Antonia's Harp or "The Symptom is the Disease"

Anyway... things have been getting more bizarre. Well, actually... they are becoming more comfortable, but that is what is the most strange because they should be scaring me as the blood trickles down across my lips and hardens at the edges of my nostrils.

And it rained today on my tightened braid. Which I undo now.

And I sit in Dodge on the bench, hearing the music filtering through these walls, spitting back the feeling of memories of a freshly fallen me-- all made up and spewing something about columns and carved greet letters. Laughter that nails me and the longing for Bill Gate's scrapped forehead.

White and black in k spotting my heart and the burning metallic taste of cloves yellowing my tongue...

And dizziness seems a relief now more than anything.

"The symptom is the disease," Foucault said... And how true... how true...

I am further and further form any normal ties and painted clowns on the baby's mobile dance around me laughing in their distorted protection.

And I can't believe that my eyes were once wide enough that I believed that they were real and that I was dancing too...

But now my skin has hardened and my cheeks are rough and the clowns still dance, but in a Duracell light...

I just have to take it and suck it up.

My nose has dried and I only want more...

And my hair smells like shit-- like citri-shine balm and opium and cigarettes.

And I wonder what the fuck is taking them so long!

I just took my hair down. And I hug the comfort of the fall in my jeans and Jets sweatshirt. But nevertheless, it is April! It is April! IT is April! (I feel like Janet Jackson's shitty poem in "Poetic Justice) and I can't wait to disappear in Russia. Eunie just called me...

Anyway, I really want to write now, but I am in a full room and have a feeling that it may be kind of hard, so I will close for now.

**************

But God, a few minutes later and my eyes are sore, my head hurts and I wonder if I have a fever... Who knows anymore...

And Antonia is softly plucking on her broken harp inside my swollen ears... I know that I'm not going to make it to "Take Back the Night" and I really wanted to go, btu it figures that I wouldn't get there. Maybe I shouldn't... it was be really disrespectful in some twisted way. (The Symptom is the disease!)

And I can't believe I know a Brezhnev joke... (What a world!)

This pen is going to run out of fucking ink any minute now... And the smell of Chinese food is making me want to vomit... And this whole day smells of sleep and is weighted with the simultaneous sounding of a "major second" chord.

And my flesh is caked over with scars and powder and smells with the sweat of smoke.