Fight Club – Resting in Disobedience

I don't look up. I look down, ahead, at the book and the screen. It's night. August. In the sky the immense moon emerges as if from a shell of clouds: an immense seed, round and bright; I witnessed the event through a WhatsApp post. Under artificial light, I alternate reading The Burnout Society with watching Fight Club.

In the morning, the office; in the afternoon, therapy for seventy-year-old knees; and at night, the last hours of life's party, I reread and watch the book and film I'm writing about, bound to the demands of some Villain Town. In the middle of it all, the news: "tourist shot for a watch..."

The news is a revelation—both the book and the film deal with exhaustion, and exhaustion is only possible with time. Death and the irony of living not to live: having two jobs to pay debts, writing skills to feed vanity and fill more time. Day and night are destined for vigil and sleep, respectively, because that's what the stars, vision, and dangers command.

I think that if I wrote a poem, the brevity of verse would give me back time, save me exhaustion, and free me from the Villain's demands: short paragraphs, sensation and content. A poem to praise failure, to put time inside time by saying anything. To abandon everything without spilling a drop of blood. To encapsulate disobedience in a bad poem.

Everything is the house
Now
is always present
Everything is the house
From closet to office: two steps
work: the computer
in the dining room: the computer
cinema: the computer
sleep: putting head on pillow, under pillow: the computer
shopping: the computer, double click
orgasm: click, click, click
death: the computer beating.