Tuesday, July 24, 2012

Mediocre Man

(Inspired by Bukowski's Tales of Ordinary Madness and tales of my own sadness came this.  I'm thinking about doing these streams of consciousness writing again as a way to stretch my limits.  Also, it helps me be less of a miserable bastard.)

"It'll be okay."

I miss hearing that and actually believing it.  Especially when you said it. Back when you were alive.  Back when the weight to the tether to this mortal coil wasn't a straightjacket.  Back when youth ticked away, wasted on the young and dumb.  Back when I was happy.  That was a long time ago.  I know because I can't even remember it.  Sure, there are happy times and memories.  But those are fleeting, ephemeral as desire, ephemeral as dust, ephemeral as our lives.  Little gossamer threads that hope to withstand the wind.  

Who knows where you are now. In another place, time, Hell, Heaven, the rewarding eternal blank void of puragtorial penitentiaries, the dream of a poison dart frog.  All I know is that I would love to hear you say you were proud of me, your loser son on his loser missions for loser ingrates.  It grates.  This weight of living like a tinfoil hat to keep all the mind control out, self-doubt deep in a barrel, Russian Roulette is immenent.  

I will be dead soon.  Not that it will be by my own hand, although I suppose our deaths usually come at our own hand. What can be done?  Will I ever stop beating the twisted equine cadaver. What are the value of the dreams of a monkey?  Can I be Robert Townsend for a day? Because I could use a meteor in a coffee can doing everything I sure can instead of the deadpan look of pushing a dirty mop across the floor.  It is a false promise.  There are so many of those in life.  So many.

I dunno why I'm writing this.   Perhaps to regain some confidence cashed in as soon as I put on my first Urkel glasses.  The inner sea is crashing.  Maybe that's why I'm crying so much tonight because I hadn't seriously since your body stared at me, an openmouthed husk, a shredded cucoon cutout like a cheap Halloween costume in that Bronx hospice bed.

Of course this roiling wave of emotion started because of those women and my conspiracies and my crazy, the ammonium nitrate to this scenario.  It can only stand to reason I would look to your chalk outline.  Just like old times relegated to Polaroid albums.   You, the best woman I ever knew, because I never had to jump through hoops of fire for respect and loyalty.  I wish I could see you again, to hear it will be okay even if it won't or can't be.  Just a hug even.  I ask for this even though it will never come in this lockstep trudge.  It's fine, I'll settle and be settled for, persistence is supposed to pay and all I can do is slowly row this oar.. 

1 comment:

  1. Too deep. Reunion is destiny, as we are all one, and have to come back to one. Good shit cuzzo. Literally teared reading this.

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