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Sean G. Meggeson

Coldness from the bathroom window. Tomorrow’s touch, a cruel smile, an arousal, a reckoning, a testimony, an alimony for suchness.

Names like Leila, Laura & Lorelei. Euphony to me. Like footsteps at night sounding out revisions of a Montréal mist.

Suspicion wins over affirmation but not as a means to an end. As a means to never trusting the next email. As a way of avoiding a name that might better be labeled ‘animal’. Better than breathing. Better than something that spells the end of a performance.

Formulation of a false self feels fugal and determinate. Like fruit in a basket.

A car in an underground garage slows down the Krebs cycle like a spider only turns over with a bump start. The High Plains of Colorado are a dangerous and diaphanous place to be because there’s no horizon. There’s a vending machine. There’s a place to hem your trousers if you need it. Just like at MoMA.

Let me think in the same way as I did yesterday and call it art. Let me stumble for seeing. Give me a six-chambered heart and a Wrangler jean jacket.

Idiocy begins again. Denim fades with a California summer and reaches a beginning. I freeze like any Tom Fool who swims in the Pacific. My knock-off watch stops. I’m not sure why but I take rose gold for tenderness. I would eat it if I could. That much I know.

Dr. Frankenstein should have loved his monster into a livable life. It was only a little neurosis that was the cock up. It was only bad wiring. Like loving the wrong millisecond with thousands of rat feet dancing on the periphery.

I spent a lot of time working on a family motto only to beat my brain into discovering it’s better to titrate in the dark.

Get this, the darkness is a cloth that wipes a stain out of existence.

I suffer without music.

I simplify archives with a stopwatch.

I curry a sadistic impulse to hard-win against loneliness. Everyone asks what that looks like on the ground. I can’t look them in the eye.

I open my eyes and you’re not there so I sluice my thoughts and see two trout in a stream
loving each other into white noise. Twyla Tharp perfecto, a Monk dance of twisting fish, like a long, sorry spine, like the Barbary Coast line.

Get this, I’m crying with surplus knowledge.

I want to change my name to Archie Goodman. Someone once told me a name with many vowels makes you a mensch.

I want to say goodnight but that’s an end. That’s a name. That’s a basket and I can’t wash my feet in a basket.

It’s far too late and I’ve had too many already to enjoy the wine.

M’boy brings me water, water, water.