gotta give up the goat…

That song “Live Forever” is playing at top volume in the background of this shit-hole room. I’m staring around trying to remember when it was that everything turned, but even if it could be remembered, it wouldn’t change a damn thing. More bullshit, more lies, more fanciful dreamin’ to keep the disassociated from shitting the bed and making a mess. Things are already messy; what’s another few drops of blood or sauce when this dreary carpet can barely hold another ounce of liquid? There has to be some way out; even if it’s just an off switch on the way to another universe. Fuckers.

Trapped in the present and stapled to the past. What are you supposed to do with all of that? Just laugh and smile and play some fucking game like “Oh, yeah, sorry you misinterpreted. Better luck next time?” As if there is a reply to that kind of thing. I’m hot and cold, sweating and freezing with no middle ground, and yet you propose to save me with some kind of tautology baked into the center of the lines being hoovered up in desperation; there has to be something better than this. Such convoluted demarcation; clarity would ruin the effect. Answers would just be something to laugh at, like a mistaken identity on the way to check the mailbox. Nonsensical exposition. Can’t just a single one of you fuckers keep up with the terrain? I don’t mind flying solo, but ain’t there something or someone else out there with some claim to fame wrapped up in an understanding of all the thing’s I got to get rid of Maybe it is just too much to ask for.

Ecumenical daughters are fleeing for the wilds of Alaska, and I’ll never see most of the faces I spent so long memorizing again. I almost made it up there myself, only to be struck dumb in Washington State, where I left my heart and those pleasing parts of my personality that I shed like a rattler would lose his skin. If it were only that easy. Time is not on my side with this one, and who the fuck even knows what was done to piss off the Marquessa. She’s still teasing me with the idea that her curves fit into all my broken off parts, but between me, you, and the wall, I think she’s just joshing me around. It happens. Certainly not a hanging crime, more like a misdemeanor. Live and learn then do it all again, just to be sure.

Mornings like this are the flip side of the confident-competent yet misguided gesture towards the infinite pool. Fireballs racing from my spine to my hip should be enough to put me down hard, if not like the drunk at the end of his last bottle. When I meditate on the idea that the pain is as much a constant as any other part of life, I want to laugh my self-irony laugh, but nothing is coming out. I’m kinda smiling, or at least something close to that grimace-smile of a shit-show survivor playing a game requiring dice and a lot of luck. Apositional thought without so much as context. Get lost; right? Isn’t that what we’ve been trained to do ever since we first came in from the cold? Nonsensical to an extreme. I’d slit my own throat for five minutes without that slow-burning pain. That is not an option; just another joke about my dedication to the cause.

Hurting this bad; only a single cure that I can think of. The right music mixed in with the powdered hope-root curative should be enough to get me through the next little while. There’s always the poet, but only when things get right again. That shit is too strong to play with when I’m feeling like roadkill without the pleasures of the moments after impact. It doesn’t bother me in the traditional sense of the term, just more fuel for the fires that will eventually burn everything down. The reflections of the flames will be intense, like feeling something real enough to shatter the old gray rocks jammed into all the doors nad windows. Someday after the rain when you see the light come down and bathe everything until it glows you’ll no it’s safe to come back out into the open. Shards are what we have now. After the falling rocks, it’ll just be more powder.

I gave up eating because the food all tasted the same; somewhere between old shoe leather and baby food. No man can be sated on such a diet, and any calm established by the holy circumstance is lost in the movement of time. Stripped and searched, it’s time to move on to the elucidation of another chance at hope. Don’t get me wrong; I’d drop every last bit of the consternation towards fate for some answers, or, as I said earlier, a measured reduction in pain. Failing that, I’ll keep hold of the red-hot knife and jam it in a little deeper and a little harder, scalloping the flesh along my hip into bloody chunks of abject containment. Tiny nerve endings buried benath skin and fat dart in and out of the cavities polka-dotting my spinal cord, pushing up against scar tissue leftover from one or two laminectomies that fixed not a goddamned thing. Fucking useless mechanics in lab coats. Can you blame them? I cant, as much as I want to. They are just doing what any other red-blooded American would do under such circumstances. Keep it coming. Ain’t anything else left to say.

Now it’s an impostor posing as Leonard Cohen with a big orchestra. Finally, elementary success. Laying back and listening to the impostor sing, the music pulls me far enough that another kick to the chest should get me where I need to be. What, did you think this has something to do with real life? Never in a million years. This is just a tactile record of the morning I woke up with all kinds of metal already buried. I could use some help, but am content to do it myself. Saxophones and soliloquy all in one, as the pain rolls on. The empty room almost shouts. “What difference do you think it makes?” Another piece of rationale; how much longer I got? I think Leonard Cohen said it best when he sang

“When they said repent
I wondered what they meant”
(l. cohen “The Future“)

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