A pen uncapped to record loose, restless thoughts from many months; many moments missed.
Noxious permanent marker-fumes fountain from frustration-etched words. Pacing during the hours of sleep; the company of sleepwalkers.
Scent-summoned, signaled by sentence-scratching and scribbling, four crows gather. An eight-clawed perch of loyal, black-winged inspirers. For many months, for many missed moments, they have waited.
Patient, prepared.
(This is the revelation of my muse, muses.)
August 6th
Floorbound, drunk. Full-clothed on carpet, but in comfort. Monotone chants and vibrations; air passed over ears and face by box fan. Later, awaiting dawn on balcony, nature's breath tries to caress away booze and toxins.
Still comfortable, now moss-scented.
(This is the consolation of existence, perhaps.)
Still comfortable, now moss-scented.
(This is the consolation of existence, perhaps.)
August 3rd
The symmetry of sky to ground; reflectors mirror stars on pavement without the separation or definition of a horizon. Speedometer, odometer illuminate hands, digits glowed and haloed by dashboard; deified. Momentum. The purposelessness of objects passed in darkness: signs and streets and stores, all unlit, all awaiting the movements of godly fingers.
Moments before world-lighting; the minutes prior to creation.
(This is being the sole driver on a highway at three in the morning.)
Moments before world-lighting; the minutes prior to creation.
(This is being the sole driver on a highway at three in the morning.)
July 26th
Lacerated lip. Blood and aftershave; vampiric vanity. Outpatient-omen to avoid romance. Sliced, but sated. Warned.
(This is shaving.)
(This is shaving.)
July 18th
Forsaken forest; grievous grove. Cancerous satyrs tend plastic-potted grave soil. Browned skeleton-stalk withers and cracks above a circle of spent cigarette-stumps, crumpled and charred.
(This is a dead plant used as an ashtray.)
(This is a dead plant used as an ashtray.)
July 17th
Nocturnal butterfly. Shunned night-floater. Ungraceful, flutters to the tainting yellow glow of a courtyard nightlight. Seduced by the poisonous luminescence that outshines the honest subtlety of stars, moon, and fireflies . Soars through nicotine thunderheads; swirls and flaps through corrupted nimbostratusses. Addiction.
(This is a moth flying through a cloud of cigarette smoke.)
(This is a moth flying through a cloud of cigarette smoke.)
July 4th
Low battery on music player. Car running on fumes. Dry heat of July, windows half-open. Driving down Route One, unable to find a song to listen to. No concern for time or distance, speed or self.
Sunlight and vacuity.
(This is finding a strange contentedness in emptiness.)
Sunlight and vacuity.
(This is finding a strange contentedness in emptiness.)
July 2nd
Carapace-crawler, plated pilgrim progressing across perilous plain. Treks over tabletop, through the travesties of newspaper ads and corporate coupon handouts. Drowns in gathered stillwater, spilled. Struggles with six legs against impenetrable ethernet barrier.
Aided by the care of a giant, wanders to the edge of the world. Falls off.
(This is a beetle making its way around the crowded surface of my table, helped by my hand.)
Aided by the care of a giant, wanders to the edge of the world. Falls off.
(This is a beetle making its way around the crowded surface of my table, helped by my hand.)
June 29th
Coil-calm, sliding through slits. Streaming cold. Hum; chill-chant. Stress and tension shaken out of muscle and mind by shivers; anxiety ameliorated.
(This is the tranquility found in my living room's air conditioning unit.)
(This is the tranquility found in my living room's air conditioning unit.)
June 24th
Entombed king, black and buzzing, laden with harem and feast of bird-flesh. Carrion-pharaoh. Sires doomed generations, white-writhing sons and daughters. Gluttons gulping down. Buried alive amidst rustling walls.
(This is a fly that found its way into the plastic bag the bird corpse from previous days is wrapped in.)
(This is a fly that found its way into the plastic bag the bird corpse from previous days is wrapped in.)
June 23rd
Grocery bag wraps crow corpse in purgatory for purposes of poetry; coffin-condom keeps flies from impregnating with maggots.
"Prices lower every day!" written as an epitaph on the side of the plastic casket. Rot-stench rising. Fermenting on an altar of cinderblocks during dawn, beneath Polaris.
(This is failing to dispose of yesterday's carcass, instead packing it up and pushing it off to the side.)
"Prices lower every day!" written as an epitaph on the side of the plastic casket. Rot-stench rising. Fermenting on an altar of cinderblocks during dawn, beneath Polaris.
(This is failing to dispose of yesterday's carcass, instead packing it up and pushing it off to the side.)
June 22nd
Rigor mortis. Corpse's tendons tighten. Before bursting and seeping, eyes stare as nearby ligaments loosen.
Distant, chain smoker coughs, connects the rigid and relaxed with his nicotine-anxiety and smoke-trailed pacing.
(This is stretching next to a dead bird on my balcony, listening to the hacks and gags of a neighbor.)
Distant, chain smoker coughs, connects the rigid and relaxed with his nicotine-anxiety and smoke-trailed pacing.
(This is stretching next to a dead bird on my balcony, listening to the hacks and gags of a neighbor.)
June 6th
Familiar foreigner-smiles, friendly. Hispanic skins, sun-smoothed and tanned by sand and the mountain aries of Argentina.
Double-strawed margaritas and endless glasses of lemonade. Discussions regarding dessert, prolonged, then translated. Shy apologies for the delay.
But it is their waiter who apologies, quietly. He cannot remember the translator's name, though she always knows his.
She does not eat-- he wonders why-- only drinks, and he wishes to share her alcohol and the awkward, unused intricacies and intimacy of wordless communication. Desires the contentedness and ease of la familia he serves.
Later, leaving, the Latino night urges him.
(This is serving an increasingly-familiar Argentinian family and, in particular, their daughter, who fails to forget me.)
Double-strawed margaritas and endless glasses of lemonade. Discussions regarding dessert, prolonged, then translated. Shy apologies for the delay.
But it is their waiter who apologies, quietly. He cannot remember the translator's name, though she always knows his.
She does not eat-- he wonders why-- only drinks, and he wishes to share her alcohol and the awkward, unused intricacies and intimacy of wordless communication. Desires the contentedness and ease of la familia he serves.
Later, leaving, the Latino night urges him.
(This is serving an increasingly-familiar Argentinian family and, in particular, their daughter, who fails to forget me.)
June 3rd
Ghost-touch staining glass; incorporeal longing left as oil and fingertips, palm-lines.
(This is a handprint on a window pane.)
(This is a handprint on a window pane.)
May 31st
Transparent satellite, spinning, struggling. Solitary. Futile and helpless blemish bound at the center of a black-hole intersection.
Blacktop void.
This is a plastic cup stranded in the middle of a four-way stop.
Twin-pair of apocalyptic, doomsday-red beacons, steady and seething, simmer. Hell-gaze unwavering, unending.
Then broken. Blinded, during highway eclipse.
Replaced by stoplight supernovas, pulsating yellow glimpses of causeway caution. Roads given up to the renegades who writhe and snarl at the timed, color-coded pauses and permissions-to-proceed of daylight travelers.
This is being present at the exact moment the traffic lights shut down for the night, along Route One.
Blacktop void.
This is a plastic cup stranded in the middle of a four-way stop.
Twin-pair of apocalyptic, doomsday-red beacons, steady and seething, simmer. Hell-gaze unwavering, unending.
Then broken. Blinded, during highway eclipse.
Replaced by stoplight supernovas, pulsating yellow glimpses of causeway caution. Roads given up to the renegades who writhe and snarl at the timed, color-coded pauses and permissions-to-proceed of daylight travelers.
This is being present at the exact moment the traffic lights shut down for the night, along Route One.
May 28th
Mist-sweat mixture, after midnight. There are too many people in the world, but none to be found now.
Solo sprinter, passed by solitary drivers, runs roads and routes; owns them well past rush hour. Stops to breathe and view a cross-highway consumer center.
There is a beauty, a perfection, in the neon-luminescence blurred by fog and undisturbed by the crush and inconsideration of buyers and spenders. The allure of jewel-glowing signs and logos; unmet, unfulfilled purposes.
Traveler, crouched on curb, distant, stares as kingdom offers goods and glow to absent citizens.
Rested, runner hopes God will take everyone back with the late-night, streetlight-yellow mists, so that it will always be like this.
This is the West Goshen Plaza, empty, under a fine, light rain.
Solo sprinter, passed by solitary drivers, runs roads and routes; owns them well past rush hour. Stops to breathe and view a cross-highway consumer center.
There is a beauty, a perfection, in the neon-luminescence blurred by fog and undisturbed by the crush and inconsideration of buyers and spenders. The allure of jewel-glowing signs and logos; unmet, unfulfilled purposes.
Traveler, crouched on curb, distant, stares as kingdom offers goods and glow to absent citizens.
Rested, runner hopes God will take everyone back with the late-night, streetlight-yellow mists, so that it will always be like this.
This is the West Goshen Plaza, empty, under a fine, light rain.
May 27th
Shower curtain sadness. She is here, once-lover, former lover. She has come a long way, is tired, needs to bathe. Her hair is long again. It is my idea to stay with her in the bathroom as she cleans, so we can converse. We have not talked much. It is awkward and broken, but the soap and shampoo and steam and the thought of her skin, dripping and seductive, resurrects memories of the months with her that were not patchworked or cracked.
Shoes and clothes on carpet and tile. I want to tear the plastic veil between us--
But now we are walking. Night. Steps towards parked cars outlined by the annoying, hope-killing brightness of a neighbor's floodlight. She would rather shower with her new-lover, her second love.
Replaced; abandoned. And that is that.
This is a dream of my former girlfriend, reigniting thought-defeated desires.
Shoes and clothes on carpet and tile. I want to tear the plastic veil between us--
But now we are walking. Night. Steps towards parked cars outlined by the annoying, hope-killing brightness of a neighbor's floodlight. She would rather shower with her new-lover, her second love.
Replaced; abandoned. And that is that.
This is a dream of my former girlfriend, reigniting thought-defeated desires.
May 26th
Plague-mouth. Tooth-trapped plaque. I have the leper's kiss, tainted tongue twirling like decomposed snake.
But sunlight shines through the holes in my cheeks-- a remedy.
Choking cauterization; throat-burn and renewal. Amelioration.
This is finally buying and using mouthwash after weeks without it.
But sunlight shines through the holes in my cheeks-- a remedy.
Choking cauterization; throat-burn and renewal. Amelioration.
This is finally buying and using mouthwash after weeks without it.
May 25th
Secretion-slick skin, stretched and contoured over muscle and bone. Gel-stroked armpits; anointed limb-roots. Salve rubbed into jawbone before razor-masochism. Tooth-gleaner and glinting gums. Saturated scalp scratched and ravaged. Embalmed; age-in-lines.
The pain of hygiene.
Sweat. Deodorant. Shampoo. Shaving cream. Toothpaste. Laundry detergent; dryer sheets.
This is the construction of the self through scent.
The pain of hygiene.
Sweat. Deodorant. Shampoo. Shaving cream. Toothpaste. Laundry detergent; dryer sheets.
This is the construction of the self through scent.
May 24th
Peel-prisoner, beneath rack and bars. Drowns. Chokes in drippings of elixirs and overflowed ambrosia. Wallows. Swallows in hope of healing, but, disemboweled and sliced, gurgles and bleeds everything out.
Soaked rot. Bloated yellow.
This is a lemon wedge stuck under the grates of a beverage machine.
Soaked rot. Bloated yellow.
This is a lemon wedge stuck under the grates of a beverage machine.
May 21st
Black brigand-before-banner, dark peasant-flier perched against likeness of white-capped king. Flies. Unsheathes.
Claws clamped against corporate architecture. Proud, determined blemish.
This is the crow's freedom, defiance.
Claws clamped against corporate architecture. Proud, determined blemish.
This is the crow's freedom, defiance.
May 20th
Septuagenarians, sipping seven and seven. Senile speakers, to server, regarding half a burger and some salad:
"We hate to waste. We've been through too much over the years. We hate to waste."
Above, static and splintered satellite feed; ceiling-speakers channel emergency broadcaster. Night-abducted children. Shadowed police search. Unease and attentive silence served with appetizers and entrees across the restaurant.
The recurring darkness of each generation.
This is a conversation with a pair of senior citizens while a missing-child announcement plays on the radio.
"We hate to waste. We've been through too much over the years. We hate to waste."
Above, static and splintered satellite feed; ceiling-speakers channel emergency broadcaster. Night-abducted children. Shadowed police search. Unease and attentive silence served with appetizers and entrees across the restaurant.
The recurring darkness of each generation.
This is a conversation with a pair of senior citizens while a missing-child announcement plays on the radio.
May 15th
Diner-darkness and drunkenness, three past midnight. Pastry-tapestry painted perfectly with oil and fat, soaking into cinnamon canvas. Schematics of man on bun; modern Michelangelo.
This is spreading butter on a cinnamon roll.
This is spreading butter on a cinnamon roll.
May 14th
The care of giants' hands. Frantic thumbnail-infant, blind and deaf, waiting for ears and eyes to peel back, open. Fur and burrowing.
It does not know the immensity and gentleness of its hospitaliers.
This is my sister raising an orphaned mouse, found in a parking lot.
It does not know the immensity and gentleness of its hospitaliers.
This is my sister raising an orphaned mouse, found in a parking lot.
May 13th
Greeting through pale-pink martinis; icebreakers, on the rocks. Brown eyes, fondling and possessive.
This is a chance meeting between myself and my former-girlfriend's mother, at work.
Talk of choosing words over notes, silence over sound. Approval through disdain and judgment. Intrigued, attracted, matriarch wishes my hair and smile were still her daughter's.
"There are alot of crazies in the world, but I trust you."
This is the most I've ever spoken with her.
Black button-up pressed into blue blouse. Tight, young pectorals hard against seductive-soft, experienced breasts. Fingertips through lip-scruff. Embrace-- awkward, erotic.
This is the strange intimacy of the encounter's parting hug.
This is a chance meeting between myself and my former-girlfriend's mother, at work.
Talk of choosing words over notes, silence over sound. Approval through disdain and judgment. Intrigued, attracted, matriarch wishes my hair and smile were still her daughter's.
"There are alot of crazies in the world, but I trust you."
This is the most I've ever spoken with her.
Black button-up pressed into blue blouse. Tight, young pectorals hard against seductive-soft, experienced breasts. Fingertips through lip-scruff. Embrace-- awkward, erotic.
This is the strange intimacy of the encounter's parting hug.
May 12th
Sheets as vestments of sloth; prolonged dreams and drool.
This is sleeping too much, too late.
A challenge of gluttony. Competitors arranged. Ten pledged dollars apiece for the cause. Five more as a tip for the three beautiful whores behind the counter at the down-the-road pizza shop. Starving anticipation. Cheese and grease, bread and beef. Soda-elixirs and the therapy of belching. The satisfactory bloating of excessive nourishment.
This is eating half a pizza and an entire cheesesteak for pride and for hunger.
Entering my room:
"You must gather your party before venturing forth."
This is Baldur's Gate, too much, too late.
This is sleeping too much, too late.
A challenge of gluttony. Competitors arranged. Ten pledged dollars apiece for the cause. Five more as a tip for the three beautiful whores behind the counter at the down-the-road pizza shop. Starving anticipation. Cheese and grease, bread and beef. Soda-elixirs and the therapy of belching. The satisfactory bloating of excessive nourishment.
This is eating half a pizza and an entire cheesesteak for pride and for hunger.
Entering my room:
"You must gather your party before venturing forth."
This is Baldur's Gate, too much, too late.
May 11th
Unambitious flirtations in the afternoon until coworkers walk off, concur in the distance, and return to state:
"Raise your standards. You can have anyone you want. Initiate."
Ignored and shrugged off, but later, pursuit instead of flight.
This is the suspension of cynicism.
"Raise your standards. You can have anyone you want. Initiate."
Ignored and shrugged off, but later, pursuit instead of flight.
This is the suspension of cynicism.
May 10th
Woken, shirtless, by tardy churchgoer. Rushed, flushed. She helps me find my clothes, pulls me from the glint of sun-dried shotglasses. Hands me my glasses. Tells me I kissed her, flashed her, punched her. Split her lip. Sight still split, two tongues seen, but neither believed. Hilarity. Weaving home through laughs and lanes and chuckles.
Sheets, then sent apologies. Sleep. Late, late sleep. Waking, stumbling into black outfits for mourning and for work. Leaving. Attractive neighbor-woman asks me to move out of the way as she pulls into a parking spot, car as silver as mine. Convinced our apartment building isn't for the pretty girls, only the retards, the foreigners, and the malformed. Conversation. Departure.
It's all too funny.
This is being hungover enough to get drunk off of shots of sun.
Sheets, then sent apologies. Sleep. Late, late sleep. Waking, stumbling into black outfits for mourning and for work. Leaving. Attractive neighbor-woman asks me to move out of the way as she pulls into a parking spot, car as silver as mine. Convinced our apartment building isn't for the pretty girls, only the retards, the foreigners, and the malformed. Conversation. Departure.
It's all too funny.
This is being hungover enough to get drunk off of shots of sun.
May 9th
The offered return of a stuffed-steward. Moose. Former bed-friend. Former girlfriend sends a midnight text, requesting directions:
"Please let me know how i may do this."
To temptation, my response is nothing; is to seek out the oblivion of coconut rum and tequila.
This is forsaking one form of self-destruction for another.
"Please let me know how i may do this."
To temptation, my response is nothing; is to seek out the oblivion of coconut rum and tequila.
This is forsaking one form of self-destruction for another.
May 8th
I leave the fan off tonight, motor-wind absent. Worked beak-words outside, beyond blinds, beneath the moon-patrol between dusk and dawn. Devil's hour; the quiet, decadent, dangerous time of night when the restless lay and think. Warbles and calls. I wish to be them. The nightingales who nest in the dark vitality of spring evenings. I want to be the crow greeting hung-over, early-waking men on the verge of panic-ruin and collapse, staring from windowside branches during the building-blocked sunrise. Seven o'clock eclipse.
This is the chirping of birds at three in the morning.
This is the chirping of birds at three in the morning.
May 7th
Salad and wine at a pizza den. Unusual. Slipping down plastic chair-stool in polyester shorts; constant readjustment, calm, not agitated. The dry heat of the kitchen against the after-precipitation perspiration of spring-outside. Crushed cars towed along the road. The propaganda of a television set's six o'clock news chilled by the fallacy-free purpose of the soda machine it rests upon. Diet Pepsi.
This is waiting for cheesesteaks at a down-the-street pizzeria.
Waitress, waiting. Forgets to ask an old man what kind of sauce he'd like on his pasta. Hoping this mistake means more flaws, and honesty. Observing, waiting for her to turn to see her face. Knee-length jean skirt, ankle-high black socks. Absence of makeup; no presence of fashion with her hair pulled back in pony-tail. Logoed shirt fitting but form-hiding. Nonetheless, pretty, potentially beautiful. Pure. Practical. Her hiddenness turns me on.
This is the allure of plainness, the attractiveness of reservation.
This is waiting for cheesesteaks at a down-the-street pizzeria.
Waitress, waiting. Forgets to ask an old man what kind of sauce he'd like on his pasta. Hoping this mistake means more flaws, and honesty. Observing, waiting for her to turn to see her face. Knee-length jean skirt, ankle-high black socks. Absence of makeup; no presence of fashion with her hair pulled back in pony-tail. Logoed shirt fitting but form-hiding. Nonetheless, pretty, potentially beautiful. Pure. Practical. Her hiddenness turns me on.
This is the allure of plainness, the attractiveness of reservation.
April 31st
Crystallized citrus Christ-blood: orange jellybean Messiah. Maple-tombed and dust-embalmed beneath shadows, shoes, and appliance-cords for many more than three days. Shred and torn; enjoyed upon twenty-eight ivory crucifixes. Cavity-savior.
This is eating leftover Easter candy found under my desk.
This is eating leftover Easter candy found under my desk.
April 29th
There is a platform within me. Stomach-circle balanced between sun-glow and sun-glare, petal-dropping dogwoods deposit documents of determination; certificates of confident creativity collect on currents of a calm consciousness. Stability; spring dampness in grass, loosening summer heat and support in stenchless asphalt pathways. The presence of a populace without its pollution.
There are times I fall from the finite edges of the plateau, to pits of petals and paper saturated with rot and spent dew; dwell with doubt and the denizens of my bowels. Sweat-salve sheets and stained sleep. Collapse. Judging hands to catch tumbling structure-stones of the self; funeral-carriers down ever-dark catacomb-intestines.
This is the faltering of my medication.
There are times I fall from the finite edges of the plateau, to pits of petals and paper saturated with rot and spent dew; dwell with doubt and the denizens of my bowels. Sweat-salve sheets and stained sleep. Collapse. Judging hands to catch tumbling structure-stones of the self; funeral-carriers down ever-dark catacomb-intestines.
This is the faltering of my medication.
April 28th
Channeling the submersion of Atlantis, sunken society seeping through skin. Ancient architecture reconstructed in arc of back. Drops of ever-sought history and legend wiped away. Reemergence and subsequent sweltering evaporation. King's crown beaded on brow.
This is sweating after a two-mile run during a ninety-degree afternoon.
This is sweating after a two-mile run during a ninety-degree afternoon.
April 22nd
Gratuity and reasonable customers, flawless service-giving after last week's generosity to barber and bartender. One hundred and twenty dollars.
This is the great balancing of deeds.
This is the great balancing of deeds.
April 21st
Rushing home along Route 3, skies no longer depthless, infinite blue. Riding into ominous black-wall rain-ravagers, thunder-smashers. Storm's path.
This is epic.
This is epic.
April 20th
Husband and wife, elderly, enter restaurant through wind and rain. Drip with water and longevity, dew of timelessness. She, hunched and clinging. He seats her, helps her into booth and pulls comb from pocket, reworking gust-gashed hair with smoothness and streaks of steadfastness.
"Well, I think we made it."
He looks over personal data assistant at a woman who can no longer speak, who can only stare pleadingly at their waiter as he brings Kendall Jackson and cranberry juice to the table. She is lost but not unreachable; distant, not gone.
And that is why wordless conversations over tilapia and watershow displays of parking lot puddles are enough.
This is loyalty.
"Well, I think we made it."
He looks over personal data assistant at a woman who can no longer speak, who can only stare pleadingly at their waiter as he brings Kendall Jackson and cranberry juice to the table. She is lost but not unreachable; distant, not gone.
And that is why wordless conversations over tilapia and watershow displays of parking lot puddles are enough.
This is loyalty.
April 18th
I am Odysseus-on-land. No knowledge of my homecoming, no augury of its arrival. Sun-skewered on raft-shaped patio slab, sighing at stagnant skies and slack-sail, sweat-sprayed shirt. Unreachable cell phone peals carried on wind that smells like sea and Ithaca.
This is being locked out of my apartment.
Strained pine tree sapling, displaced nest and destroyed bird bloodline. Perilous climb; splinters from rot-flimsy, ornamental plasterboard. Desperate friction opens closed windows, smudges and fingerprints as lockpicks and keys. A tumbling return to throne and kingdom. Pine needles in bed; evergreen mistresses.
This is breaking into my own apartment.
This is being locked out of my apartment.
Strained pine tree sapling, displaced nest and destroyed bird bloodline. Perilous climb; splinters from rot-flimsy, ornamental plasterboard. Desperate friction opens closed windows, smudges and fingerprints as lockpicks and keys. A tumbling return to throne and kingdom. Pine needles in bed; evergreen mistresses.
This is breaking into my own apartment.
April 17th
One-fifty-one rum. Gold-toned cirrhosis, liver's leper-liquid. Bottled beer bellies and deformation, defamation. Bartenders and bar-standers, unfit and concerned with the Corona-tion of amber alter-egos and cigarette simulacrums. Colony of alcoholics and an unsettled neophyte; a shrine of age etched in wood panels.
This is unwanted.
This is unwanted.
April 16th
Rose, rummaged through menial occurrences and unevents, retired.
This is the failure of imagination.
This is the failure of imagination.
April 15th
Seated, corner-hidden between outside night and inside dim-lit lights. Waiting, watching, stealing the company's time and money. Cushions coax work-weariness, while the bar bustles with celebrations of matrimony. Core-clustering. The rest of the restaurant's tables are unseated; vacant satellites.
A child sprints away from the group. Runs the wrong way down the aisle; escapes groom and flower girls. Her mother pursues, an attractive aged-wine woman. Livened loins. The kid stops, close, and stares ceilingward. Sights spirits in display lights. Spins. Shouts.
This is vision.
A child sprints away from the group. Runs the wrong way down the aisle; escapes groom and flower girls. Her mother pursues, an attractive aged-wine woman. Livened loins. The kid stops, close, and stares ceilingward. Sights spirits in display lights. Spins. Shouts.
This is vision.
April 14th
Impromptu haircut; unplanned, spontaneous shearing of the hair.
For me, this is bravery.
The symmetry, the odd evenness, the decimal-free perfection of a federal tax refund of four-hundred, seventy-five dollars destroyed by a fee of thirteen dollars and seventy-five cents for electronic filing of state income taxes.
475 - 13.75 = 461.25.
No good. (The ugliness of numbers.)
This is the price of laziness.
For me, this is bravery.
The symmetry, the odd evenness, the decimal-free perfection of a federal tax refund of four-hundred, seventy-five dollars destroyed by a fee of thirteen dollars and seventy-five cents for electronic filing of state income taxes.
475 - 13.75 = 461.25.
No good. (The ugliness of numbers.)
This is the price of laziness.
April 13th
Floor. Fan blowing over body, infinite breath sounding. Ankle on ice. Light behind blinds like the afterlife. No need to go towards it right now.
This is chill.
This is chill.
April 12th
Sunglasses and sleek-chassis speeding. Unturned turn signals; weaving without patience. Jerks: graceless drivers and motions.
This is arrogance.
Half-eaten familial cuisine; leftovers brought home. Ham. Souffle. Stringbeans. Jellybeans.
This is a feast for kings.
This is arrogance.
Half-eaten familial cuisine; leftovers brought home. Ham. Souffle. Stringbeans. Jellybeans.
This is a feast for kings.
April 11th
Unknown, unremembered injuries emerging. Hip and aching Achilles' heel. Pangs of pressure and stress, pressing, but refused.
This is recovery.
This is recovery.
April 10th
Roused and stumbling, still drunk. Word associations and shouting during an inconsistent, hot-cold-hot shower. Sobering secondhand memories and memories of secondhand smoke, told by companions while serving shrimp and beer. Running mouths' regrets rekindled by overreaction and pierced privacy. Further relationships ruined. Frustrations. Fatigue. Hangover.
This is control regained, painfully.
This is control regained, painfully.
April 9th
Fly-corpses in fluorescent purgatory, garrisoned in glass panes in the ceiling. Courageous crow-- unafraid dark eagle-- chips at crusts on asphalt, beside stilled car and tire. Running mouths' regrets.
This is black.
Below standards, below steel, sheen, and structures, below expectations. Drunken politics and political incorrectness over pints and dregs. Underbelly society. Smoke and beats, vibrations. Shouts as whispers, philosopher pressed close to the eager, intoxicated impressionability of a writer.
"Self-identify. You are that motherfucker."
This is wisdom found underneath.
Chewed cigarettes. Counted floorboards. Fingerprints dried in throw up. Soapless handwashing. Filth in foyers and hallways. Finished, unfilled rum bottles in unfilled, unfinished refrigerators. Pleasure-providing before passing out.
This is control lost.
This is black.
Below standards, below steel, sheen, and structures, below expectations. Drunken politics and political incorrectness over pints and dregs. Underbelly society. Smoke and beats, vibrations. Shouts as whispers, philosopher pressed close to the eager, intoxicated impressionability of a writer.
"Self-identify. You are that motherfucker."
This is wisdom found underneath.
Chewed cigarettes. Counted floorboards. Fingerprints dried in throw up. Soapless handwashing. Filth in foyers and hallways. Finished, unfilled rum bottles in unfilled, unfinished refrigerators. Pleasure-providing before passing out.
This is control lost.
April 8th
Anticipation. Shots of rum and vodka. Running mouths with removed shirts and tongues to plug them up. Frantic grips on bare backs. Spit and vomit next to sperm stains. Surprise satisfaction. Gibberish dawn.
This is half-remembered insanity.
This is half-remembered insanity.
April 7th
Empty pill container. Skeletal back. Winter-light over cloud-cliffs, dropping snow in spring. Poems of an unknown against the violin of one hailed and lauded.
This is doubt.
This is doubt.
April 6th
I earn my wages as a waiter. People pay me to enter into a brief form of quasi-slavery, to let them treat me poorly, to serve and satiate them. The tips they give me are my only income, so every cent I make each day goes directly towards purchasing necessities. Food, car parts, clothes. It's almost as if the people I wait on give me the things I need... literally. So why don't they? Instead of having to exchange funds, why not hand me a loaf of bread, Resident Evil 5, or a gallon of gas?
It'd be so much easier.
"Need change, sir?"
"It's exact, so no. But I did hear that one of your windshield wipers broke the other day, so... here, take this one. It's all yours."
Of course, it'd be all the more crushing to receive a bad tip. Rack up a huge bill, but instead of a month's worth of electricity, you're rewarded with a tube of toothpaste.
This is an idea best left to theory.
It'd be so much easier.
"Need change, sir?"
"It's exact, so no. But I did hear that one of your windshield wipers broke the other day, so... here, take this one. It's all yours."
Of course, it'd be all the more crushing to receive a bad tip. Rack up a huge bill, but instead of a month's worth of electricity, you're rewarded with a tube of toothpaste.
This is an idea best left to theory.
April 5th
A bird saddles a stoplight over the highway, calling out, chirping in time and tune to the horns and engines of the vehicles below. Drops feces in the wind that fall by me, panting and hunched. Other avians clutch cables and phone lines against gusts of road-wind. They regard the rubber, metal, and asphalt as soil, bark, and leaf.
This is the natural turning the unnatural into nature.
No voice, no work. For two straight days.
This is still the best affliction ever.
This is the natural turning the unnatural into nature.
No voice, no work. For two straight days.
This is still the best affliction ever.
April 4th
Laryngitis and a lack of voice. Sometimes, during a sentence, I hit a point of annunciation, articulation, or frequency that my afflicted vocal cords can vibrate at, but everything else is just incomprehensible, hoarse shit. Something along the lines of:
"Hey, --- you ge- me - --ass -- --er?"
("Hey, can you get me a glass of water?")
And no one can understand what I'm trying to say to them.
This is too amusing of an illness.
"Hey, --- you ge- me - --ass -- --er?"
("Hey, can you get me a glass of water?")
And no one can understand what I'm trying to say to them.
This is too amusing of an illness.
April 3rd
Storming. Drenched before I even start my run. Warm, kept cool by clinging clothes and my wetness. Pouring rain, pumping muscles. Trying to dodge drowning earthworms and that dead cat from days ago. Sweat and sky-water; soaked and satisfied. Touched by the enormity and purity of the event.
This is excellent.
Another stilted conversation with Olivia. Still has yet to ask me how the medication is going.
This is friendship?
This is excellent.
Another stilted conversation with Olivia. Still has yet to ask me how the medication is going.
This is friendship?
April 2nd
Can't get anything out of Olivia anymore except half-hearted, contrived conversations and inconsistent behavior. No replies, no call-backs. For someone who claims I'm important to her, I don't understand why I'm such a low priority. And The Office apparently isn't on tonight.
This is frustrating and disappointing.
Joe worked up the effort to actually make himself (and me) food. He's in possession of the ability to create amazing pizza.
This is surprising.
This is frustrating and disappointing.
Joe worked up the effort to actually make himself (and me) food. He's in possession of the ability to create amazing pizza.
This is surprising.
March 31st
Woke up missing one of my socks; found one along the road while running. What if I sleepwalked last night and left it there? Also found a dead cat, and made eleven dollars at work.
This is good...?
This is good...?
March 30th
Post-workout tightness, post-shower calm. Relaxed fatigue, gentle perspiration. Opeth's acoustic guitars and death metal growls to my left, fan to my right. Spring sunset behind me, slipping through closed blinds like Midas' fingertips. Just gold-drifting air and sweat.
This is sublime.
This is sublime.
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