Poetics, Yesterday's Leaflets

Fishing in Black Water

My friend and I, we walk in a straight line, with him in front, never changing this formation. His voice is the open field of my voice. We walk down to a river that flows with black water and set up for fishing. I don’t imagine that the river springs from a black mountain, although as I child I believed in a black mountain. I used to run into dark and narrow corridors and think of a place with black mountains. I’d set the right conditions for fainting because I loved how the mind, after waking up from loosing consciousness, juxtaposed memories in the spaces where it had lost time. For me this was like watching a film. My mind remains a child setting up a heli and a helipad from Lego bricks and never wondering that it should ever take off. I remain a man of bad analogy. “He is woken up by somebody waking up inside him…”

He talks about film and I talk about poetry. I suppose we talk about the same things. I tell him about my problems with difficult rhymes. I tell him of how seeing ‘archangel’ and ‘responsible’ on the same line in a poem stirs up all sorts of irresponsible things in my head, things I never seem to be able to grasp at. I find that we share things that we are never able to grasp at, like trying to catch leaves as they fall in a storm. He doesn’t seem to understand my difficulties with rhyme. He is a great actor, he appears to use his ability for fluff to explain how everything works. I know he thinks of this as wisdom. We construct a city of white decadence and leave it unfinished. We never mean what we say to each other. I might be the one to blame for this. I find myself listening to the thoughts in my head and in trying to come up with the right words and expressions I loose time and fill up this space between thought and speech with fluff, white teeth and a throwing around of arms, like a bad actor. Often, when we do not understand each other, we talk about women. When I cannot please a woman I resort to fluff. I take off my hat and show her J.G. Ballard tap dancing on my head. There is a way I can pull the skin on my head so that he falls flat on his ass.

I don’t expect to catch any fish. I’m just happy to see children pissing from the bridge and the river winding downstream. It can get so lonely in my head I have to have decibels next to me. I am using him the same way he is using the black river. I use him as an entryway, a dark and narrow corridor. I know he never expects to catch any fish. A black river is a bad actor. He laughs when I tell him to be my psychoanalyst. I’ve been having dreams about waking up near a mountain that blooms into a butterfly whose eyelids close to show the words ‘infinite jest’.


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