Thursday, March 12, 2015

Journal 56 - Ragged Promises

I'd like to wag my ragged tail at the smiling crazy
man in the window drooling because he just took one
more tab of ecstasy. I laugh and take another sip of
the wine - hoping to find out what is true and what
is fake. But like Yael I make every possible mistake -
dirty dishes with fish and truffle oil saturated in the
sink soaking in their own fetid pheromones, delaying the
olfactory explosion in the morning when my exasperated
tethered wife will explode herself into a Mariah Carey
high-C assault of piercing tones for neglect of promised
husbandry. The women of Africa sing me to peace with
the gold-dust spider in the corner of the porch - such
a valuable abdomen this Rumplestiltskin spider has -
I'd like to shape shift but at least the chromophomatic
acrobatics of the chameleon or backyard lizard will
do, transforming my ubiquitous white skin into a light
Mediterranean blue. Perhaps I should overdose on my
Amiodorone. The beard is turning greyer with each
passing heartbeat. Soon with the proper dosage of
Amiodorone I can audition for Papa Smurf. Sing Mali
Sina Deni I'm Free, like the lotus and the flower - free
to preach the suffering path to evacuate and evaporate
from all suffering. Cucumbers and white truffle oil
are like cocaine, more infiltrating but only slightly less
potent to the balance of the soul. I mean you Mr. Pickle!
Ah but The Nurse chants Le Tshephile Mang and my
a-fibrillating soul dances in the songs of the night-time
music of the ocean and the wind and the moon pulling
its weight like a giant horseshoe magnet. I don't think
being a backup singer is the worst fate in the wold
where so many don't know and don't care who Ken
Lewis or Tim Geithener(?) are. California and France are
fornicating in a mulatto blend in my mouth, the western
Cabernet and the Parisian-esque champagne blend well
enough in the night after all pretensions are dismissed
and discarded left only with swollen fingers and toes
left bare in the falsetto heat of another intoxicated
showdown. Promises are back doors left unlocked and
defenseless waiting for the glass to be broken and shattered.


5.20.09, 2

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