A WRITER’S GUIDE TO SUICIDE (1982, Cut 1)

hemingway

A WRITER’S GUIDE TO SUICIDE (1982, Cut 1)

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Here it is. Ready to go.

Margins set.

Doh-doh-doh not stohp.

Here, time is only silence.

Dance, fingers, dance.

Stream-of-Ribbon,

Snappin’ tappin’ like flames on dry twigs.

Don’t stop. Burn.

The church bells fight with the radio.

Don’t stop. Don’t lie down.

You’ll freeze.

Don’t rub your lip, don’t blink, don’t look at your life passing before your very own eyes.

So jam, fingers. Don’t stop to pick up a comma.

Period.

You wait like you pray.

Silent fingers, boiling brain.

Look around. Can there be words for all this?

It’s not a piano, I told me before.

We’re talkin’ graphic lines, simple twists, turns, and angles, washed by crawling sliding shadows…..but you’re stopping to think, AGAIN.

But all that llooookkss lliikkee sshhaaddoowwss oonn ggrraanniittee, ssppeeeeddiinngg ddiizzzzyy ssiiddeebbyyssiiddee.

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Chapter One

Guilt,anxiety,suspicion,anger,revenge,hate,hurt,hassle.

Chapter Two

Sex,suck,slurpussy,hotbonemeat

Chapter Three

Go downstairs and get the Coke, cos everything is ready. OK. I knew I had a job.

Chapter Four

Fresh and meaty smells the room as I open the door, returning, remembering fingering the coin slot, wondering if I’d get caught being small.

Not at all.

Safe in my imagination of how It Is.

Uplift to three-floor, cold sweaty tin in my grip. Gulp.

Anticipate, osculate,

Cunilingus Candidate.

All this typing is already getting out of hand.

This is supposed to be a squeeze…

Jio jy joy jeeee juice from the lemon.

Stay out the moon agrinnin’, the mist of poetry rising.

Facts forget inferences.

Chapter Five

The last chapter was so long, there will be nothing happening in this chapter.

Chapter Six

Pack. Something thumped the wall again.

What was that? Did you hear something?

Chapter Seven

Hanging. In a musty cobweb of dull reruns, running faster each time.

Trying to twist up your eyes.

Whirl the weight faster, round and raounde, let it go, carry itself away with what it took, and you can’t hold on to it anymore.

Loosen the nails a bit.

“Excuse me.”

“Bless you.”

Chapter Eight

Put the book down.

Dog-ear it.

Go to work.

Chapter Nine

We need to do that scene in the Bedroom.

Yeah. I know.

Chapter Ten

Guilt. Tensionintight chest.

Breath deep. Sigh.

See someone cry.

It’s all yours, Lord.

Give-in, quit dying for your Sin all around me.

I shouldn’t. I can’t hold on to concepts.

Lick and stick is all you understand.

Chapter Eleven

Open the window. Let in the fresh light, night slightly cool but definitely clear.

Something better happen here.

Don’t fade into yellow rage, don’t stop.

Go slower but don’t Stop.

Let’s spend the night together Live.

C’mon, melt like radio waves.

Chapter Twelve

Outlines. Period.

Chapter 13-THIRTEEN (thirtenly)

Notebook like guitar, typewriter like piano, voice like drums, eyes like violins.

Fingers play saxophone.

Free for all.

Chapter Fourteen

Damn it. I forgot.

Chapter Fifteen

Lean on your head.

Do you have to wonder “What for? Where to from here?”

Consider this a finger-jogging exercise, finger-fuck exercise, because there is no such thing as exercise.

You’re either playin’ the game or you Ain’t.

I am not afraid of Margins. I just lean on Margin Release.

He lets me past.

Chapter Sixteen

Shit. It’s after midnight.

Answer: I know.

Chapter Seventeen

Hello. I am Monsieur Bonheure.

She is Suizette.

We were on the Amtrak train that burned in the mountains north of here.

We were next to the Sleepers that burned.

While they burned we were naked.

I poured dry champagne upon Suizette’s lips.

I kissed her legs. The countryside reeled by in Springing colors, slid on our open window.

Just outside of our heads, we heard the stampeding feet, the rising voices, the screams.

It is good that Suizette is a student of Anthropology.

Chapter Eighteen

Stall.

This all ties to one hitchin’ post: Yester Bay.

At the site. The endless cave in Black Hill. The village. The Indian village at the Mission, buried under yards of mud and rock.

Chapter Nineteen

Etc.

Chapter Twenty

Who can Enola be? Does she know how thismesshere will become books?

Does she work at the nursery?

Chapter Twenty-1

HEY.

More wood over here. He’s smoldering out.

Face it. I’m a little burnt out on Yester Bay.

It’s still a massive mess.

A pile of spaghetti the size of Morro Rock.

Picture this:

Visions of the Gone

Minutes of the One

Between the Letters

American Seed

Seven Stories Tall

Chapter Twenty-too

This is it. Fingerwrap.

The type is cast.

I wear no glasses. See no words.

Machine gun ammo-belt word-fire is heavy, sir.

Request support. Send the Union division.

Yes. The suicide squad.

I will peek around paragraphs. Duck under commas.

Evasive action. Persuasive death. Genetically engineered re-runs.

Fractured. Disconnected.

Islands in the Silence.

I can’t believe it. These words are like seeds. Millions of spores. Looking for time and space to grow.

Fall over the hill, spring in the air conditioner.

Cast your image.

Tie up the virgins who doubt. Give them to the Gods at the bottom of the Memory Lake.

Turn these sticks into people.

Chapter Twenty-tha-ree

I’m just getting to know my typewriter.

Chapter Twenty-for what?

                Indented servants, pushed into paper. You crumple in masses.

Fall, pray.

Like an old woman.

All of your senses are hanging by fingertips.

Slippin’ into something more comfortable. Not wet.

Unchanged in the morning. Your head can only turn one way to a friend.

The laughing crow that sits on your window in morning.

None of the nurses-aides have seen the crow.

They do not listen with their hearts to the old woman.

They never see the crow.

Chapter Twenty-5

For 25 cents the hero admits he is crazy.

Chapter 26

        Stroke my mind like a tube of toothpaste.

My tongue is dry but my fingers can get so wet.

Honey-comb, you’ll make me sprain a circuit.

Just think how much flashed behind your eyes….in the time it takes to tap to twenty and back.

Fossils of radiant ideas, thudding slowly in deep clay.

That is the distance I want to leap. Then lie.

Because then it won’t matter if it is 1:30 AM.

And there is a dance called work, out there.

Meanwhile, I will wander wildly, stumble smiling into fields of blooming stories.

Living in shade, living on fruit, vegetating the sun under.

Howling rows of laughter. Drinking it all in slowly.

Dreaming once and awhile, under branching shadows, seen as jail bars.

Waking, as if coming up for air.

It’s always a close one.

But then I will feel the hand of the sun, the breath of the sea, hear harmony silent.

Was a good life.

I wrote my books.

I played my songs.

I love you.

You cannot leave me ever. Not even now.

I will hold you when I fall over the brink.

Sink in generous release, shedding like garments as from kids running to the water.

Chart me one more time, tonight.

It is down to any time.

I know it. Beyond useless fear.

I am curious fire.

I ride my slow breath

Out to the world like a lizard tongue.

Not very far. Back in again.

Deep. Sigh. Out again.

Like a barnacle raking in tiny plankton, clutching it back inside.

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