Not returning calls. Not responding. Even if I want to. Sitting there. Looking at things. Like tobacco. Or dirty dishes. Or change on the floor. Waking early. Five. Six a.m. Upright after. Brush the teeth. Rub my eyes. Consider laying down again. Two hours. Three hours. That’s all I get these days. The head isn’t working. In a half state. Lot’s of shit to do. Stare at the computer. Read lines over and over and over and over. Irritable. Tight lipped. Not bitter. Pretty happy. Broke. Not afraid. But broke. I can fix it. Good feeling. Pick up comic book. Read a few pages. Turn on the computer. Stare.
I shouldn’t be going to New York again so soon. But i am. Try to use the USB modem to get connected. Too slow. Fight the score for a while. Get up. Go to the gas station to buy cigarettes, two snack sized bags of cheese-its (white cheddar and hot and spicy) and three hot dogs. Feel shame when the guy asks me if I want a bag. On the way home I think to myself. I’m carrying my Saturday in plastic bag. I feel sick.
Get home. Eat chips. Share chips. Finish dishes. Lay the knives and forks out on a towel – perfectly spaced like a surgeon. Makes me feel good. Don’t give a shit why. Do the same with glasses and plates. Do it in stages. At a leisurely pace. Let them soak. Walk away. Saturday. No scrubbing. Feel they will do a biography on me someday. Chachi The World Renown Dishwasher. Amazing method. The Secret. Dry it. Put it on the table. One by one. No need to put the pile away after they reach a nice state of sparkle. I have two loads of clothes still folded up in the laundry bag. It’s good to be king.
Sit down. Smoke. Don’t give a shit. I deserve a break today. Not Mcdonalds. I don’t like the gas station. I hate it. Get on the computer again. I’m all backed up. Ponder things. There are too many things I’ve let slip. They are there locked up all nice and fresh like in notebooks. Short phrases. Diagrams that I may or may not be able to decifer. Thoughts I may or may not have the energy to impart or explain. Ever.
Staring contest star who stares for the love of it. There’s a blip that registers. Back there. Weird. Not responding. Or returning calls. Even if I want to. Blah. Shit. Crap. Glory. Hallelujah. Today I saw a girl in short white stretch pants who seemed to have no qualms or care for the way her ass proclaimed it.
I don’t like crying in bars. The other night. Two, three people scribbling in notebooks. Little ones. Like me. I have delusions of grandeur. Me with viral vernacular. Mr. Startle Shoe Twinkle Toes aka; The Eye of Calabasas. Didn’t cry about them. Another combination of thoughts fueled by familiar feelings that go along with the toaster oven, elephants, familiar faces, old time disappointments and avoidable events.
I do some scribbling. Bathrooms, benches, walls and candle holders. I manage to write one in my note book. I do my scribbling while watching one of the nice ladies do her scribbling. i write about her doing it. Fold it up. Think about gifting it. For sex and territory. Instead I keep it. Go home. Tape it to the wall. Rip pieces from a chapbook of poems given to me by a friend – a living lady from Spain who’s boyfriend just got a new liver. Benjamin belongs to Serika. Serika belongs to Benjamin. More tape. Serika keeps the innards of my experience taped to the wall. Arson on the left. Alchemy on the right. Wednesday in the middle. Satisfaction.
Turn on X-box. Drink. More. Look at computer. Think. I’m broke. I learn some things. Figure some things that were baffling me out. Ask questions. Move slow. Self taught. Eight thirty. The solution was simple. Must be tired. Very tired.
Eyes
Heavy
Now.
These days i listen to records. Not mine. I don’t have any. Family had five records when I was growing up. Jamaicans are gangsters with automatics who do things for family and sing about his hope that Mr. Cop will let him pass. If he does his god will bless him. If not, he will kill him. This is the moment that has managed to slip between my ears as i sway in the room intoxicated and full thinking about the novelty of escape. Gangsters. I hear things. Heart things. Shot things. Belfries and startle shoe twinkle pus things. Communicating differently. Answering the question with no pontification. I say, “I don’t know”. When they speak I listen and do not offer anything by way of objection. I just “yes” when a responding which means that I’ve been living a fuck ton of a lot “no.” No has a sunny disposition.
Later. Eat third hot dog. Indian food earlier. Given to me. Grateful. I keep getting flashes of an overwhelming love for this life. Cold when I need to be but warm at the same time. Yes. Still angry. Yes. Feel myself closing up. Don’t want to. Don’t want no call. Don’t need no response.
No time. No time for anything. No time. No time for napping. Sit with window open with a hard on. Nothing is wrong. Acting strange but have clean underwear. Wearing dirty ones. The cutlery was spaced just right. In a haze but not. Tired but not. Overwhelmed but not. Very careful. With words. With humans. With everything. It is my choice.
I don’t like crying in a bar but it’s better I do than not. This thing of mine has gone on for 33 years. The first few were mindless, they say. I feel if I could remember them they would provide me with consolable bliss. The crying in the bar is not about the bar or what you are thinking. No guilt. No shame. No regret. Some drunks don’t weep about their sons. This thing of mine is huge and has had many forms of self expression. Why else would I take it this far? I adjust and try not to stop. I can’t understand why anybody else doesn’t scribble on the g.d. Walls. It doesn’t make sense to me. As far as adjustments go it’s the primary colors of good medicine.
At the end, which is now I do some light stretching and roll some loose tobacco mixed with a small percentage of ashes and smoke it. Take off my pants. Take off my shirt. Turn off the lights. Sit at the window. Pat myself on the belly. I have drawn a line through my days. My eyes are heavy. I say nothing. I say ah. I think about recent advances in modern day dentistry and the 44th known as Obama.
The End.
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