Feb 22, 2009
1) The coroner proclaimed me in good health and released me. Unpraiseworthy are the ghosts that fly. I walked from 43rd street to Brooklyn in under two hours, I swear it. I stopped in exactly none bars. Conflagrations. Congregations. Morose are the ghosts that fly. I am the spectral waste that invents your congruency. I am the flavor on your cheap cheeses and rotgut. Makeshift are the ghosts that fly. They are lifting dead weight and flirting with your memories of her or him or whomever, because, clean bill of health or no, all you have is the consistency of how you look when you really lived. Glazed eyes, throat burning for a drink. Gifted are the ghosts that fly. Contemplations. Condensation. Watch the way water slides down a cold glass like it doesn't want to do anything but arrive. I am to flippant what the debutantes are to dilettante. Gone are the ghosts that fly. Gone, gone, gone.
2) The self-contained are not so tough. I'll fight every one of you bitches. Right here. Right now. I'm one cool, confident woman right now, fists clenched. I'm tighter than a boiled raisin, I swear to you now. I swear it. I'll pop right out of my skin and defend the honor I never had.
3) Watch the man work. Moves right, moves left. Strong both ways. Pioneer of the crossover dribble, gift to mankind. Every finger lifted left to fool you right outta your socks, little man. Gotcha. Condense the best of everything and you got one move. One flash of the wrist, and off to the races. Hoo boy. That is something. that there, that is something. Best that ever lived, that man. Watch him. Did you see that? That was something. Something else.
4) I can't prove anything. This is the beauty of science.
5) I'm lonely and incapable. I'm creasing my lips and condoning it. I'm very disappointed in everyone in the room. God, the forlorn have such bitter ills. I need a cigarette and how. This conversation is driving me to smoke. It is, it really is. I'm uncomfortable and unkempt. I didn't come here for self-indictment, but it did had happens. BAH. It's all the same to me at this point. What do you want to know? I'm content with contempt and happy with the empty sides of furniture. I'm unstable and forthright. Maddening, the way you coax this out of me. Yeah, I get tired of being alone, sure. Summons the salad days. Porridge days, right? Is that all? This room? Walls, wingmen, wax. The whole world, I'm sick. Sick to death of it all, but it's amazing what tolerance borne cleanses-- the soul, the body, the mind, the end. The end. No more, please. Porridge and all that or gruel. There was a story about a kid who liked gruel. It's all he ever ate and then he died hungry or something like that. Old story, old twist. Dead in the end, the end, the end. Written in the 1800s, 1900s, today-- all the same to me. I'm tired and troublesome. I'm hungry and cornered. Lash together the last of the sticks, we'll burn them and hope for the best.
6) I'm going to rearrange my possessions according to size, today. Everything I own in a row from large to small. Maybe a lot of rows. I've got some junk, but it's utilitarian junk. See this red rubber ball? It could keep a child happy. It's useful to have a red rubber ball in case a child drops by. They can play with it and you can make cupcakes or cookies. I just always cringe to think I haven't any sugar. That would make for a bad time, but the red rubber ball is here, so I am one step beyond prepared.
7) I'm prone to air guitar. I just like to rock out, man. I just do. Don't poke fun, it's a release. Just move the fingers and rock the fuck out.
8) Oh, lady, I know it. The ants are red-jealous and the contours of their bellies are growing with age. Like ours. It's late for these kinds of weird-o metafictional metaphors, so lemme cut to the ole chase, if you will: this is the end of apologies and apoplectic word fits and incorrigible behavior and sleeping on one side of the bed specifically and dour approaches to the coldness of natural behavior and swilling beer outside in the cold and filling the sailboats of time with the sands of bitterness and taking morning walks to the basketball court only to find kids out there and turning into my father and shifting my weight so often and mulling over my terrible decisions and kicking to the curb the catcalls, leers and jeers of my peers and weakening my footholds to gain attention and knowing without being sure.
9) You seen those commercials with the guys sitting in the car being all smarmy and all that? Those guys are funny, but who talks like that? Is that the end-all? Being able to always have a comeback? Is that the reason my son won't talk to me unless we talk about sports? 'Cause I've always been a listener. A thinker. Ain't no one ever known the end of the argument before it actually ends, so just shut up. I'm entitled to know where I am going with my statement just as you are entitled to tell me you 30 seconds of psychobabble too, you sonofabitch. Carry on toward the sun with all that fancy rhetoric and I'll still lean back and listen. Don't mean anyone's right. Just means that the thorns ain't cut you and the barbs ain't stuck you unless you took your dumb ass into them woods.
10) They've shot men out of cannons, sent animals to space, cured rabidly spreading diseases, angered the sea into a rage unheralded, elected presidents, invented new types of arcane motion, flown. They've flown into frenzies, created a capitalistic society, foraged for their family's food, cleaned the slates of criminals, cried foul at the foreign nations, slain. They've quarantined cities, counted their millions, courted the finest-looking damsels, sifted through shocks of gold, inherited the ideals of their parents, passed as high priests, imbibed. They've gotten drunk with power, summoned their destinies, simulated the most perilous battles, perfected their aim, cleansed the sins of man and animal with linguistics, claimed innocence despite guilt, grasped. They've fondled their wives and husbands, denied civil rights, challenged the paradigms that drove rational thought, been the caretakers of the generation's brilliant minds, climbed to the tops of the argumentative universe, clipped newspapers featuring their names, oscillated. Still, the annals time will pass them off as crooks on top of ladders, looking down on us with disdain and without mirth. They are absolutely right about us all.