we gotta talk…

I’ve spent about ten days or so rolling around the series of tubes looking for poetry. You might say that even with a graying mind and the self image of a 12 year old, I’d be hamstrung in my search. You couldn’t be more wrong. Everyone is making up awards of various colors and giving them names that come with rules! Rules? Well, anyone who has transversed this site in the past knows how I feel about being forced to do anything, from stop writing before I am done to not putting all kinds of chemicals in the mix to have just that much more fun. I talked to Trowell about the whole issue, and he advised me to get a little bit more fucked up, because obviously, we haven’t gone all the way yet. Give it time. Even Peter Pan needed time.

Still, could be worse. Waiting on the odyssey to begin, knowing I’ve got the knife pushed hard against my throat, but not really caring. It ain’t that hard to see the future; people can always be counted on to act like people. That being said, there can be no certainty, only an opportunity to clean the claws every now and again and if you’re lucky, use ’em every once in a great while. Being what amounts to a pacifistic psychotic has its advantages. Well, the music is good anyway.

Waking up to find out the cosmic shores shifted two feet to the right while you were sleeping off a wicked chemical indulgence that might, or might not, have stopped you from breathing for a few short seconds. When the breaks get to be more than a minute long, we’ll start to worry about how to fix them. Until then, fix whatever you’d like. Trowell and his mad countenance and devilish grin. He speaks so well to every last bit of terrible in all of us, the kind of guy that might go looking for someone just to test out a freshly installed tripwire. No sense going with judgment on this one. I’m lost anyway, does it matter where?

Fuck it. (I’ve recently learned those are bad words some places around here. Bad words? Are you fucking kidding me? There are people dying in the streets being butchered by the movement of the very universe we are predisposed to worship, and you worry about bad language? Oh well, they can’t all be winners I guess, to quote Bad Santa in what might be an off tangent way.) Still, I’ll admit, there is much to be envied about the small minded dualists. It takes so much worry and thinking from the to do list of life to divide everything up into two parts and leave them that way. Luckily for me, that isn’t a fight, that’s an anachronism. (Not me. Them. Fuck, they got us again!!!…(if you aren’t laughing yet, keep reading until you do. I promise there is a joke there.))

So, there it is. The nut inside the shell, or the tongue between the lips, if that’s how you want it. We are equal opportunity offenders around here. Music plays in the background, some stupid kid tries to think up a good excuse trying to avoid answering any questions; that kind of thing. I already know Trowell is going as far as he needs to go, and so far, he’s dragging me along. Is it loyalty or fealty? Who the fuck knows, it’s such a cluster-fuck batshit crazy way to move there isn’t even a word for it. Still, when I start to get scared, he’s usually there to kick me in the stomach. What fear?

Trying to get a better look at my various brethren, I see the subject matter, feel the kindness, but still don’t see what it is I’m looking for. Where are the bloody-fisted ones? Where’s the mad genius, the angry intellect desperate for help or for some force stronger than itself against which to charge repeatedly, losing every time. Down with the losers and bums, fighting for nothing with nothing to lose. (Can you tell when I listen to too much Tom Waits? Me either.)

There are many thanks that need to be given for every shove and shill towards opening up even the smallest crack and finding out there is still a beating heart there. I’ve already thought about listing each voice in and of itself, but that would be a gross injustice to the cacophony of the crowd. It’s cool here, momentarily lost in thought playing at being something I think I want to be without any idea how. One word follows another, a few breaks, a lot of cigarettes and little friends in tiny pockets.

And that’s where I am. The back pocket of madman masquerading slightly to the left of a forgivable fool. No pictures. No names. No identification, no papers, nothing of the sort. Just a bunch of code-word identities, forcing imaginations to make up personalities. That last one might not be such a bad thing. The scumbag in the mirror never shows up until I’m alone, and even then, his movements are limited to where I want to go. That’s another poem for another day.

Whomever is reading this, if anybody, know that it’s even easier than it should be to forge whatever you want from whatever you got. Trowell, for all his brilliance is made up with castoff and onetime notices of late payment, near overdose, that kind of thing. Why curse an imaginary character except to excommunicate your own internal revolution to another battlefield? You couldn’t pick a fight with me even if it was the best idea either one of us ever had. Something of a repose down on the limp-dick geography of Florida, but there is a plan for the next two weeks. Whether it works is of another thing. Still, can’t help but feel the kiss of a lot of wind at my back, and why waste the opportunity. I’m not averse to hard work, as long as someone else is doing it. Poetry just happens to work.

Everything else is dice on the savior, a throw I stay away from for reasons that hardly matter. Oh yeah; there are saviors and angels and demons and saints, but they are all entrepreneurs hacking a trade in the dusky light of a new morning. Free agents, looking to match fate with your choices and then it’s easy street. The Man Trowell assures me of as much. I can trust him… he was right about the talking pizza boxes a few years ago. That was right after Ecuador, come to think of it. I mean, not in time, but certainly in spirit. Doesn’t matter. Theres’ always a few more words of kindness in the hope safe travels.

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