RIP-TVRIP-TVRIP-TVRIP-TV
RIP-TVRIP-TVRIP-TVRIP-TV
RIP-TVRIP-TVRIP-TVRIP-TV
RIP-TVRIP-TVRIP-TVRIP-TV
2004-01-28
Johannes Brahms
B. 5.7.1833 Hamburg / D. 4.3.1897 Vienna
Chill
Good grief
Maybe it�s true what they say about the dopamine receptors. I go to feel fine
my head hurts
and for absolutely no reason, I can�t. There�s me�or here, this is me
a dry throbbing
and in the apartment with me is the Second Symphony of Brahms. At first I thought it was the horns
from sinus to earlobe, the long way round
but it�s the strings that have awoken me to my plight. Here�s me, a string
my optic nerves stretched like a jet plane�s trail
and there, the next string over, is Brahms�or any pleasure, really�and in between is air. A quarter inch
my jaws like trees that crucify my paratrooper teeth
a half-inch interval in space is all that separates us but it�s endless, endless everything. So here�s my pen�that is, the bow
cooking odors cooking odors�respiration itself brings remorse to the stay-at-home diner
trailing cat hair; here is back and forth, here are delicate wrist motions and obscure adjustments. The space between me and my pleasure fills
Consolation Site: Let us at least try