Eric Ellingsen

The people called Endless

– 1

We called these things ages. Called them all-nighters. I called all night. You called back. We called it

over. Quits. And over again. We went there. To try out our chances. To see the where it lands. And

lays. One row over. By accident. It reminds us of. Doing our utmost not be so. Precisely that. Because

we believed in the importance of it. With all our heart. With all our energy. With everything that

science can do. And doctors. With double-sided tape. And fishing lines. And hooks. We used

everything at our disposal. And then some. And pulsing while we’re at it. And with lightness. And on

the fly. Nomadic (apparently). And smooth. Through snags. Through the highjinx. Through phases.

Without a foot in the door. And one on the gas. (Historically speaking.) It didn’t feel so smooth.

              Historically speaking, it happens. In corners. In the park. In the same way never twice. Behind

the bushes. Behind closed doors. Under the basement floor beating. Cropping up (at the speed of

light). Rarely highlighted. Safeguarding. With charts. It looks like push-ups. Like a UFO in winter. Like

a shoe-horn sounds. As far away as possible from the bad guys. The naysayers. The nincompoops.

The professional compromisers. The people that can make negative molds really well are welcome.

Anytime. The people called Endless. The place called Heart. The people called over and over again

asking for your…  you guessed what. Which led to feelings. And scratching. The thick surface. And

swarming. At the cellular level. Slightly to the East (and lower). And especially terrestrial. Taking a

stab at it, it was outlawed to call political where we placed our feet. We’re still feeling out the next

final decision. The old bait and switch. Pickpocketing. As always. Feeling lost. Feeling

hopelessnessingly unable to make a difference from this distance. Feeling confidence wane. So

impossible always looking so sure. Wanting an engagement with. Wanting to be enlightened about.

Wanting to put a few small things together. Gracefully. For once. For another chance. Encounter.

Wanting it to all end. Wanting to say it better. Without so much practicing next time. Or, puckering.

With real content. Unbottoned. Beforehand. Before needing you to believe me so much. Before it

feels like this. Before we reach the no choice. This wanting you back. One time was only enough the

first time.

— 2

One time the goal was to start over. The goal was never reached. Apparently, that was part of the

goal. The goal looks like an iceberg. Like a treble-clef. Like a paper-wasp. Like a tree-foil-knot

underwater. Once the goal was made up along the way. There were many at onces, but they were all

irreversible. Once now sounds like steam. Like, teeth chewing on a metal fork. (Like, on purpose.)

Like, two barefoot ideas colliding in a particle accelerator without wearing eye-patches. Like,

watering-cans. Like, the lips volcanoing Age Old Hotly. We knew the goal after we got there. We

never got there. We dropped the ball. That was the catch. It did not break like a crystal plate. We

dropped the idea of a goal. And symmetrical. It went through everything we thought was solid, like

an apple, like radiation, like a little bit of heart. We thought that was good. We thought it was cool.

We thought it was art. We thought that we had a chance to start over. Someone took a picture. Your

head was in the way. Your head is always in the way. Someone screamed ‘get your head out of the

way.’ Someone else made a self-portrait of you. Someone made a video and a tricycle out of it. (The

tricycle almost made the news.) Someone cried out everything matters! But between the no-brainer

and get over it, there were second thoughts. Some came with wings. Dreams shouldn’t wobble so

much. And roof-tile. The writers dreamed about being 3-d printed. To keep the wind out of the soup.

With more comfortable seat cushions. With numbers, and rows, but like a boat. With two-way

shinnying-up possibilities, but head first.

              First we thought that everything should change back. That we would be taken care of. We

figured. Sad somehow that it turned out so happy. From the outside looking. We’d get it someday.

We would never feel this way again. Again. That we wouldn’t have to_______________________

leave things open this way. And, blank. And firmly planted. And more meaningfully. And that too.

And, forever. Or, at least long enough to make a blanket to cover up the small things. And that

everything would add up. Or, even out. Or, give us a good enough reason to. Get out. Or, muscle us

around so we had an excuse for not having to have a reason. To get to the bottom of things. To go

on. To try again. To start again. To come back again. Please come back again. Thinking about you, I

was brainwavingly.

— 3

We said the last part till we ran out of breath. That we should do it more often. Over do it. Over

Deleuze. Over there. With cake. With whiskey. With coffee. With sweet water. With more meaning

(and without signage). On Tuesday morning. On Sunday evening. Before the sun comes up. Every

other day during dinner, before it’s algorithmically too late. Before it happens again. Before someone

else does it. With friends. With x’s. With god on our side. Philosophically perhaps. Notwithstanding

forever. For the love of it. For life’s sake. For the last time. For the obvious reason. For no other

reason than it’s there. For echoing. For echo-locating. For violent enchantment (and assonance). As

practice. As sound poetry. As magic. As a war cry. Intuitively. As a method. Spontaneously planned.

And as a last desperate attempt at. Whatever. And just because. Just because we have to. Because

we really want to. Deep down inside on the surface of things. Because of last time. Because of the

times. Because you deserve it. Because I owe you one. Because I love you. Because you were begging

for it. Because we had no choice. Because I had to. Because if I didn’t someone else would have.

Because there is no other way not to. Or around it. And then some. And then again, and then again,

and then after, and then after, and then again, and then after, and then again, and then again, and

then after, and then again, and then again, and then again, and then again, and then again, and then

again, and then again, and then again, and then again, and then again, and then again, and then

again, and then again, and then again, and then again, and then again, and then again, and then

again, and then again, and then again, and then again, and then again, and then again, and then

again, and then again, and then again, and then again, and then again, and then again, and then

again, and then again, and then again, and then again, and then again, till we just can’t anymore, and

then again.

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