, decaying shoes. Like a homeless person’s teeth, my shoes. Need new ones. Mother needs medicine help with her stomach and blistered feet that cry out in pain from overworking to keep her three sons fed. Three different people; one tied-together voice.

I’ve read things written by people across different websites and magazines, and I swear that if it weren’t for the biographies of authors, I’d think most things were written by the same person; both in the big-wig fink magazines and websites and in the lowdown ‘alternative’ webzines. Which identity mine this mind leers itself t’wards? Exterminate convention, rape normality. Tradition is as dead as the shorelines of each of the seven continents, more washed-up than Bukowski on his death bed.

Here’s to figuring out in the madness of impressing complete future strangers down the line. Madness. Is that the word? Maybe it existed, once. Prematurely: as an unrealized dream achieved by those too careless in themselves to remain beaten. Their self-esteem according to a second party’s thought-thinks, and say-things howling to the sidewalks ’round every continental barren desolate-land’s forgotten, misplaced truths. SKY POWER MIND SCRAPER DESCRIPTION THIS: DEFINITION THAT: LORD OF THE SKY SAYS THIS; BUCK-FIFTY PAYMENT CHARGES SAY THAT! Who in this world’ll win the orgasm of words and earn the right for a cigarette afterwards? Doesn’t matter: Word-Portrait needs painting throughout the Clock’s dancing baths.

I can’t tell people what time or day it is. Each day the same far as I’m concerned, and I put all my clocks under the desk when it’s time to work. And each day-through-night-to-another-day that comes by my window is one fateful reminder why I’m traveling – lonely, cursing, weary, obliterated, raped and pillaged, and completely mad, playing with the thought of being sane … this cureless road, Writer being. More, a thinker disgusted with the accepted criteria of determining someone else’s success in the name of being socially acceptable HOOBLAFLAHARJARGONNABBA! Sealed tight, wrapped in shut. Mercy, oh mercy, piss on me and take me away from these words! Hoy! A-hoy joy! Joyous ploys! Ploy’d toys! Toys and boys, Roy and John. James. Wonder who’ll it be next, the reason I’m trying to get somewhere new. Who will that tongue be inside?

After all, it’s them – the saxophonists, beauty parlor customers, UK artistique femmes, New Yawk skyscrapers and their unwashed littered streets, and all the folk I see as Statues – that I crucify myself to this typewriter for every day; not of my own reason or something I can explain! Nor the drink or highway outside after all the word-portraits are through. But every starving groan and fatal whim rapes a servant’s plea behind that lone alleyway people keep turning their eyes away from.

Isn’t pretty enough, they say. Don’t wanna think about what goes on where people don’t look. Isn’t pretty enough to care for. Everybody likes pretty things. Pretty words in pretty sentence structures with a pretty format properly molded into one more criteria for pretty-minded people prettying up their pretty worlds to impress someone else in a way that makes them feel so c-u-u-u-t-e! Naawwww, whos’a cutie cuuu, ehh? Who’sa cutie munchkinpapabii, yes you are! Yes you are! Naawwww ^_^.

No matter what type of paragraph he has to murder, whether it be four sentences or five and a half, Jake David has been relentless in his nearly stalker-like obsession with proudly displaying his murdered victims for all of his home-state New York to see.