From old typewritten pages...
This is the beginning of the middle. Not the end or the beginning, nor the turning point, crescendo, climax or denoument-
this is when shit happens that nobody notices and later changes the fate of a distant blue star,
much later the details turn out to be small clues of insight into to the unique madness of humanity.
The Red Dog of Sirius and
nice slow jazz music coming out of a rusty brass horn into radiowaves, and out of radiowaves into a rusty brass horn in a broken down pool shed in the middle of the worst part of town. Rain drops filling my wineglass and still half a bottle to go. Finished- my wife has kicked the corner out of me, into an alleyway to enjoy the concupiscence of various travelers and passersby. I have crossed the last threshold of the warm womb and safety into the dark and cold wilderness of the great beyond. I've lost a little piece of myself along the way. It hurts less now... only the occasional phantom pain.
Walk on hobo! You may have tricked death for a season, outwitted your fate and camouflaged yourself for years in the bowels of a semi-respectable, top-hatted existence, but I know you old man- I've shaved your beard a great many times and know that your capacity for pain is only surpassed by your capacity for joy.
The hurt has lessened but I still daydream wild successes of gleeful revenge on the world and life and Erika and Jesus for everything I've ever suffered on this stupid planet. My suffering remains small, adorable even, to any onlooking mammophiles that notice. I am the last man standing in a world dying from insanity. Please forgive me. My heart has broken three too many times and my mind has taken flight into the otherworlds of the imagination that sometimes trap their visitors in dream.
Not that I know where I'm going but at least I have a place to stay.
this is when shit happens that nobody notices and later changes the fate of a distant blue star,
much later the details turn out to be small clues of insight into to the unique madness of humanity.
The Red Dog of Sirius and
nice slow jazz music coming out of a rusty brass horn into radiowaves, and out of radiowaves into a rusty brass horn in a broken down pool shed in the middle of the worst part of town. Rain drops filling my wineglass and still half a bottle to go. Finished- my wife has kicked the corner out of me, into an alleyway to enjoy the concupiscence of various travelers and passersby. I have crossed the last threshold of the warm womb and safety into the dark and cold wilderness of the great beyond. I've lost a little piece of myself along the way. It hurts less now... only the occasional phantom pain.
Walk on hobo! You may have tricked death for a season, outwitted your fate and camouflaged yourself for years in the bowels of a semi-respectable, top-hatted existence, but I know you old man- I've shaved your beard a great many times and know that your capacity for pain is only surpassed by your capacity for joy.
The hurt has lessened but I still daydream wild successes of gleeful revenge on the world and life and Erika and Jesus for everything I've ever suffered on this stupid planet. My suffering remains small, adorable even, to any onlooking mammophiles that notice. I am the last man standing in a world dying from insanity. Please forgive me. My heart has broken three too many times and my mind has taken flight into the otherworlds of the imagination that sometimes trap their visitors in dream.
Not that I know where I'm going but at least I have a place to stay.