Whining, Pining, & Dreamsong 14
And maybe if I felt the world owed me something, I would find it all less so. Boring, I mean. Thumb through dictionaries and wish for the study guides for meaningless tests so that I can refresh my memory with all the good words I've forgotten. Paucity. A paucity of words. Stinko. The air is saturated with his whiskey breath. Pugilist. There is one dancing in my fantasies, aside the ecdysiast. They are becoming fantastic elastic together, mouthing acrobatic instructions through silent sentences to one another. They pretend not to be bored. They are going to a party tonight, together. Our eyes will focus on them for a moment before we drain them of their juice. We try to smuggle their juice, wet our lips with their act, with their stale lives that are new to us and therefore interesting. I will not speak with them because I have lost my voice. And besides, I'm tired of first, second, and third person, those weary creatures crawling through the poor grammar, their heads getting stuck in the holes between dependent clauses, their necks craning around the corner to be certain that they won't miss anything. No, the page is blank. You will not miss a thing my dear. You see there was an error at the factory when this text was printed. Yes, there are ten chapters. And the first three repeat themselves three times, and the introduction was reprinted in the conclusion. Or vice-versa. I can't quite remember now.
I have slept this week away, slept one colossal hole into the Monday through Friday, though the hours outside of the office have been punctuated by translation work. I hereby certify. In witness whereof. The Dean of the Faculty of Behavioral Sciences, by virtue of the power vested in him by the Law or the legal authorities or the Republic of Venezuela. She attended the following courses, this candidate to the title of Licentiate in Education, Specialty: Learning Disabilities and Emotional Disorders. It gets old, but the money's good. And at least it's in my field. It's so easy and basic to me that I forget that it's something that only a handful of people can do well. I have to remind myself sometimes. Unlike my work of the nine-to-five, which demands that on Fridays, I get torn a new asshole by employees with payroll issues. I get frustrated with persons who become frustrated with me because they don't know how to manage their money, because they are banking on money which they haven't yet received. It doesn't mean that I have any less sympathy--believe me, I do--it just means that I start thinking about Darwinian principle a lot. I used to do that (bank on money that wasn't yet in my hands) and I got fucked raw doing so and then I realized something: the world doesn't owe me anything. In addition, I don't take shit for granted. But I do get bored...with almost everything except myself or at least the stupid bullshit that I use to occupy myself (sorry world).
John Berryman is haunting me. This is my favorite poem in the entire world goddamnit. I just wish it weren't always stuck in my head.
Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so.
After all, the sky flashes, the great sea yearns,
we ourselves flash and yearn,
and moreover my mother told me as a boy
(repeatingly) "Ever to confess you're bored
means you have no
Inner Resources." I conclude now I have no
inner resources, because I am heavy bored.
Peoples bore me,
literature bores me, especially great literature,
Henry bores me, with his plights & gripes
as bad as Achilles,
who loves people and valiant art, which bores me.
And the tranquil hills, & gin, look like a drag
and somehow a dog
has taken itself & its tail considerably away
into the mountains or sea or sky, leaving
behind: me, wag.
I have slept this week away, slept one colossal hole into the Monday through Friday, though the hours outside of the office have been punctuated by translation work. I hereby certify. In witness whereof. The Dean of the Faculty of Behavioral Sciences, by virtue of the power vested in him by the Law or the legal authorities or the Republic of Venezuela. She attended the following courses, this candidate to the title of Licentiate in Education, Specialty: Learning Disabilities and Emotional Disorders. It gets old, but the money's good. And at least it's in my field. It's so easy and basic to me that I forget that it's something that only a handful of people can do well. I have to remind myself sometimes. Unlike my work of the nine-to-five, which demands that on Fridays, I get torn a new asshole by employees with payroll issues. I get frustrated with persons who become frustrated with me because they don't know how to manage their money, because they are banking on money which they haven't yet received. It doesn't mean that I have any less sympathy--believe me, I do--it just means that I start thinking about Darwinian principle a lot. I used to do that (bank on money that wasn't yet in my hands) and I got fucked raw doing so and then I realized something: the world doesn't owe me anything. In addition, I don't take shit for granted. But I do get bored...with almost everything except myself or at least the stupid bullshit that I use to occupy myself (sorry world).
John Berryman is haunting me. This is my favorite poem in the entire world goddamnit. I just wish it weren't always stuck in my head.
Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so.
After all, the sky flashes, the great sea yearns,
we ourselves flash and yearn,
and moreover my mother told me as a boy
(repeatingly) "Ever to confess you're bored
means you have no
Inner Resources." I conclude now I have no
inner resources, because I am heavy bored.
Peoples bore me,
literature bores me, especially great literature,
Henry bores me, with his plights & gripes
as bad as Achilles,
who loves people and valiant art, which bores me.
And the tranquil hills, & gin, look like a drag
and somehow a dog
has taken itself & its tail considerably away
into the mountains or sea or sky, leaving
behind: me, wag.