wHaT mAtTeRs MoSt Is HoW wElL yOu WaLk ThRoUgH tHe FiRe.
the last time Around when i was here -
there was a Light at the end of the tunnel, there were
four steps up a greyhound bus, 87 steps down an airline
walkway, and 23 more to the seat on the plane. Now,
now, there is Nothing to get me through these
inane and pitiless days of everlasting Loneliness.
It is exquisite, it is breathtaking: how deeply
it cuts into me, and how my arm has healed from the
last round of cutting. It is trial by fire, and yet the
fire is made of frozen and ice; it is a low-C hum of
depression and a constant ache in my heart that makes
me want to tear the fucking thing out, pour
gasoline on it, and throw it to the turkey buzzards that
wander down by the railroad tracks (yet i don't, for that would
poison the turkey buzzards - perhaps an incendiary match
would be the quickest, cleanest method of Disposal).
there is no End to this, there is no cosmic Light, there is no one.
i can't remember the last time i woke up in the morning riddled
with excitement, thinking that today i get to see Someone i Love.
i can't remember the last time i felt any semblance of Hope,
and i know that any attempts to cultivate it would simply
be fraught with folly and false thinking. i send out desperate
letters to former employers and former teachers who once praised my Work -
begging for a chance, for them to fill out lines on a piece of paper
so as to potentially rebuild my life. but perhaps, like myself,
they are riddled with hopelessness - it's only after the cat is out of the bag
and my post-work substance abuse habits are found out that the
'Commitment to Excellence' praises that she lauded upon me
go crumbling to the ground, sifting themselves through chinks in the sidewalks,
coming to rest along with the ashes of too many cigarettes.
A convicted pothead, no longer capable of doing ANYTHING, in your eyes -
so the Silence is unthinkable, unmitigated, and the only letters
i receive in the post are hospital bills.
when i sit at the kitchen table and cry, saying i must get Out
of Here or i'm going to Die... that doesn't mean the death of the
Body [my body cannot die, because i have to prove that i am RIGHT
about SOMETHING], but the death of the Spirit. that means that
someday i will become like all the rest, acquiescent, quiet, subservient
and Broken [i already am, yes?] and those 4 steps up the greyhound
will be miles too far for my weary feet to climb. bukowski tells me
to hold onto a Spark, just one Spark, for a Spark can set a whole
Forest ablaze; that is all i cling to - a medallion shall be made,
nestled in between my too-small breasts, with the glow of a firefly
to remind me. the only time i speak enthusiastically anymore
is of being nearly-stranded in bottomlands Georgia, out of gas
in the van with Mo, of the foot-long centipedes of Hawai'i, of
the 'hood and gritty sidewalks paved with broken glass. So, in essence -
nothing positive, nothing Pure, nothing True, can come out my month
except abyssmal, abyssmal loneliness. the blood runs down my arms
again, the only sensation of warmth that is left in this Naked,
barren land. I close my eyes and feel the Ocean, and open them and see....
-------------------------------------------------
there was a Light at the end of the tunnel, there were
four steps up a greyhound bus, 87 steps down an airline
walkway, and 23 more to the seat on the plane. Now,
now, there is Nothing to get me through these
inane and pitiless days of everlasting Loneliness.
It is exquisite, it is breathtaking: how deeply
it cuts into me, and how my arm has healed from the
last round of cutting. It is trial by fire, and yet the
fire is made of frozen and ice; it is a low-C hum of
depression and a constant ache in my heart that makes
me want to tear the fucking thing out, pour
gasoline on it, and throw it to the turkey buzzards that
wander down by the railroad tracks (yet i don't, for that would
poison the turkey buzzards - perhaps an incendiary match
would be the quickest, cleanest method of Disposal).
there is no End to this, there is no cosmic Light, there is no one.
i can't remember the last time i woke up in the morning riddled
with excitement, thinking that today i get to see Someone i Love.
i can't remember the last time i felt any semblance of Hope,
and i know that any attempts to cultivate it would simply
be fraught with folly and false thinking. i send out desperate
letters to former employers and former teachers who once praised my Work -
begging for a chance, for them to fill out lines on a piece of paper
so as to potentially rebuild my life. but perhaps, like myself,
they are riddled with hopelessness - it's only after the cat is out of the bag
and my post-work substance abuse habits are found out that the
'Commitment to Excellence' praises that she lauded upon me
go crumbling to the ground, sifting themselves through chinks in the sidewalks,
coming to rest along with the ashes of too many cigarettes.
A convicted pothead, no longer capable of doing ANYTHING, in your eyes -
so the Silence is unthinkable, unmitigated, and the only letters
i receive in the post are hospital bills.
when i sit at the kitchen table and cry, saying i must get Out
of Here or i'm going to Die... that doesn't mean the death of the
Body [my body cannot die, because i have to prove that i am RIGHT
about SOMETHING], but the death of the Spirit. that means that
someday i will become like all the rest, acquiescent, quiet, subservient
and Broken [i already am, yes?] and those 4 steps up the greyhound
will be miles too far for my weary feet to climb. bukowski tells me
to hold onto a Spark, just one Spark, for a Spark can set a whole
Forest ablaze; that is all i cling to - a medallion shall be made,
nestled in between my too-small breasts, with the glow of a firefly
to remind me. the only time i speak enthusiastically anymore
is of being nearly-stranded in bottomlands Georgia, out of gas
in the van with Mo, of the foot-long centipedes of Hawai'i, of
the 'hood and gritty sidewalks paved with broken glass. So, in essence -
nothing positive, nothing Pure, nothing True, can come out my month
except abyssmal, abyssmal loneliness. the blood runs down my arms
again, the only sensation of warmth that is left in this Naked,
barren land. I close my eyes and feel the Ocean, and open them and see....
-------------------------------------------------