the fool’s back pocket…

Sooner or later I’ll get it right. Until then, why bother worrying about something as elusive as a spinal cord with none of it’s importance? Just another day in the life, another one of those biscuits and bagels and bullshit in the morning, another run in with the FCFD. They clean up cheesy pita’s with precision but today they were just more extraneous cast members who stayed onstage too long. This day; this fucking day. That’s better. I’m a discriminating and often times perspicacious fellow, but I got my limits, same as any man. If you poke me in the spine enough times, eventually, I might accidentally kick one of your nurses in the tit because four inch needles make me nervous. I might not apologize.

But we have better things to do than argue about who owes who an apology. It’s not like it matters; if it did I suppose we’d all be back in Escalido Junction. Plus, we’d probably be arguing about something else. That’s how it works. You tell me I drink too much, I tell you I think you talk too much. I must have a fourth, or even fifth layer of skin, because I don’t feel a thing except your words sliding down my epidermis.

All this time you’re crying. Now I’m the one that’s cruel, but we already knew that baby. We already had all those discussions and wasted all that time arguing about bouncing bits of bullshit. I could have been listening to Hiatt, I could have been writing, or maybe just sitting on the roof wondering if two stories are really enough. (They are not.) Point is, we have got to get over all this wasted time. If you knew me better, you’d laugh and giggle and break all the mirrors and pictures and smash the frames on a banister for kicks.

I’m not sure how we got started on this subject. My short term memory sucks, and that really blows when we argue. I can never remember why I did what pissed you off because you seem to know for sure that it was such a cold and calculating plan from a cold and calculating man. Really I’m just an actor, and there is no script. Nobody screams “Fate!” in the middle of sex. The walls in this place are thin, so we don’t say much at all. Some think I’m a sage and some think I’m a criminal and both might be wrong. No, I’m kidding. One of those is right.

I smoke cigarettes for fun, but lately I been getting smoke in my eyes a lot more often. The smoke in my eyes makes them water, and sometimes it looks like I’m crying for no reason at all. Look again with the wind the tears are because I’m laughing so hard every time I hear my voice or see my face. It’s always funny, because how do you get here from Sharon, Massachusetts by way of Irvine, California? I should know the answer but all I know for sure is that Bunny Man bridge is no more haunted than my trunk, and probably less so.

Such poetic infirmities. Sensory infatuation with the cowards and liars. Screaming screaming screaming for just one more round of questions to be delayed. If I tell you, it ain’t fun for me. Does anyone have a plastic Jesus nowadays? Old songs are fun, unlike arguing about whether we should or should not discuss my most recent misadventures. You might dictate terms and conditions, but it’s only because I’m a sucker for getting laid in the late afternoon.

So you’re asking if this is how it is, and I say “Baby, you got me all over again.”

Now you’re confused, and I know it. “Let’s go play golf. Let’s get some dinner. Let’s go pretend to be everything that seems right about this town. It ain’t much baby, but you can trust me. Just can’t lose my keys.”

That look says it all. Burned out red eyes, that authoritarian stare, you got me all over again. I may not know for sure what I am, but tonight let’s find something new and try it all out. Just remember, you can’t go anywhere too nice in Hawaiian shorts and a t-shirt. That’s all I got, and even if I get rich tomorrow I won’t buy new clothes.

Now you’re singing “Plastic Jesus” but not all sweet like Newman. Not cool but sultry. Not beer but gin. Classy, you don’t need no bottle opener here baby. This ain’t a celebration, it’s an argument, remember?

I don’t know what I was talking about, did that answer your question?

You’re already gone, baby, gone.

I’m the fucker talking to himself in an empty house.

I know what I’m doing. When I split the difference on the white platter it ain’t so this fucker (jerks thumb to the right. There you stand.) can ask me where the hell I get my shit and then tell me I’m wrong. If I had a goddamned nickel for every argument that could have been avoided with the proper care and treatment, I’d be one rich bastard. Instead I’m sitting in this dank apartment crushing up the angels in an attempt to get around this disgusting setup. It’s not dying, but I’m not so sure it’s living either. Every time the phone rings I want to toss the thing through a plate glass window, but instead I pick it up and whisper into the receiver. Everything is so sublime when it’s harmless conversation at low tones. Shit. My fingers are jumpy, and the keys are dancing. I’m making a lot of mistakes.

Still, I guess it beats taking the long way round. My way, it’s in, out, one, two done. I can’t remember who said it, but it comes back to wasted effort. There’s a window facing the street that I can look at whenever I need a reminder of this truism. All this would be great if it meant more certainty or faith, but it seems like it all ends up ashes and regret, so we leave conversations as placid and still as a corpse. All the while the mustache paint is just a greater symbol of compressed need. Pressure and heat. Good old American desire, like an Indian motorcycle or a car dealership on the highway. I want to scream at someone to throw me off the overpass ’cause I know I’ll be OK, I’ll always be OK with my baby doll at my side and a few grains of Pennsylvania gunpowder to watch up in the sky. It’s as good as the quickening but without the live forever part. You know, some things are impossible. No foolin’.

All this fuss over such a small habit. I never did understand what went into the ceremonial aspects, being such a profligate atheist. I never saw the mushroom gods or the acid kings, never felt like it all made sense, just appreciated the break. Is there a word for someone like that? Likely as not, same as everything else I guess. The ash falling on the keyboard adds no discernible response, and we move on.

A long long time ago, doctors would proscribe Calomel to patients as a purgative. It wasn’t until much later the doctors found out that the wonder drug was actually killing their patients. I can easily imagine a doctor in his white coat, smiling and pushing that shit on another unsuspecting customer. How little changes in the age of technology. I’d add more, but nothing I could say could match the elegance of an early morning phone call and a matching termination of services letter. Fuckers. Every last one.

After this whole rigmarole, my hands stop shaking for a moment while I recline and envision the pleasing tides of easily administered placeholders. I find it far easier to face the world as commander of a small corps of artillery than another confused solitary human looking to province for a word of assistance. Then again, maybe that is why every restaurant I’ve ever been to hands out free straws. I knew there was a reason, but I didnt think it was this!

It’s a dog long-term, but right now it’s a miracle. Who am I to question the miraculous? This is no time for long term thinking.