the musicality of everyday life

Day two of rain on my face. Harder rain, colder rain. Less enthused about it. Wednesday’s unraveling of the week’s semblance of sanity. Sameness shakes through the bones. What is today from yesterday and next week. Listen to epic chanting bands as blood pools in useless sitting legs. Message light on phone appears without phone ringing. It’s a mystery I don’t want to solve. Remember to stand and walk around. Vacate vocation. Evoke smoke. Dream a little longer in the morning, don’t let time thieves tear it away. Afternoons of fast guitar picking on taut strings of sudden tendons stretched and longing. I wouldn’t believe it if I didn’t hear it. There is nothing here anymore.

to me, it’s not better than the weather

Waning, waxing, waning, waxing: the rush and the push of mood from hour to hour to day to day to week’s end and to the moon. Reading F. K.’s diary night by night…sinking fast in the horror bog of familiarity. A morass of similarities. [Will I also get TB. Where’s my Swiss sanatorium.] Writing, not writing, writhing, writing, not writing, the endless breakers rising and crashing against this battered cranial jetty. The crushing repetition of my own inspiration. Heat’s ebb and flow, the dying summer exhales rank and humid rattle-breaths as it’s painstakingly strangled by the coming fall. An ugly death, for sure. The work not done around here could fill a hundred empty trucks, on standby, prepared to haul off a life’s accumulated evidence of avoidance. I, the weather-crazed architect, survey an empty expanse of years, so carefully orchestrated, so carelessly implemented, and on every day I rested. And on every day I rested. And on every day I…clamp down on the cause of defeat with mighty waxen jaws, summer’s flame licking holes in their false walls. Caving in on itself, everything is. Last night again was epic dreams I failed to describe accurately in my journal. Just weak fluid flowing from my pen, sketching a toothpick framework for what is becoming dangerously close to more exciting than what I describe here. That is, intricate nothingness. That is, blank walls of clear shellac taped off and rollered with exquisite care, attention paid to the most glaring lack of any details…a veritable Sistine Chapel ceiling of nonexistence. So proud I am for the big unveiling. [Sound of emergency exit door slamming shut.]

Now I drink yerba mate out of a wooden gourd. Now I reflect on how cigar-smoking guy had a lady friend with him today. Not a loner for long. They sat in those weird half-chairs that have no legs. Just a seat and a back and nothing else, maybe arms. What will they think of next. Cigar-smoking guy was not smoking a cigar. His bike was there, but his lady friend must have walked. I sat on the other side of the locust trees flipping through some literary journals I’m supposed to review. The air felt drained of moisture. This pleased me. All around, bands of men in monkey suits capered about in the grasping thralls of machismo, no doubt bandying their latest conquests in the spheres of sex and business. Strip off their power suits and we would all laugh. Or would we cheer. Or arrest. Recall the Naked Rambler. Corporate embrace of full nudity: I’d like to see it. Level the playing field. No more power coursing through expensive Italian fabric. I’m nude, you’re nude, let’s close this deal and go get drinks. High fives all around. See you at the bar.

tell me about the time something occurred

Shifty drifter adrift in drifting shifts. The hot pavement hard today, so hard to get across. Everything spelled backwards, eyelids sweating, shifty drifters drifting across my bow. Ahoy, drifter! Bugger off!! No ninety degree turns permitted across the double yellow line! i scream in my small voice. i can never be loud, not in sound, at least. Except when i screamed at the battered microphone those few years. i miss that. Where’s the release now, huh. You bastards. Why the always taking everything away. Where’s the return on my investment. What did i ever do to you except ignore, hate, mock behind backs…okay, okay, i get it. i’m not perfect. But i still need to scream. Maybe it’s time to start another punk band. Or carry my milk crate to a new street corner. Where’s my soundproof padded cell for the hurling against walls and the uncontrollable shaking inside. Eight ball corner pocket! Every day is the same. Why is that. Why can’t something happen. i used to make things happen, i think, used to do…things. i remember it like yesterday, or maybe last week. Before the paralysis set in. Yes, before all that. The liquid latex hardening in my veins. The city crushing and shredding. i haven’t submitted anything for publication in months. Fuck it. The entire process stabs at you with slow dehumanizing thrusts. Why should i spend so many of my dwindling hours hunting down tiny unknown publications run by hotshot MFAs only to grovel on the dusty ground before them, eyes averted, my crappy poems clutched in my clackity-clack claws. i might as well just be ripping my bloody heart out and handing it to them instead. To which they’d inevitably respond…

“Dear Writer, thank you so much for sending us your heart. While we enjoyed palpating it, and certainly its slightly swollen left ventricle gave us pause, in the end we didn’t feel that it pumped the right blood type for this particular issue. Best of luck with placing your heart elsewhere. We hope you will consider submitting some of your other organs to us in the future. “

Seeking publication drains all the fun right out of writing. Now i know why Annie Dillard retreated. So much to read! she said. No more time for this frivolity of publication. Maybe i’ll start making zines again. Or just keep typing in this box when the mood strikes. Hug the dictionary to my sunken chest. Scribble dreams in my notebook. Climb into the crow’s nest at Fort Futility and curl up in a ball with my word blanket wrapped tight around me.

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