Tuesday, December 13, 2011

The Sentence

I am tired of the sentence destroying me. I am an early IKEA lamp. I am a Japanese origami Hello Kitty unfolded into a bright yellow square of paper which is deceptively not dying. Dear Sir or Madam, I am borrowing your despair and sending it on to someone else. Per your fucked-up request. I should get paid for doing this. Or I will forward your despair as you requested. Tomorrow. Where do you want your despair to finally end up? Am I tracking it like a package in a Fed Ex computer? I think so. Oh, you are dying and the sentence is not helping. Oh, you are beautiful and already half gone. The bodies donated to science deployed with the carefulness of statuary in the FBI's forensic cadaver/insect research forest. The little corpse freshness date cards on sticks near each cadaver like a Victorian place setting that had a name in calligraphy. I never say your name when I talk to you. And yet I love you. I think I am afraid of your name. Saying it. Because it means you are dying a little bit more. If I just speak to you as a series of sentences will I insulate your dying from me. And survive? The sentence is something we fold up into a fanciful Japanese origami animal but what's the point? The sentence is something we fold up into a fanciful Japanese origami animal and send to someone we love or hate or about whom we feel a wonderful indifference as large as the Lincoln Monument. And then that person unfolds that Japanese origami animal back into a paper square and stares at it. And insists that it is not an animal. If they can subtract the color from the paper at this point, they will. People are just terrible about survival. They all want to do it. I subtract your dying from me on a daily basis and it's a painful animal betrayal. I throw my hands around in the air in front of me until they become paws. Then sometimes I cry like the sentence pretends to do. The sentence is impulsive. The sentence is not globally important like you pretend. Like is not the right word there. The sentence is the single most obvious place where our existence fails. That is why everyone stares at it all the time. I think. If you don't believe there is something outside the sentence I understand the inconvenience of what you...Oh, Fuck You. Sometimes I like to watch the sentence just lying there believing in itself. I hover like a stalking cloud then. Sometimes I like to push the sentence off a cliff and pretend like I only accidentally bumped it while going for a lemonade I left near the edge. I think this is because the sentence and I suffer from sibling rivalry. But not sure. I don't really care if my corpse gives births to sentences or not. If you care whether your corpse gives births to sentences I will follow you on Twitter. Just let me know. And I know you will.

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