T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land
9-15-2024
“careful, Magistrate,” i warned. “Siri is listening.”
We are conspiring. Tarring and feathering. When we go to CP this Halloween, we’re making a pit stop in BC to catch a rat (we’re jumping the bitch boy who tried to fuck with MLB). The G and I are going to be Joker and Harley Quinn. Uni, Moses, Bustabee, MLB, and Zombie and Lana aren’t dressing up because being the daughters of the Fourth International scares these hoes enough. When the sky hung with jewels turns murky then black as we cross the Bay, our skin turns grey under the orange light of the tunnel that opens into the decay of Baltimore.
Last night, I had a dream and woke up clutching at it desperately. Cosmic dread, again, but this time containing also useful information. I wish i could remember what it was now. It was 4am and the enormous fan that we’d owned for decades was finally giving out——it was ticking loudly and irregularly, the way a clock sounds when you’re high. The image of the clock dictated by a timeline beyond mine screamed at me from behind my eyelids, and I was terrified. My head was warm, and I could feel the presence of the Third Man. I looked ahead up the white road, and saw the other one walking beside me. He put his hand on my skull and put me at ease. The second man, the one sleeping beside me, had kept me from floating into oblivion because he was corporal, where thumos met epithumia. He is the vessel for the third man, the comfort that he brings, although he will never know it. He changes reality to what it should be, with a well-placed, witty remark. I love the way his eyes look in the sun, his humility, his wink and smile.
