Ballswell That Ends Well

Buried Near the Living Dead II

    Nothing matters, in the face of the living dead (I certainly don't).  They will always haunt you, creep up from their shallow, lightly packed graves--  reaching for you with their melting flesh, howling.   And you think you want to share with them, things you forgot to say.

    Every thing you see in the living, you compare to the dead.  Every thing you see in the living dead, you'll compare to the alive.  We can't escape it, it's just something humans possess/possessed.  To be possessed, by this, this meaningless, lifeless bloodlust.  

    All the living dead want is to hold on to you, gnaw away with maws wide.  All the living want is to hold on to the idea of the living dead's mouths, shut.  Shut the fuck up, you howling dead.  

This will bury me near the living dead.

Buried Near the Living Dead I

As soon as it is reassembled she tells me, in so many words, the whole thing means nothing.  The hour or so it takes to make our way to the lock, in the first place, is simply for fun.  The lock itself, the half hour looking at it, greasing its triggers-- this is for final confirmation.

This whole affair is a test.  The cell accepts me, and I'm no longer a part of this phase.  Just someone who can operate a gun, pick a lock, and fuck my way to information.  Without this splinter cell, they say I will die.  

But I see it like this.

Fuck.  You.  

Drowning in Valerian

Drowing in Valerie N.
She's got the melatonin, 
and valerian. 

Help me sleep and split and start
over, over there where they aren't
telling us what's art.

Obvious my coterie
took no notes on notaries'
hooked coats, oaths or me.

Pulling the Puzzle Apart

Things I guess I'll need:
-Furniture

    *lounge chair
    *new mattress 
    *dining table / big table
    *chairs
    *pillows
    *comforter/sheets

-Kitchen

    *Pots/pans to supplement what I have
    *magnetic knife strip
    *glass wear / glass storage
    *prep table / island
    *silver ware, plates, glasses, mugs
    *RAGS, cloth napkins
    *French Press

-Food stuff:
    *Nuts.  Yes, I'll need to get more nuts.  Walnuts, pecans, blah blah blah.  
    *Cans, tons of canned food.  Tomatoes mostly.
    *Rice.  All the rice.
    *Glass jars and lids

-Misc.
    *First Aid
    *Over the counter medicines.
    *
    *
    *
    * 

Things I'll want:

-Soda machine
-art
-nick nacks?  wtf is that, anyway.  

Ugh. 

 

Services, Things to Transfer/Cancel:
Electric
Verizon
Netflix 

Things to ask myself constantly in the new place:
-Is this clean?
-Did/can I make stock out of it?
-Am I recycling this?

Crack the Skye

I'm awake.  I mean the sun rises and I'm awake.  I'm really awake.

I nearly freeze to death walking to my car. Inside, the windows frost over and Katherine groans.  I reach for a blanket.  It is a literally frozen chef coat that I grab.   It is a sheet of ice now, like an Eskimo coat-hanger. I should just keep a simple, dry, old man blanket in the car, like they used to back in K's day.

I start the car and charge the engine.  I don't know if there's a precedent in the Richmond court system or elsewhere that states reving the engine too loudly is illegal, so I do.  I turn off my lights like they're a nuisance.  Like anyone asleep is going to wake up and anyone awake is going to be around to hear or see or be bothered.

Six is a weird time to be alone, because that's what you are.  There is no danger of wrecking your completely white vessel in apocolyptic frost fall.  There are no cars on the road, save for those parked. There's no gushing, just cool(freezing).  Stillness.  

The car shudders, cold itself.  I notice the sunrise in the rearview.  The sky is sutured to a blocky horizon.  I don't know why I'm awake or what drives me.  

This is boring.  To write, to read.  And fucking Mike is pacing around upstairs, frantically stomping from one end of the house to another.  I already can't concentrate and I want to saw his legs off.  But seriously, why is he awake?!  What is he up to?
Because it's not gainful employment.   

 

 

 

In the dawn, your face is haunting. . .