More Old Laments

Moon

Hearing neighbors down the hall lock the multiple locks of a single door makes me think of old men at four way stops with the hesitation of a hundred squirrels, and of the quickened pace of a stranger ahead of me in the valley of death with I, behind by chance, on this, a late After-Saturday night, and of how it might just be, that I am actually, in spite of all my frightfull aprehensions, perhaps, if possible, actually less afraid of death than all of my other varied human counterparts.

Alesbien Mother wears Arainbow sweater in the sunshine rain and I, feel, for Asecond, that I have perhaps, perhaps, wasted the Atypical intentional inventions of abjunct function on the mundanality of my own advented Aversions.

Oh sweet teeth, oh, oh why did you ever leave me?
I swear that all I really need is bleeding and a urinal, and the guts to walk into the grocery store and down a bottle of Tussin right in front of the cassier!

Cherry flavoured cavities and you, you should never care, as I should never carre, the dentist both gave us lollipops and sugar blues.

I long for horizon.

The only thing good you ever gave me was this desk,

But then again, in reality, that is not true,

I got mem-ries of you that you will never have,

Mammories of everything home and onderesque.

Tonight I am off.

The moon came off,
I mean up, up from the unseen horizon,
Up and through my window in-between trees and up into my eyes as if it was all right where it was, supposed to be.

Emily-D and the stranger of camus, bury me in the sky,

So I can look down on you,

Yours, Moon.




Gnotes from Underground

I could have gone and gotten a coat or decent pants an hour ago, but I continue in this perverse pleasure, forcing myself to the muse, up from my bed by the shut-eye window of sweet dreams. So now, satisfaction in freezing my ass off. Likewise it has been a relief to show my ass in such a splendid way gentlemen. Wars and rumors of war! Like all good American men, grinding in mortified discontent is my desire to be the hero, but at home I am best as the scoundrel. I can only roll play. I’m actually nothing, neither good nor evil. For real and with nature only while indulging my type A characteristics, certain drink with certain food, the pillow for my head that never hit the ground, and a book while on the toilet! These things are the only laws of my nature that have become laws.

Do I seek sympathy now!? The nerve! Crave celebration. I crave celebration till it arrives and then it’s like a band that makes me cringe. It’s appalling artwork! Any accolade is like standing on a table, I must comedown. We all comedown. My mind takes this action, or is it my soul? Up, and down, before I can even consider the results (this is truest of all - the unconscious is a nervous scapegoat!). It’s that resolve to remain unsolved that we crave, but can never satisfy. Instead of in my chair, I’m beneath the table now, in the round, and at home. From here, after a night or two of poor sleep, I will sleep well, the way I breathe, deep and constant. Then, we get up, refreshed and curious, again.

Some men are naturally mysterious, and some put a note on every fact. Some seem to be stretched between pages in each book. So, like fire from a fire hose, comes my too well-suppressed anger; not the single incident but the string of incidents that stack in the memory of a lifetime that make for a trigger. A long lingering reservoir. It’s that suppression that gives it its energy. So like a jet engine perhaps, like compression, an exit, and dropping from the sky. In which case an implosion at detonation. Rich satisfaction at first, but then there are bed sheets to clean, and there will be nothing here washed in time before my time to lie in this bed, exhausted anyway. And all this weary analysis, where does it all lead? This was known at the start and ignored till the tonic was found to be lost. Like chicken and egg, crime and punishment leapfrog without origin.

An odd form of public life this is. I spent two years sitting at a computer dumping out my every thought and setting myself strait in the mid-day dawn. Corrections abound. Then I made a collection and broke the plates. We may become politicians in our need to make the perfect speech here, as apparently the whole world is watching. Feathers full of color, but ruffled, and wings unused. Where it is only us in the room, I should return to my computer, just the two of us. It becomes a mirror to all the good and ugly within. Even those governdemented mannequins in multiple multi-media flash windows are human, seeking your vote and your teenage daughter’s carnal company while your back’s turned, inside the booth, hanging a chad.

But my point is drifting. What was my point? I think I just wanted to say hello, and thanks here for your votes if it’s not all too in vain or to your chagrin. What good would that be?


Red Wine

There’s that song about red red wine. It’s supposed to help. It’s not. Not right now. I haven’t gotten crazy drunk in a while, the way I used to before I met Eri. I haven’t heard from Dia or Eri for a while. Last I heard, Dia had a boyfriend. Of course.

What sustained me was the company of my wonderful co-workers. Now I’ve been fired. I will see them no more. I have felt this bad only two other times in my life, my night in jail, and right after Daphne died. So mom comes in town for a visit.

Overcast on this one and the days are shorter and shorter at that. Nearly 7:30 AM before the first sign of light. I had a bad mood but I shook it off. I had to lie a lot though. I though. I was gonna have clever ways to beat around that bush. Speaking of Bush, most remote viewers are predicting obvious signs of apocalypse next year. So none of my minded mealy concerns will mean anything anyway, like they mean anything already. No.

Just broken heart and blues, old news, repay, and repay the dues. I wanna run away. But I gotta find a new job. Overcast, and Ana hasn’t come by. She has mail here and she knows it. I’m beside myself like a shadow without sun, but I can’t shake. So I shake it. Shake shimmie shake. Out on the ledge again, without a building. It’s building. Metaphysics.

The rocks were to protect the Atlantis wise man retreat. I never knew it, but wrote my best poetry there, on retreat. I will go there tomorrow, and stay. I am a wise man, and only full of lust, the fool. I love my family, even still, them all, even dad. Ben is distant, but I understand. Why pretend? I don’t pretend, why should he? Tomorrow is a new day. I’m down and out, so I hope to not be there, asleep in a sweet dream forever,

AMEN.

b