Wednesday, November 12, 2008

3:30 to close

i am not under the influence of drugs, or any other substance other than espresso and caramel corn. writing til close.

i cannot decide whether i would like to see david byrne in concert. he is a stranger bird and his eyes are like great swirling ego fleshpot, threatening to swirl around and around my ankles ti i scream, 'david, no more!' to sit and watch david byrne even for a one-on-one show...i would probably scalp my ticket for a pack of cigarettes.

* * *

these are just nonsense words. it is so hard to write when everthing is nonsense. and by nonsense i don't mean jibjabyabyab; i mean that the letters stand together as empty shells, like those russian egg dolls; they are pretty, so pretty and intriciate with old russian peasant women paining so delicately with old wrinckled thick dog skin and leather hand chapped with a tiny tiny painbrush so much care...but it is a shell. there may be another doll inside (baby doll!), and another, but then the dolls will get so small there will be no more, and we have reached the eschaton, the omega point where there are no more words....they have simply run out.

it is hard to write when the words have run out. but when the meaning and grand importance of all words have bled out onto the floor in a puddle of convolution and the newsboys run out into the street screaming "WHAT TO PRINT!? WHAT TO PRINT!?" people speak and their words are worth naught; the bottom has dropped out. What does one say? Hold up a flower. Then what does one do? Put down a flower. What is the essence of language. Pick up the sack. What is the nature of language? Put down the sack. I wish I were an enlightened chinaman. then i could give little cakes and donuts to children all day fat and happy. no. i don't want that. let's investigate that...

* * *

Let's talk about the killers first.

save some face you know you've got one change your ways while youre young boy, one day you'll be man oh girl, he'll help you understand smile like you mean it looking back at sunsets on the east side we lost track of the time dreams aren't what they used to be some things slide by so carelessly smile like you mean it and some one is calling my name from the back of the restaruaant and someone is playing a game in the house that i grew up in and someone will drive her around down the streets that i did on the same streets that i did smile like you mean it

* * *

back to words and their empty currency. if words express an essence, and true essence is nothingness, what can be said? what word can i squeeze out between my lips like a larvae discharged into the world, to be let writhing? to smash? to hold between the fingers? ah radiohead, such beautiful music. i will never be a beautiful radiohead. because my words are empty larvae currency. i am like the worthless steward who buries his words in the ground and when the master digs them up and his eyes light wild FIRE like Zeus and exclaims, "What's THIS!? A thousand rascals beneath your eyelids!" Zeus holds the words of every lasting life, and I bury mine like smoldering chunks of charcoal, modest black turds to refill the earth's coffers.

* * *
I have started working out again, a little; pushups and situps. i want abs like 50. I may start boxing again. I'm sure I could muster some rage up somewhere down there. Dark basement, musty wraps, and bricks wrapped in sofa cushions and ducktaped, rattling like an abused ghost from the rafters above. Smashing until the arms come off.

* * *

Taking a bottle of benzos was fun, I have to admit. I knew it wouldn't kill me, though it was kind of dicey, since I didn't know the dosage one can O.D. on. I have been drunk enough a few times to have had to had the night recollected to me; that was pretty much the picture here. I took four, then five, then another three pills i think, then rode my bike to kate's. she said i was about half an hour late and that i told her it was kept falling off my bike. then i fell off my bike in her front yard. then i was aparently talking enough nonsense that she thought i should go to the hospital. so her and her roomate took me to chestnut hill, where they admitted me. apparently i kept trying to break out. i also kept tying to get kate's roomate to smoke a bowl with me in the E.R. When they tried to take me to Friends Psychiatric I wouldn't let them, i guess i was lucid enough to have convinced them. I'm afraid to say I don't remember anything after that, where i slept, where i woke up. It's past history now. I don't know if i have a substance abuse problem, but i would not be surprised. i will eat up drugs like candy if they are given to me. so i try not to have them given to me. but those benzos were just sitting on my counter and being careless with my life at the moment i was not surprised they made their way down the hatch, or rather, i put them down there. Although I knew they wouldn't kill me, and I knew I was too much of a coward to play that one out, I still wanted, without a doubt, to be taken out of the picture.

* * *

What now, what other nonsense can I write about? There is a girl in front of me drinking a tea in a tan pea coat. i don't know if she is attractive or not. i have never met anyone in a coffee shop like tom waits says, 'you don't meet nice girls in coffee shops.' but i keep trying, except that i don't really try, i just scope out possibilities. and i think, 'hm, what would i say? hello, i am a complete stranger and i don't know why i am talking to you in particular, but here i am. so what do you say, do you want to go out on a date with me?' No, I think my dating days are numbered.

* * *

Fuck this I'm leaving, fucking coffeeshop and their red stools and their peacoat wearing girls that won't talk to grizzly Rob. How will I ever procreate? Maybe it is best that it is as difficult as it is.

I will go back to the bus and stay for a while. Maybe I will fast, but I will probably not be able to cut that. Maybe I will eat rice balls. I will read St. Nelios the Ascetic and hang my head when I think of donuts and la-z-boys and 401ks and breasts. I will gather my supplies, I will pack tight my rucksack. I will eat rice balls and tea and soup. Maybe someone could come visit me. No. This place is for one. Maybe I will die in my bus, just like Chris McCandless. I am sure I am as big a fool.


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