your time is gonna come

by Randall Mann

The Sunset 

Fog, like reason, settles on the peeling district.
This is the new money. The new economy.
Where my lover lives. When I left him,
I left books, coats, silverware. Things.
It wasn't charity; it was an impure,
commonplace case of forgetting. (May he find some use

for my low-rent betrayals.) Land ends
with miles of aloe along the Great Highway.
Surfers strip off their suits, half-naked
to the naked sea. The sand's ignored
BEWARE OF THE UNDERTOW signs:
these are the notes of the drowned.

BOLANO wrote a book called 2666

"Now even bookish pharmacists are afraid to take on the great, imperfect, torrential works, books that blaze paths into the unknown, they choose the perfect exercises of the great masters. Or what amounts to the same thing: they want to watch the great masters spar, but they have no interest in real combat, when the great masters struggle against that something, that something that terrifies us all, that something that cows us and spurs us on, amid blood and mortal wounds and stench."

When what else is there to do but lose your mind

Peeling paint

Where are you buddy?

Oh you know, just walking down the street, daytime, though actually an early night time, or a late night time, or an early morning--

Alright, idiot. I get it. You're lost. You don't even know what street you're on, I bet. You know only what cities you aren't in.

Not sure if I'd go that far, All I'm sure of is that I'm in a city.

I'm sitting down, headphones on, I can see someone's fingers clacketying on a laptop, a spider tied down to the keyboard, so delicious to see, to taste these sounds

You can't hear it

Oh I hear it. I take it in the eye

You're the end of an odd fetish

Just the beginning, just a little tinge, a squirt of it.

You weird little fuck

Fuck off, You project upon me sexualizations. Your ugly eyes. I'm enjoying myself just sitting and thinking of the little tactile pleasures of life, thumbs in concave doorbells, fingers scrambling on the clean keyboards, typewriters are even better, dust jackets on books, peeling plaster, cases encased in cases, russian dolls, hammering single swing straight down to the head, pushing nails into styrofoam, a tight fit in the hips--

I told you! its not just projections of sexual fetishes!

Fits, perfect fits, it's delicious of its own merits

Who the fuck are you anyway

I'm the great you, while you, are merely a pocket of me

holy fuck!

that's right boy, now get out of here.

LARS IYER

"

Once upon a time, writers were like gods, and lived in the mountains. They were either destitute hermits or aristocratic lunatics, and they wrote only to communicate with the already dead or the unborn, or for no one at all. They had never heard of the marketplace, they were arcane and antisocial. Though they might have lamented their lives — which were marked by solitude and sadness — they lived and breathed in the sacred realm of Literature. They wrote Drama and Poetry and Philosophy and Tragedy, and each form was more devastating than the last. Their books, when they wrote them, reached their audience posthumously and by the most tortuous of routes. Their thoughts and stories were terrible to look upon, like the bones of animals that had ceased to exist.

"

READ the rest of it.

little yelling words ten blocks away

Dear idiots,

I only reflect upon you what I've already put upon myself, so we're even, so you can't get indignant, so fuck you. 

I despise you sentimentality.

Melodrama drunk in the ocean on the roof trying to pick out dried vomit from receiver.

Fancy yourself on an impossible journey for quick riches

cause you read a book.

Stuffing myself down a hole of solitude three hours at a time to get back to the word. 

and what is the word?

then you lose it all in the dictation and translation

precognition of the world you saw right at the beginning

the whole universe on the tip of your tongue

and it's not your fault

its the neighbors and the roommates and your phone blowing up

outside dragging you at the feet

take part in our feverish bullshit discourse!

the night is young!

the hours are waining!

Drinks on me!

Music all about the town!

friends to be made!

lovers to be fucked!

Few people are more interesting than these books I have in front of me.

The problem being,

everyone thinks of their lives as more interesting than a little chunk of time a day for words

idiots with alcohol under their nose

with kisses to be had in the asshole

with jobs to be attained and rules to memorize
with wars to be fought
with other people's lives to rein in
with new laws of happiness to be dictated

Those who turn these cumulative hours into that loud solitude

that juggernaut of time chunked out of space

The guru den with the hourglass on its side
not me I fail every other day

increase your capacity for loneliness

milk it for all its change

beat it if you can, make fights from nothing

babble and sing like a demented duck

lose your kids and slice up your darlings
The point to lock yourself in jail
because you also want to be like everyone else

but this lack of a moment resounding with mountain to mountain to mountain

back and forth, side, swing side, swing low and high
has a secret pleasure all its own, you know it

get to the floor and break your knuckles for a consonant

How are you now?

Yes, melodramatic

Love is the answer

Touch is the need

A little conversation for a mental beggar

a tiny stage for a low life braggart

I want to juice a life with you

not to you and not for you

moron, you don't get it

you don't trust me

you deliberate me like a man drowning in culture

I am just an idiot on the periphery.

drunk because you're sober

sober because you're drunk

give me days I'll go on and on

give me a second I'll give you a word

SHHHHHHhhhhhhhh…