Saturday, June 20, 2015

Journal 73 - Marinated Thoughts Dying Like Roaches

After a three year drought, I began again with these silly songs.

Once it seems I noted each and every thought that
floundered in my brain, marinating for a day or a
second - no matter. I still recorded the lame
limping ideas like a dutiful stenographer. These thoughts,
these plaster thoughts are now cracked and broken,
wide like a drying lake in need of rain and
dry proof caulk. Only they receive liquid in the
form of wine, blood red wine fit for a two-
cent vampire. There is no restorative power lurking
in the foot-stamped vine. Ideas dry up, leaving deep
caverns that tempt but yield nothing but dry air,
hot dry air, choking and claustrophobic - stuck
in the dry cracked caverns of my alcohol dehydrated
mind. No flame burns for me; there is no ember
slowly glowing in the bottom of my soul - I am
drenched in wine and tears and mine and mine,
not yours. Hope dawns they say in the waking
moments of each day, granting us another trial to
reconstruct and reattach the broken bones of what
we de-throned & deconstructed in the previous
cilantro day. Many mouths are cleaned and purged
with the testament that is cilantro - I need a
cilantro bath for my gorgonzola soul. My thoughts
are dying roaches, on their broken backs wriggling
and eliciting pity in your kind saucy souls - striving
for one more attempt at impressing you with their
resiliency - to economic mildewed mattresses, to children
and their ever present selves, bundles of unbridled
regurgitation of their small world, their brilliant
colorful small world, impressing you with their unnatural
ability to soothe you when quiet and absent. Quiet
absence is the seduction of the daemonic voice inscribed
on your dehydrated cortex. This wine is dry and
cheap, but there is a bottle. It feels good to drink
again, even in the sights of my executioner. I have
a hole in my heart, carved recently through the
attempt to make my strange heart plain. I welcome
dry, decayed thoughts as notes from an antique violin -
lifting my insecure world from its misappropriated sin.


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