“Wining About Something – What WAS”
Barrel 27 Rock and a Hard Place 2007 Grenache, another
flavor to be nano-stored in the G-protein taste-bud memory-bank. What the world needs now is ‘light brown
spice,’ and in the wisdom of a chef, in a world where sugar is both a cure and a
glaze. Is there a place for ginger? Sip.
Savor. Slither. Having a transcendent head-out-of-stomach
experience, devastated emotions ferment beneath the confident surface of an
austere air. Reminders precede memory
loss. I prepare my mind like an old
computer hard drive that needed to free space by getting rid of rubbish of the
mind/body/soul. Nowadays, what with
processor speed, RAM, and HDDs the way they are, why delete? By then my Monday was undone. I was unhinged, by God, unhinged! Long looks upon blank walls, I started to draw
in pencil something I knew must be erased some day in the future and wouldn’t
be worth taking a picture of if I had a camera.
Inspiration was something that came from the word interstitial. I was reading Moby Dick for the first
time, knowing how it would end, and not wanting it to… something about seafaring
seemed…not more romantic, but more robust than waiting tables for a year in a
random place where I knew one person well enough to call it home. Bourne upon ancient saltwater currents,
breathing hour spans, & wresting writing from walls. I must have made a good impression, this one
that got away calls me back five years later, she wants to drive all the way
from Alexandria to Buffalo to make out. Should
I encourage what seems like insanity to come to me?
“Sloppy Second Joe”
Fast-food pick-up artistry, I set the standards for
low-grade loving, poorest quality acceptable for public consumption; a
gluttonous mash, a musty mouthful. A bottle of life in one hand and a bottle of
life-altering substances in the other.
Spun like a child for fruity loops swimming in box Jesus juice. My biggest regrets involve leaving something
unattended, unfinished, or unseen. It’s
crazy though, I try to be omnipresent, omnipotent, and omniscient like a god-headed
idealist. Informed sources reliably relate
information intelligently. Uninformed, unintelligent sources attempt to deviate
my attention from what is real into memory illusion; those things that I
remember to be true, but in fact, aren’t.
Hence the refresher. I arise
late, headache, memory splinters, something asymmetric struggles to fit, my
shoulders are too tight for anything to be easy. The verb to be! The verb to be (esse)! Action is more becoming to the
gentleman, but I, jilted ball cap, low ego, struggling to find clean pants,
muttering, sputtering, pulse pouting, scrutinizing, and veins glutenizing to
boot! I need a good reason to go out and
suffer my abuse.
“Self-Addendum”
Mortal men are wallowing in the shallows of dolorous demeanors. Haphazard are blankets on the wall-to-wall apartment floor-for-a-bed. Punctilious
expressions are all around. I'm imagining
self-mutilation and living in the moment, doing neither. Guts. Glory. Escher? Allin. Jesus Christ. Quality counts individuality by ones, and to
each, ownership. Owner, boner, a sketchy
loner enters a bar. Each and every
effect of ethanol on biochemistry realized is multiplied by herb, spice, and
illusion. The struggle for abundant resources
leaves idiots stuffed. This is self-taxidermy. There are guts' saliva spatter-drying about the mess hall. Spilled truth-serum seeps into the hands of a
self-administrator. Robots suck cock,
power, and Roomba®. Should I work
harder at earning more or protest rising costs?
What do you say we get high without suffering memory loss? High as hell, recalling all, don't remind me.
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