shiny.

andrew eisenschenk


[preface]

we begin here, as a consolation. for this is the end.
besides that which is read before us; the title of the thing.

without illusion, you will find this nothing, and as nothing
the rest will be a guided miscue of direction (of) thought.


I.

she asked me;

“could you do prose?”

i gave it time,
a thought.
enough to grasp hold.

/“i’ve always failed,
having tried.”/

she smiled at me, and with a whisper exclaimed;

“with that i shall have to read!”

ignoring, almost subtly, my lack of enthusiasm in way of the past.


II.

i look terrible, i feel like shit. i feel terrible, i look like shit.
and if this were to be… any sort of prose/
                                                                  poetry.
my fruitless attempts at reconciling my own differences
to find some sort of voice, could seem, almost. endearing.

even the façade could be worthwhile in its empty placidity.

  to buy
the constant shroud within each stanza; the veil of each word.
my complete inability to connect truth without anonymity.
without the taint of treacherous misdirection. 

and we could all mostly wish that each day weren’t so false.
  that we in fact, weren’t so disguised.


III.

i have had another. now my hand, shakes. violently.
so no, i do not wish to use words with any sort of grasp
of language. syntax. description. form. i’d rather,

not use one with meaning
at all.

so nothing.

on this page, nor the next. meaningless.

the line. one other.


IV.

looking back on a piece from before, in my head, i can see it
(having no need for it’s existence on paper any longer):

/”i’d like to remember you as a sort of dream.”/

words, as you escaped me.

that to which has stalled.

in the foreground, maybe, its tingling taste of sincerity.
the kind that washes down hard; finishing our drinks. the last shot.

almost cordial; stingingly so.

i know not what it is, but that it is: as an existence to suffice.
the clearing clarity of each breath through the muffled haze.


V.

as far as I have come, I cannot help but sit here admiring the smoke
billowing from the ember of my Marlboro; the death of it, as it sits
untouched in the plain glass ashtray of my youth. my ignorance.

i remember a day much the same as this, years ago now,
standing outside underneath the awning, shielding myself from the rain.
the cool air against my skin. the rush of the tar-black going through.
the way the Camel felt in my fingers; fitting. soothing.

and how it was always pain or discomfort that brought me to you.
such a simple start to a life of point blank addiction.