Friday, April 3, 2015

Journal 60 - Plato, Goethe and Frogs

What if my IQ were 195 rather than [what it is]?
Would I behave any differently, do anything differently
with my life? Would I too be a bouncer for 20 years
while working out some new theory of the mind/body
problem? Or would I just sit and read Virgil in Latin
and Plato in Greek, Goethe in German and Baudelaire
in French? What about the Russians? Are they worth
an absence from the calculus of the mind? Fortunately
(perhaps) these thoughts are about as relevant as my
own licking of my balls like some strangely contorted
dog. Desire is asleep under the house with the leaks
and the fungus and the skeletons of trapped cats sinking
in the soil with bone white softeners. My draperies are
stuck in Idaho with the corn and the potatoes, stuck
in a farmer's converted truck looking for the next big money
maker since our crops are out-sourced like our location.
I am lost in the den of my house on the other side
of the river where the trees fell in ancient burials of
the neighborhood. Replaced by melodramatic hysterical
giggling wall-eyed women and red-eyed man strafing
like a burnt ass on a desert walk with no underwear.
Each time I glance past my glass door shielding me from
the wind and the rain and the sun and critters I
see the shadow and outline of a man in the night
smiling with bleach white teeth holding a sword in
his covered hand, then disappearing with the flash
of lightening and explosion of thunder. He'll return
next to the rain-happy snails, homeless in their own
crashing economy, and the glass-adhesive frogs clinging
to the door and the light like the last stand of a
jilted bride meandering into a Bat-mitzpah. The throat
of the frog flutters like a eukaryotic heart pumping
everything throughout the thin near transparent skin
of his squishy body. How many squishy deaths of
frogs and snails occur each night after a rain? There
is no record or names of the dead. The day we count
the names of the dead of the distant frogs and slugs
is the day I recline on the beach and piss at the sun -
dispensed with taxonomic equality, drowning in lesser fun.


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