Saturday, August 05, 2006
Ascending the Stack of Life (Talking Heads)
Spent most of the last two days being held hostage in the new apartment's "office" by a couple guys who were in to put down vinyl in the kitchen and bathroom, and laminate in a hallway. This is unpleasant by itself, but it's even more unpleasant to have to take everything out of the kitchen, bathroom, and hallway every day and then put it back again after they leave. I've gotten better at stacking things, but it's depressing, too, because there's no net progress from all of this work: always previously, when I've taken stuff from one place and stacked it up somewhere else, there was an overall net increase in the amount of usable space.
They're not done; they haven't actually even started on the bathroom yet, so there'll be more of the same on Monday.
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I tried that marijuana:
each time I start, I'm nervous
that he'll come to beat in the door,
because he's all, the eyes make that in me?
I don't want to know that he forgives,
and for me, pardon is
a sojourn for one.
Perhaps we never will, when that
finds another time.
I can see my stack of life, above that
return of the days. I can see the nights; I
can see that people in the street
open those windows.
One hundred wooden floors below me,
he piles up more of those houses. Above that,
they stack highly, higher, higher --
I can feel a back and forth
balancing. Building it more highly,
learning higher on this tower.
I started the harm:
pierced my eye (a pencil in that).
I can start for home backwards, or wait badly for
all that, because he is paranoid.
I only had the Scumbags' amusement,
and superstars say that their names
will make an appositive. That one
is the same as both.
I can see my stack of life above:
my bedroom reaches to the stars.
I can see the house where I was loaded.
When I was growing above that,
they say that I could never keep my trousers.
I remember that the days and nights were insane.
Are all the pirates in this ship? The people there
(if they're sober) are ascending;
the rest will have us shout, per the morning.
Shout, it cries out,
it's just you and I.
The taste of an automobile
with nobody in the wheels:
that control turns outside of the
road we are all on.
In our sexy machine
all the passengers shout of the shouting;
I can see the stack of my life above.
I can see that it is torn into pieces. That
was not an accident. It is all in.
I laugh to hear it opens its window above.
To go, "two, three, four, five,"
perhaps they go to the high one (the deep one?).
I am arresting too firmly on much of that,
and now I am growing above myself.
I started feeling funny.
Those houses pile up more highly,
they are higher, higher above the stack of
buildings. The stars of that road
turn music up . . . and
hey! I started earning a number.