beds

BEDS

the deeper my grave/ we see a futuristic scene (EXT), somewhere on the beach in El Salvador; it’s just a movie script I’ve been writing for too long a time, now/ nevertheless, this is what we see/ i think we should see children catching and eating rats, there are no more places on the planet where the dead are buried there is no room; so we grind them up in blenders/ horrible diseases where the lines of people in rags stretch for miles as they wait in vain at clinics to be seen, and there are no drugs; at least not for them/ my typical stuff/ and i want some of it to be about the experience of being on the maps but off the maps or at least the ones that count/ i have done this any number of times, probably hundreds/ you don’t need to know where, and you don’t need to know why, you are the audience to something i honestly do not know to what because in my world you and your children eat rats and are delivered in great ships to great futuristic urban atrocities in size alone, and they have collectively ruined the planet the romance with ruin the planet itself is ruined for human habitat except for a few but amazing places hidden away, and i want to teach the value in that/ the value of living a life private and unseen the deeper my grave we see concentration camps turned into carnivals, and we see people who are not in them; living off the grid that is the point of living off the grid and you have to upon waking up first thing in the morning be compelled to look out the window to see where you are this time sticks and tricks — because they have all become a past of beds and the light coming in and i always wonder how it is i end up in these places, and while most of them were in reality enormously difficult to live in, i have lived in enough of them to know not to pose the question: how did you get here, bitch, without truly understanding what life was going to be like — in the real real reality at places like ATMs open all night and making deposits in them at four in the morning because all your tricks had paid you and a couple had written checks/ we see beds waiting for someone, all day next to some maudlin window, where my own were in places like New Mexico mesas in adobe houses built in the 14th century, the floor is made of sand and ox-blood that had hardened over the centuries to the consistency of tile found in a Spanish castle outside of Barcelona/ the bed was on the floor/ graves so deep no human being could escape and blood you sleep on flows/ this is not the screenplay i will write but it might be/

it is the world that is surreal, your world/ mine is only life without a fiend is like death without a witness and fall on the lake came and getting to town was something of an ordeal but ontario is like that lake after lake after lake and back in the woods some, the firewood you will have to cut to keep the fire during the winter going will be nothing less than phenomenal for boys to chop but it must be done/ and fall with sing in blasting red on wind and a brazen sky/ we see fishing as a way of life and sunning on those rocks and canadian whiskey is subdued in smite and slams the saddlebags at noon and that way the waves would hit the side of the canoe like recall is not relent/ we build and we rebuild; lives, children, and motorcycles/ the raving adoptees, the runaways, the refugees from war, from el salvador, who in their loquaciousness give diaspora its fertile ground/ for they have hidden in it, turtleheads, barefoot your feet are always black grit with sand and bed could be a seat on the train and the train stopped in oakland and i always wondered what else stopped there, and then we had to take the bus into the city, the real city, and i don’t think i will ever go back because the playwrights are only selling platitudes, and the longer i live, the more i am aware of the world as a dangerous place where in the past i was hauling ass and selling it the beds were always one enormous pocket dance/ ext: we see oakland as a concentration camp and carnival/ we see the selling of children, children raped, the unraveling of the species, and in every scene, we see a different bed/ unreclaimed beds of reconciliation, beds upon which screenplays are the universal language, film, cameras everywhere and that is what i want to teach them is that the deeper the grave, the more unraveled our elements become/ in alaska all men are mad, in key west, they’ve simply worn the battle out/ the neutral and the neutralized/ the borders are in some neglect and our two main characters are tried for treason in the desert there/ we see frighted people on road trips everything is a road trip the people who have managed to go on road trips and evade the overpopulation boats, the ships headed who know where for who knows what and now they are at the borders of perchance, perchance, texas, perchance a dream/ living out of a convertible in ranchos, then arroyo seco, in dog town/ the bed in dog down being as unmade as lust is not unique/

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