HARUSPEX ADHD DAGGER
NY Gov Andrew Cuomo vs my daughter: fight! My kid wields an ADHD dagger against New York State. The Gov deploys standardized test bombs. Do I want my daughter to be misunderstood? She is the high water mark of DNA. Of course any parent with their parent-shaped blind spot would say so. The sympathetic off-ramp I must take, on my way to warn some little child what a trio of decades, what a revolution of Saturn will do and tell her how the world can find your sympathetic side and then dissolve you from within. Save your daughter a seat on the whirligig of therapy. Leaving enough room to call this a mistake on the hinges of the family.
At what age does the child learn the difference between the preview and the film? Everybody I meet is my twin. What I would have turned out like if I had pretended. Are you there anymore? Once I learn what your first name is, Iâll be able to see right through your parents even though they be not here.
Seeing yr own old car on the streets, like your exact old car being driven by some new old sad sack of a driver: never saw it from that angle. They drive and drive down Americaâs glory of highways until they come to the same rest stop mirror a serial killer looked into. You were acting weird then your avatar disappeared.
At SUNY Binghamton where I studied foreign languages on my quest to become a spy, the Persian monarchist students were exiled. Kent exiled, Alcibiades exiled. Both played by John Shrapnel in BBC productions, stout bald man in Elizabethan fighting gear. With a name like Shrapnel. King Lear and Timon of Athens. Purgatorial exile. Virgil disappears before Beatrice appears. Two characters never on screen at the same time. Kind of like Cordelia and the Fool.
I am an agent of excess contrition. Apologies for all mes idĂ©es fixes. The trespassers, the new arrivals. The one excoriating new arrivals is himself a new arrival. The trespassing native. Donât say native. (Sorry.) When you canât think of the right word to use, just use your name. Haruspex is a Latin word for fortune teller. Juvenal hated outlandish harps with transverse strings. Analphabetic mice have burrowed into his books. Illiterate as the bookworm that eats mystery novels starting from the last page then munching backwards. Solution first, the scene with the detective unmasking the killer: gone. Like a tarantula I crawl behind things. Itâs blinding, Iâm blending, My rhyme things is neverending. Point A is me, point B the rhyme, It never moves â in a straight line. Alphabets. I knew Freedom E. Which is better than Freedom C and Freedom D. More rights. But they say Freedom J is the best. I agree. A deck of delusion-cards I can draw from and play at any time.
Learn the numismatism of the spintriae coins. Which were tokens granting entry to ancient Roman brothels, where struck into the copper or lead were all kinds of pornographic scenes. I wrote a poem asking what if some alien were to take in all the worldâs pornographic images from the dawn of human history to now, âin one thumping flash of instantaneity.â Sparkling sound of a dropped coin. Like watching Rube Goldberg masturbate through a kaleidoscope. Some hereticâs erection. Spider-fly. Squirrel-covers and trouser geese. My brother called womenâs underwear âsquirrel covers.â That whole field of juvenile male blague that Iâm forever indebted to although it warped my mind. âSnatchelorette party.â Emo deer fungi. The arcade game called PHEROMONES which will be in the rustic hotel bar in my next novel: you play a deer trying to mate and avoid being shot or creamed by a pickup truck at night. The graphics are amazing. Who knew there were so many shades of green, green foliage rendered in a million ways. My brother always stays in the top score. Can a ghost deer have a boner?
A black metal band called Gethsemane Delusion was playing devilish Sousa marches on the radio. I was worried about the singerâs larynx. Something triumphant about black metal, like âweâre winning, our side is winning.â Flourishing. Black metal marching band at the big football game. Souls judged at the Chinvat Bridge. (Google it, as Ezra Pound wasnât ever able to say.) Pick out the kernels of anxiety, the branching futures tree that yields rotten fruit. Backyard bees on rotten apples. Were there spots along the trunk to add new tributaries to the story? Unsaturated vs saturated story hook-up points. A storehouse of creation already too full to take anything we could add. Donât get me started on my metaphor theories, where nature is the ultimate source of metaphor and we canât send things spinning back into nature. Trees and squirrels and leaves and mice and worms and bees and rotten apples on the backyard. Ptolemaic sphere of the poetâs own wit. Thatâs Sir Philip Sidney. And Richard Wilbur saying Emily Dickinson was a âLinnaeus to the phenomena of her own consciousness.â Or something like that. Donât quote unless you can get it exact.
My cyber mistress. Her constellation of psychiatric meds in the palm of her hand, like Andromedaâs star-shape lashed to a rock begging rescue from mental krakens. Her eyes told me I wasnât allowed to talk to her. Her frown could level mountains. The cellphone an assistant to infidelity like Ovid in his Art of Love wouldnât believe. My phone charger cord wrapped around her foot. New corrugations of worry. Remind yourself itâs not love but an isotope of love. Iâm a chaste Byron without rhymes. This incessant knuckle-gazing. The quest for the ring on the womanâs finger like watching a carâs turn signal as you wait to cross the street in the crosswalk. You and I are friends. Though my mind is no friend of yours. My mind does not hold hands with you and walk to the corner of the grounds to look at the improvements. Between you and my mind Iâm torn apart like a girl on a playground between two cliques. My brimming reservoir of spleen. Like agoraphobia but not physical. Not about physical doors. This artificial speed-bump we set up, of the LDR. Long distance relationship we then were too afraid to traverse. Which is where the cyber mistress thing comes in. They think the world is just there to make hand gestures at. Washing their hands in feebledom. Is someone getting the best of you? I wish I was more of a troublemaker but never with you.
In the video a bearded art student backs up and knocks a piece of pottery onto the floor, shattering it in pieces. He stands on tiptoes and lets out a high-pitched, half-comical whimper but another art student steps forward from the group and grabs the bearded student and embraces him, also half-comically. Thereâs a kind of performance to it. Not clear whether the now broken piece of art was the embracerâs or not but implicit in the hug is that all the students know both the sadness of having an artwork accidentally destroyed by a clumsy person and also the loneliness and shame of being the inadvertent destroyer⊠The chandelier plummets.
Before the poetry reading, seeking out all psychics mediums etc in the audience and kicking them out. Unity told me the first time I did this it killed but then like many killings, from the POV of the killed it couldnât be repeated. A joke only has a lifespan of one: one telling. I talk to myself practicing the TED Talks that Iâll never give. In imaginary auditoriums is the only place Iâll ever live:
âThe trick to happiness is to find a way to link yesterday to tomorrow by skipping over today which is horrible.â
âI donât ultimately think souls are judged on a curve but on a case-by-case basis. This should deeply concern you.â
âIf weâre going to a funeral, Dad will want to drive. I have reached the age of tucked in shirts.â
I have written many things but they have turned out to be cobwebs when I wanted them to be cathedrals. When you canât understand it, it mimics you not understanding, perfectly.