lars again

I don’t want to be whole; I hate the whole of the hole I’m living in. Words terrify me. They pass me by in droves and I can't recall them, and they never stay mine once I breathe them out, across the barricade of my lips.
I wasn’t built to walk this world. That much is clear. Perhaps to walk some other: what source could there be but the alien for this noise noise noise noise noise? — it will swallow me whole one day and I won’t leave anything but a note. “Dear Earthlings,” it could start. Noise noise noise noise, TV static; it must annul itself, in the end. It moves me to mortido as often as great monuments. mortido (mɔɹˈtiː.dəʊ) n. (psychol.) The energy of the death instinct. Nothing beside remains. Giveth, taketh away, naked I came and naked shall I return. Etcetera. Suchlike. All that jazz.
Noise noise noise; one night it whispered in my ear as I stood in a park holding a folding chair, legs shaking. I heard. Its voice was heavenly, maybe Jovian. And here in the dim crater of the park, I felt death's pulse and grew sure of its approach, for me or someone else. It was all around me always, maybe. Like the fish who doesn't know it lives in water. David Foster Wallace said that. He also threw a coffee table at Mary Karr. He killed himself almost 15 years ago now, which is more than I can say. Good riddance. Humanity has far too many geniuses as it stands.
What was I talking about again?
Oh, yes. He left a note, too; for his wife only. I couldn't have read it anyway; I wasn't yet four months old. And who would I myself write to, even? I am like one Monsieur Wheelock, in Such a Pretty Little Picture, who dreams of disappearing. “The ‘Oh, hell’ rather troubled him. Mr. Wheelock felt that he would like to retain that; it completed the gesture so beautifully. But he didn't quite know to whom he should say it.” Dottie Parker wrote that. She was done in by a heart attack; a noble, honest, peaceable way to go. Oh, I am to my neck in death! These ghosts speak to me like a regular Ebenezer.
I am not sure whether to fear it or to yearn for it or what. On the one, dying is not so different from living; short and painless, if you’re lucky. But death itself is forever. Then again, nothing is forever, as the good Siddhartha taught, so death may be nothing after all. Well said, Siddy boy: congratulations and felicitations to you. Dukkha, dukkha, ducdame, that's what I think of you, you ignoble youth.
Anyone can live forever. It isn't so hard. Noise noise.
#poetry