Termites make didgeridoos but they can't play them.

Wednesday, September 26, 2007


Rei iki bomba, that sweet reek of gasoline, I know it doesn't make much sense, but that's all I am, all I am is the smell of gasoline on your fingers, with the green sun in your eyes and the smell of tomato green and tobacco hornworm floating over, and under--such an olfactory basement they made!--the solvent notes. But that's it. I'm sorry I don't have more, that I'm not a mafioso or an electric monkey who pees blue molten gold. Sorry I'm not an investment feaver banker with realistic cry and daily diaper wet. I'm the time between seeing the blood and covering your mouth. The space between the hearing of crying and the making it up the stairs and everything is ok but there was that awful space and I'm sorry but that was me. I would like to be the flavorful, vanilla infused space between the spatula and your tongue, and the notes and floats and vanilla waves of silly just your birthdays, I wish, but all I am is the taste and not the memories. Thank god, actually, that belongs to you. But gasoline, you can't, probably, unless you're my brother or my cousin, or one just like us, you probably can't know what gasoline means to me and that's the thing, that's the individuation of self that occurs only with old of old and old pick ups and tractors and ignorance. So.