MXYZPTLK + PANOPTICON
MXYZPTLK
Guy from Superman comics? Nizzlequick? Gotta say his name backwards. Or, fuck . . . Search, "labyrinthine." Word itself, a puzzle of meanings refracting each other. An expanse? Big maze with angles. Or no, a restrictive space, tight, hard to breathe, to think, but ringed with passages, miniaturized sub-compartments, interlocking doors—that dark face, leering, frozen in laughter, vanishing around the corner—Wait? Or that's my subconscious. Wobbling, thick Latina asses. Define, "subconscious." Not the internet, not even. On the floor, on my back, as usual, staring at the ceiling. The wall. Blank sheet on the drawing board. Gotta finish one page, that's it, move the chains. And I'm up. No, I'm awake. And these are not real demons. Note to self . . .
PANOPTICON
East New York 2006
Following this same guy. Traipsing, loping walk, his two-hundred-dollar hiking boots, bobbing, knit cap, bouncy 7am mushroom coffee motor, ruddered by his still-wet, silly little ponytail . . .
Simmering. To scattered jazz hits, low electric drone. Tunnels, like catacombs, hallways dripping water. Exhausted, climbing stairs, from the subway, and out, to midnight in East New York. And why not admit the truth? Burnt out streetlights. And Jackie, she’s starting to see it. Your beeper, all hours, out to whisper, huddle at the pay phone, beyond that, the spiraling, ever-expanding universe, of all the shit you’ve choked away, quote, opportunities, lost paychecks . . . Filthy bodegas. Stained vinyl siding, row houses. Hour and a half on the train. L to the A, to the C, to Euclid, another 30 min walk. But also like a soft embrace. Those neo-noir, Pink House towers, at least from afar, temples, the center of everything. And I need that Tyrell Corp, that synthwave, something. Rooftop obstruction lights, blinkers, slowly blinking, all the way back to Crescent Street. Second floor duplex. The rule is, don’t sit down. Definitely no food. No couch, no beeper. Don’t close your eyes. Just coffee. Don’t dream. Gotta push. Get to the drawing table. Touch pen to paper, and finally, and because it’s your turn, of course, from the other room, she hears you, Zhanna starts to cry . . .
Corduroy pants, his water canteen. Loping into the future . . .
Mornings. Belched back out. And this same guy! Not every day, but sooner or later, no matter which route I take. “That’s how you sound, simping over the phone” The Barista, not Jackie. My predictable mistakes, like a tour, led by this lone hipster, pulling ahead each morning. “You said you’re not happy.” Wait, did I say that?
From nights, to washed-out mornings. Reset. Up then shower, then again out humping the sidewalk. Clinging to sleep. Cigarette butts everywhere. Nihilismus. Black dada. Same mythology, the coins over my eyes. Like everyone ahead, moving faster, must have secret knowledge. Like emailing out lame-ass poetry submissions each night. Drawing for 20 minutes, fighting it, dozing off. But then why spend an hour and a half on the payphone, talking to the barista? All that busted concrete on the throughway. Crossing Linden. I’m the earnest lover. Between that, or this fragile, spiked-bat fake confidence. I don’t know.
I want those secrets.
UZODINMA OKEHI: