Wright - Wheeling motel : poems

He had reached that moment in life, different for each one of us, when a man abandons himself to his demon or to his genius, following a mysterious law which bids him either to destroy or outdo himself. Marguerite Yourcenar A man writes much better than he lives. Samuel Johnson A traveler,let that be my name.The first winter rain. Bash The dreamer was still soaring high above an endless city. (The whole place could go in the time it takes a struck match to ignite.) He found himself sad to say drowning in sight of land. Was revealed to possess a mannequin-like pubic region, nothing there but blank hairless flesh hallelujah. Was entering the precise number of times childrens voices are heard in Rimbaud, scribbling in the margins something about a rainy doorway and, How could I ever have been bored. Music told me early I should be filled with joy.

The sound of someone crying woke him up and it was him the exceptional instrument who took very poor care of itself, the leaf who thought it was a tree. Lover of words, illuminations death-mask. And lets get one thing straight, they were never about. Those lines, say, on stars: the hell with the stars. They were about perception of the stars. He turned the covers back like a page that weighed ten pounds. Book in no known tongue, book that would not exist, truly, could he have foreseen the misery it would cause.

But I ask you voice that is nowhere and everywhere What did not in time become a source of suffering?

When I have inspired universal horror I shall have conquered solitude, he wrote in his journal, in his rented misery. Interesting strategy. The person who wrote this was an ill and wrathful man. One who constantly strove to do better, composer of a couple sad dope-sickness remedies Icelandic moss?and the firm resolution to pray every morning to God, his mother and Edgar Allan Poe. Who made, the splendid mind, to self, this note: Whenever you receive a letter from a creditor immediately write fifty lines upon an otherworldly subject, and you will be saved! (If not from the stepfool.) His throne a wheelchair in an empty park; the satanic baby, enfant du mal, and Mom the true power behind it right to the end. Evil isnt hard to comprehend, it is nothing but unhappiness in its most successful disguise.

Evil is hated and feared at least. It is possessed, unlike mere misery, of a dark glamour nobody pities.

Around midnight he took the oxycodone and listened to Arvo Prts I Am the True Vine over and over, the snow falling harder now. He switched off the light and sat without dread of the coming hours, quietly singing along; he smoked any number of cigarettes without thinking once about the horrifying consequence; he was legibly told what to say and he wrote with mounting excitement and pleasure, and sent friendly e-mails to everyone, LordI had such a good time and I dont regret anything What happened to the prayer that goes like that? Good morning class. Today were going to be discussing the deplorable adventures of Franz Wright and his gory flute. Just kidding.

The topic this morning is an unparaphrasable logic constructed from parallelisms and images and held together, on occasion, by nothing but the magical non sequitur but the hell with that. We should really examine your life, the one you bought, and what happened when you got home and attempted to assemble it: that disfiguring explosion no one witnessed, no one heard, which you yourself cannot recall, and by whose unimaginable light you seek to write the name of beauty.

I dont want to see a doctor I want to kill a doctor. And this is my alone song, it isnt long. Everything is fine everything is good everything is happening precisely as it should. Ive made all the money it takes to be poor here.

From always the gift of impermanence so I would be ready, accompanied by a rage to prove them wrong, prove they picked the wrong child to torment, and that I too was worthy of love. Agony of death, agony of birth unreal; things as they are, and nirvana unreal. The disappearance of me, and then later sentience in general from this close to nonexistent mote will have upon the cosmos needless to say no discernible effect Desire and the body born of desire; fame and shame unreal. But this: one strange alone hearts wish to help all hearts, this was real. This was indestructible.

What is todays date? Who is the President? How great a danger do you pose, on a scale of one to ten? What does people who live in glass houses mean? Every symphony is a suicide postponed, true or false? Should each individual snowflake be held accountable for the avalanche? Name five rivers. What is todays date? Who is the President? How great a danger do you pose, on a scale of one to ten? What does people who live in glass houses mean? Every symphony is a suicide postponed, true or false? Should each individual snowflake be held accountable for the avalanche? Name five rivers.

What do you see yourself doing in ten minutes? How about some lovely soft Thorazine music? If you could have half an hour with your father, what would you say to him? What should you do if I fall asleep? Are you still following in his mastodon footsteps? What is the moral of Mary Had a Little Lamb? What about his Everest shadow? Would you compare your education to a disease so rare no one else has ever had it, or the deliberate extermination of indigenous populations? Which is more puzzling, the existence of suffering or its frequent absence? Should an odd number be sacrificed to the gods of the sky, and an even to those of the underworld, or vice versa? Would you visit a country where nobody talks? What would you have done differently? Why are you here?

I breathed on the window and made my initial. Its true, and then there was the dream of being present at my parents wedding. Thats right: I breathed on a little black fly husk there on the sill and it came back to life, why? My body is lying in bed all this time, I know that. I can see. You say its been there for a while? You have no idea. Chapter minus two hundred and fifty in which the author pays (and pays for it, as always), a visit to one of the lost: I dropped by the dark house with no furniture, knocked, and was introduced to her mother, a woman much younger than she was who for obscure reasons known only to no one had kept her from childhood on locked in the oven, &c.

At this time they were living together, or (hard to tell) dying, possibly from a mystery disease called being lied to by my friend each time she breathed: this obsessively honed and devotedly mutual hatred and hissing contempt, I bought itwho knows? Classic case of the wound lying down with the weapon? Who cares? I did awhile, driven by picturing (though I would have preferred to live rained on, under a bridge) what would happen if harm came to one of them, should indeed anything this side of murder slash suicide occur, although if they did it was anyones guess which event would come first. In a flash you could see it: all hostilities concluded, and their own miniature World War IIIs aftermath and the all-out final progressive and uninterrupted commercial-free stone-cold muttering psychosis awaiting lone survivor of this conflict, the end.