table for one…

The exorcism went well. Something about the tone of the conversation was so commonly courteous that the whole thing lent a surreal bend to the rest of the day. Seems so evolutionary, like growing up or the death of the damn dinosaurs. All that we know for sure is denouement ain’t worth the cost of the air time it’s printed on. Yet still we play consolation games as if there were some merit to the whole thing. Locked in, as it were, leaves so few options. I can say whatever I want because I can smile at whomever I want. Ain’t the same as The Road, but for the moment shove that aside because there are some questions it does suitably answer. One conversation can go so much farther on the amplified high-speed setting.

Wasn’t really my fault, except for all the choices I made. Saving grace with a smile is never easy, but this one is re-motherfucking-dickulous, and I mean every son of a bitchin’ letter. Easier to fall backward, not because of any particular trust that anyone is there to catch you, but because you already know the way down. Am I getting through to anyone yet? Didn’t think so. Write it off, it works for the bank. Let’s not change subjects in a fit of passion. Its been known to happen in my back pocket, frayed, as it were.

The follow-up survey was unnerving. Why bother reliving what happened yesterday when you already know how it made you feel? Might be my frenetic mind, jumping around instead of telling it straight. Back to the knife. It was as much the tone (just like before) that sticks between my vertebrae. Intelligent questions posed in seemingly legitimate circumstance require some kind of answer. Just what the world needs; another telescope. Everything was hedged, standing at the edge of a cliff when I looked down and saw that we were only ten feet off the ground. You know what happens next. Who turns down an easy landing in this day and age? I said easy, not free. The backs of my eyes and teeth would be the first to tell you otherwise. Madness again. Getting to be second nature.

After the checkup, pulling out the fish-hooks was much easier. With so much else to focus on, there are traps that need diffusing. This must be what the guides were thinking right before Custer made his last appearance. Can’t mourn everything forever. We’d barely have time to regret anything. Better off driving down the highway with the sound of your favorite song while you sing along, off key and slightly warping some of the lyrics but feeling like a shot-up binge junkie. Damn, aren’t we feeling good now?

Well wrecked on the floor of the great buildings, even this is temporary. Standing still enjoying a summer breeze is not something to worry about. It’s the movements before and after that cause all the problems. Watching shadows that might only seem to move while extolling the virtue of contentment; I know, seems like a farce or sarcasm, but in this case, tonal discernment can only take you so far. Always something else to add in to the mix. It can have only so many interactions, and we’re feeling good now. Swamped in by summer winds, repeated questions can wait; it might even be why they repeat. Too complex a thing to engender or reify. Hard enough to talk about.

As the afternoon sweeps away whatever is left of incandescent concerns of the morning, the blood tells me there’s a lot of strands to keep straight. After I get done reassuring the blood about issues of consignment, the cigarette I’ve been ignoring can have its say. Things are good, if hard enough to talk about.

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