Be The Opposite Of Thought, Be The Opposite Of The Tree

History is over and over again, the drunk muttered outside my window

When the fire ran through the forest, feet burning bright, like a blinking eye on the grill, all those unreal years that never happened down by the tracks … the camps … the cracks in the earth … you can hear them buzz and break if you please

Those feet aflame, yellow, ran inside my lover’s mouth, there to stir another birthday cake and they tell me not to think, only to be, do the opposite, send the money back to the printing press, back to the evil ones who sell matches like the sun has come to burn us down

I won’t make it another day like this, with the roar of mistakes in my ear, maybe I should move somewhere cooler, like an ice house with barrels of beer, the sort of place where Superman might find solace

History is a mistake, a figment, that’s what they want me to believe, buried beneath strata and streak, sand filled chambers in my body, the ones where some god treads in robe and soft shoes

I have to remember, but I can’t remember what is no longer there, I can’t prove that it happened, and my memory is worthless like the shadow of a cat that wasn’t, but don’t think of the cat, don’t spell her name, don’t hiss for the calico when it’s time to eat, because that would be confusing

Which I guess is the point and we give door prizes to writers who confuse us in ways we understand, who confuse us about death and self-destruction and we shake and roll

The writers and the words could care less, of course, because none of us dare to be here

We couldn’t take the ridicule of history taught so well by the French, and everything is unreal, an empty bed in Paris, and we’d like to find the streets from a billion years ago, the ones populated by chemical men and women who procreated children beneath surfaces that boiled and bubbled with all the trouble of a very short periodic table, a youth of a table, with curly blonde hair and rosy cheeks and grand aspirations of filling out into something capable of mass suicide

Yes, I might be dying, but I’m not dead, I can’t use died when thinking about myself

I know my mind shouldn’t contemplate me anyway, since history is unreal, and I’ll never know anything about it very soon, all of us are like that, waiting for nothing’s history to end … to hide us where everything is hidden … like the blind boys and girls in the nighttime of infinite rooms, in the dark, thinking about home and mother when they shouldn’t be thinking about home and mother, since they were never born and are really only awkward words from a billion years ago

But what of pain … the evil ones never talk about pain, unless they chose to collect early

I wish I could stop the world from coming apart, stop everything that causes pain, forever and ever, but I can’t, for afterall, I’m nothing but a fucking idiot

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