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Da Vinci Died Before Cigarettes

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Forwarded message ----------

From: "P. H. Madore" <moonpunter@gmail.com> Date: Nov 18, 2008 10:41 PM Subject: submission To: <mlpress@aboutjatyler.com> Cc:

please don't let any happenings with hc affect anything.

i decided this one would be better submitted like if i was reading it to you, because it might give you insight into my process of composition, maybe. enjoy.

text below, attached mp3.


p. h. madore thinks technicolor has made the living

Da Vinci Died Before Cigarettes by P. H. Madore

Holding the cigarette between two fingers cherry down, letting nicotine air weave wavy like up into my downward palm, staring into the blank television screen in the morning light, listening to the persistence of an evil intrusive inquisition on my door, and this knocking made me feel dirty enough to shower, and in this moment I could do nothing but shower, despite whatever event wished to unfold on the other side of my fortification, my thick metal door shut against your world almost always.

Without knowledge of my door's attacker. Without necessity of this knowledge. Everything beyond the line between these noises and me: owned. Admirably.

Louder than the shrieks of thieves in celebration. Higher in pitch than could be attained by angels. So owned. An accurate picture of the ownership is not possible for one or a pair. It's been going on too long. Precedes paper, the tongues of humanity.

With an abstraction such as all this, I'd explain myself, standing amidst accusative glares of the intruder and wistful police escorts, and afterward I'd pour a scandalous glass of whiskey, and afterward be rendered in shock. The invasion completed by my own hand.

There will be no answering the door today. Not for your gods themselves. Not for a change in tone. Nor a sweepstakes.

Water running over my skin, relief becomes the only goal. Think of painters who never learned not to write on walls not their own. I think of the billions who've lived without ever totally accepting the boundaries laid upon them by kings and bankers. How we are not all this fortunate, to need not verbalize, to need no explanation for our own absolute impulses. To have such courage, warmed-over on sobriety.

Fixations, obsessive coffee pots, the gravy of ashtrays. It may be that love for myself is the only love myself has ever known. Yet outside, your world stays owned. Inside, I've forgotten what I set out to forget, and this may be the armor I have sought all along.

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