Saturday, November 8, 2008

The Windowsill Tablet

i have just swallowed a half bottle of benfoes (klonopn); it was there, an innocent bystander. but i am ravished and empty and looking to consume. I am a failure as an ascetic; I love the world's filthy bedclothes too much, and are repelled by their deceptive and this world lies my eternal agnst.

I dismantle a bic pen and make a cigarette holder. I plug the end with the thin garlic white stub and light and blow through the screen. They are released, and I am set here on this windowsill looking for ways to die, acceptable ways that would not be an embarrassing abomination to the people who are left to have to pick up the pieces. I am close to tears when i think of my parents havin to picks flecks of crainaiel matter from the wallk dicinsfinct the pooldof blood seeping into the bone white lineoulisum. Churchbells hammer softly in the distance, calling us all to prayer, and no one pays it mind. It is nice background music in the damp October air, the slick of maple leaves covering the glazed trollertracks.

* * *

Living is a bad accident. Please let me out, please, give me a pass. I will gladly give my life for anyone who needs it, just give me a name. This medicoracy is nauseating. I smell it over flapjacks and coffee at breakfast when I did Sunday moning, to get nourishment, to live another day, to want to die another day. Wouldn't it make more sense to stop eating? That is alwyas a possibility.

I run from suffering like a scared boy but i wish someone would just grab my wrist and have a wail a nail into it, ripping the ligaments, and flushing me with red, with what it means to really suffer. Mhyl lfe drainign at fieet my feet n bluddles. My little play life, with its play crucficionl

My friends are playing pool, or drinking beers. Oh God, can I trust the, If i was on the bathroom floor (what else is in the medicine cabinent there to the stomach...ah, aspirin), who would find me? If i had a dog it would be gnawing on my corpse trying to get help, but he would know where to go, would probably forget, and go roaming over the great concrete escape, up Price St., to meet up with other dogs and cats in their lot, an animal fellowship. I have no trust in animals. He will say, "my master is dead," and they will all nod in great solemnity, because prayer is beyond animals; it is a foregin thing. But I will still be on the floor, breathing my last.

* * *

I get up, head pounding. i am not dead dammit. i throw myself into one wall limply, then another hoping to crumble the plaster, and decide to do jumping jacks and other aerobic workouts until the blood in my head becomes too sick and i collapse once again; and once again, there is no one to pick me up, so i make my existence on the hardwood floor. If i was in with God no place would be everyplace; but since i am not, it is a wretched geographic boredom, like waiting for buses in Mexico and Thailand, buses that came "when you did not know the time nor place." Then they come and you are taken up into the four wheeled ship among strangers, a vessel to someplace else.

I took ten benzos and I feel the same as an hour ago. Mybe I will have to finish the bottle. Wicked side effects. Memories of happiness are my crown of thorns and puple rose. Really, I don't remember them anymore, they are snipets in a fog in folders titled 'happiness' and 'suffering.' I don't reach into the anymore; I can't. They are lies and spectres of things that dont exist. And yet they constituted the marrow of my being, these experiences. Sometimes I think of my brothers and cry--when such crying comes--Because they are mykin foreever and as long as they live I am more than myself. I have few lasting connections in the world--they are two.

* * *
I woud like to have sex for a night, someone who I can commune and exchange energy with. I want to taste a woman's lips and feel heat.

I am a wretced ascetic. I want to have fun and enjoy life. I see hipserts outsie the artists studios talking and smoking and realize this a 'group,' I group I can ejoy. But when i talk about the uncomfreheiblse ness of God I see we are at differet places. To my credit I have been tryig very god with my vices; I am tryig.

* * *

But what do I do? It is the plaguig question. I know who I am, or am working on it. I read books durig the day and makr coffee oin the morning. Is this the extent of my life? Being so worthles, I pray with all my streanth to be taken out of it all--the nights watchig tv with friends, the drinking, the rorced nsumation with another to bring children in teh world to go through this same suffering. Is it reasonable to put a cap on babies. Women love their babies, so I dont' tknow how this strongodl could be breached. I pot on my wool har at set off for the north, boarding in a fishman's inn on the Pacific Ocean in Maine. I set in the armcair and watch the Olwsehead sadld slake and thik the cofoglomation of thoughs brewing from monelines--how does one kil oneself in a way less embarassting to those to thom it mattes to.

My mom doesnt want me to do it. She is invested in me, her flesh an all. A son's suicde to a mother is

No comments: