“You’re doing a great job brain,
Driving the meat-suit…
Just killing it.”



Part 3.
I woke up...
What the **** am I doing?
That’s a bigger question than I want to face at 4 am in the dark with an urge to **** and a limp that makes getting out of bed a decision based on pros and cons:

            Pro                                 Con
I won’t **** the bed.       I have to walk.

Stairs in the dark are my nemesis.

I get up, turn on the light so I don’t stumble and fall traversing the disaster of personal space I occupy.
Middle class squalor.
Druggies live like this.
I am a druggie, so it’s fine, or so it seems.
Back to the big question- What the **** am I doing?
Nothing. Taking a ****.
I just have to get ok with the fact that I’m not going to leave anything behind. No great, unsung opera, or hidden magnum opus; no postmortem, unpolished, unpublished manifesto to find. Just sadness released and gifted to whoever should find me lying lifeless (unless it’s just something there looking for something to eat.)
(Pt4)I limp
Down the stairs one step at a time.
Bad foot down, good foot follows.
Can’t trust my fat *** to the broken ankle, but now the other legs getting a bad knee.
I’m ******* falling apart.

(Pt3cont)
It’s too **** difficult.
I just want to quit.
You’re not gonna **** yourself.
You’re too **** chicken ****.
You can’t do that to your mother, your father. You don’t love your family enough, but mom and dad are here and they don’t deserve that despair.
Sure would be nice if something else would do it. Like an act of god or a terrorist or drunk driver (but not you).
Your friend got away just a few weeks ago
and it was messy, but now it’s over for her.
Shut up dude.
Is that what you wanna do?
You’re gonna **** yourself?
Then do it... what the **** are you waiting for? The right time? You ******* *******.
What; are you too ******* scared?
Scared you might go to hell?
Or that you’re right and it’s just this one blip; and you, you lucky little ****, you only get the one shot, and it’s a blink of an eye and you’re gone; and you’re gon’ turn off the light and and never turn it back on?
Go ******* talk to a friend.
This is just the addiction again.
It goes away. (It comes back)

I don’t want to **** myself;
I’m scared I’m gonna **** myself;
Not immediately,
not imminently,
I’m just afraid I’ll lose the battle
One day
Not tomorrow,
certainly not today
But what if one of these days I can’t come up with a reason to suffer through.
Cause it’s getting harder to do.

(He sobs and screams and tells it to go but he knows it’s just sinking back into the shadows in the corner of the room)


Part 1

The part of my brain which I’m constantly fighting does not speak in language,
it knows only “do”
It does not even know “do not”

“Not” Serves no purpose
There is only do.
The lizard Brain licks its own eye as it waits for the next command.
It does not tell itself "wait,"
it just delays the pounce,
it eats bugs and does drugs
and serves only one purpose,
-Feed-
It’s not even in charge of “****.”
That takes to much cognition
How
Am I supposed to fight hunger?
How
do you turn off the need?
How
Do you tell a dragon you won’t chase it

How do you get a fiend to be free?


Part 2. I woke up at 3:54 in the morning to ask myself what the **** I’m even doing, to which I had no reply, and the dark thoughts that creep in in dark moments alone came creeping across shadows with there fingers long and scratched at the walls and wept and moaned…

It’s too **** difficult
to close the door
but the critters keep crawling in and making the interred corners there home.
Nasty little buggers,
disease ridden pests,
eating up everything,
automatons driven by “feed and fertilize”

But you can’t blame survivors for surviving
it’s all they know.
That is until they get squashed by a boot

Nobody likes bugs crawlin on their skin.
It makes you twitch and kick and scratch and freak out. A man will slap himself to **** a creepy-crawler crawling on him, he'd slap a friend without warning to **** a bug that lands on him. But the bug I’m trying to squash is the cockroach of the mind. And it’s the most cunning little ****** I’ve ever tried to slap. You ever chased a cockroach through a kitchen? - just slamming **** on the counters out of the way trying to chase it into a corner where it can’t hide from the light. You ever had one get away and so you gotta go searching through cabinets and moving boxes of cake mix and bags a of rice and packets of seasoning and other detritus until you finally discover it’s disgusting den and you see the signs of life… (mostly, that means bug **** everywhere). But the roach is rarely there, they don’t go home at night. They get out there and get to work, trying to get high.
It’s either that or home hungry, having a cry. That’s what I’m doing…

This ******* guy…

My dog is dreaming I can tell by her muffled barks and how she kicks. I wonder what she’s chasing? And where?  Is it the memeries of her ancestors hunting in packs she sees? Or is it great chases from her own past she relives. That one time she caught a bunny? Or stalking the neighbors cat, pouncing and chasing into a corner and catching and killing? Does she ever catch a squirrel in her dreams? She’s never caught one in the daytime, eyes open, on her feet. Can she imagine what it feels like? Extrapolate things? What purpose does a dream serve a dog? Or is it something they adopt from their masters; Like anxiety? Do dreams come with the imprint of human interaction or are they innate to brains? I need to go back to sleep.

(Pt4cont) He resets his alarm
A little later than before but he wants some time to dream, dream of a life where he’s not just some ******* druggie living in an attic at his parents home at 40 with no job and no life and no kids and no wife and very little will to live and even less left to give. Sweet dreams sweet Prince, you’re my favorite one, don’t tell the others, they’ll revolt and who knows what they’ll do to us when we aren’t looking.

Here comes the sun

(The screen just auto-switched from night mode to white mode. I’ve gotta go back to sleep, thanks for playing, it’s been fun. Fuuuuuck me…)

:Existential Crisis over (for now):

May 17 2024 3:54am-6:49am

~
Or migrated pod
       Or fleeing refugee
            Or corban
                  Or carbon dioxide
                       Or yubitsume
                            Or van Gogh's ear
                                 Or black Friday
                                      Or lazy evening at the carnival

                    (Tomorrow has already started)

Or free range
     Or gated community
          Or breast exam
               Or storage crisis
                    Or fallen leaves
                         Or germ warfare
                              Or temporary file
                                   Or permanent wave
                                        Or thigh gap
                                             Or physiognomy
                                                  Or soap made of heroes
                                                       Or multiplanetary living
                                                    
(There's a floating graveyard between this world and the next)

Or logical fallacy
     Or irrational number
          Or elementary analysis
               Or college guess
                    Or cardiopulmonary resuscitation
                         Or extrasensory perception
                              Or ten fingers and toes
                                   Or a dozen eggs

                  (They say there's strength in numbers)

Or fifth floor, corner room
     Or high as a kite
          Or bellwether
               Or mingled with bells
                    Or police sirens
                         Or loitering around in silent films
                              Or rule of thirds
                                   Or tombs of second-hand kings
                                        Or face in the rain
                                             Or pareidolia

(Otherwise, at first light you might be smiling...)
~

“22½ euros for a Martini,” Peter remarked, when he first scanned the menu.
“It’s not like we aren’t going to get them,” I said, “we’re not going to cheap our way to abstinence." The waiter came and I gave him my card, “Put that table on this card too, please,” (pointing to Charles’s table).

It’s a cool night in Paris and doof-doof music’s slammin’ from a stack of Mackie DJs. It’s about 53°f, but they have those umbrella heaters at every table and other heaters that blew warmer air on the dance floor (maybe not a great idea). Peter and I have a table on the terrace, out under a muted, light polluted starfield.

We danced, we debated the issues of the day, like, when will Taylor dump Kelcie and what were the best Oscar movies? (We chose ‘Poor Things’ and ‘Past Lives’). We ate Steak au Poivre with Red Wine Sauce and then we danced some more. We were having fun.

But when a party turns into ***** mayhem it’s time to leave - or is it? Watching the shadowy edges of things, I asked Peter, “It’s getting CrAzY, wanna go?”
“It’s just getting interesting,” he answered.
I squinted at him, was he serious? I couldn’t tell - martinis scramble my amygdala.
I decided to flow with it. “Ok, freak, get me another then.” I said, calling his bluff, and sliding my glass his way.
As he left for the bar, I glanced at my watch, 2am. It felt like 10 pm to us American east-coasters.

I looked around and Charles and Chinthia (Mrs.Charles) were laughing and chatting away.
‘You GO, old people,’ I thought - not unkindly.
Peter came back, two martinis in one hand, snapping pics with the other.
“Stop!” I barked, holding my hands up like I was fighting off paparazzi, “stop!”
I’ve learned things, like how, in early pics, when we arrive at a party, I look like Mary Poppins - but in end-of-party pix l look like Norma Desmond. Peter doesn’t see it  - but I do.

I sipped at my new drink - It tasted sour and bitter as sin - I made a face. Peter cackled like a villain in a low budget flick. “It’s a Winston Churchill,” he reported knowingly, “they were out of vermouth.”

When the bar runs out of vermouth, it means something. I pressed the walkie-talkie app on my watch and asked Charles, “You guys ready to go?” He didn’t look around but gave me a thumbs-up just before they rose.

My mom and (step)dad have joined us, at Grandmère’s, for this vacation. I was gleeful, at first, but it’s like my mom hasn’t noticed I’m not in high school anymore - that I grew-up in their three-year absence. I get pressed when she thinks I’m slouching, rearranged when my hair’s out of place and shown a pained, icy face if I order a martini.

She’s piercing the membrane of my privacy and expecting obeisance! I tried to explain it, like an adult. “There are multiple value systems,” I gently reminded her. My Grandmère even suggested Peter move into his own room. Luckily, Peter and my rooms adjoin and she put my parents on another floor (in the suite she grew up in).

I’m secretly afraid they’ll be up when we get in, that it’s 10pm for them too and I’ll get ‘the face.’ I told Charles about my situation and he said, “Look, she’s missed you, she’s just lavishing you with attention, she’ll relax,” but his oceanic optimism seems.. hopeful. We’ll see ??

Oooh~ I Caught the tail end
of the tail trail
back from the parade,
coming from Canal zig-zagging
back the back way,
(maybe south, no north…)
to Bourbon St;
and the tail trail promenade
was full of talent on display,
and temptation,
and it was passing
right. in . front of me.
A veritable smorgasbord
of bad decisions one could make.
A circus Maximus of humanity,
in Grecian magnitude;
this bacchanal goes rolling
through the streets every year,
and this year it’s encircling me.

^Rocking This Sweet *** Suite^

Boppin’ around the outskirts of town,
With bottle o’rotgut, a limp, and a smile,
Wearing a thin coat of mornin’ sunrise
to cover the patina of Stale *****
and gutter dew,
in his Gutter-Suit
and a Pair o’ boots,

Is man of means
(if only “means well”)

On sabbatical from livin hard;

Taking it extra easy
this very evening,
and looking for something to do.

^In the Big Easy^

“Take it Eeeeasy,
Take it eeeeaeeasy”
he sings to himself softly,
and then - to no one in particular
in his purview -
“I been livin’ hard my whole ******* life,
trying to prove I ain’t got nuttin’ to prove,
and all I got for all it took
is a whole lotta ******* nothing-to-lose.
Man I gotta figure it out,” he muttered,
swaying slightly under the *****.
“This ol back’s only gotta a few seasons left,
dude. We gotta come up with something new.”
He reaches back with his right hand
and places his fist in his back,
knuckles to his right hip,
as he limps a shuffled cadence
favoring his unhealed broken ankle,
which lends his pace
a meandering sashay
of someone strutting,
and belays a a bit of class in its stance,
with his arm held out of view,
much akin to the prideful rigid reserve
of a French maitre’d,
but with a derelict sheik
uncommonly seen.

“Otherwise it’s broke street,
on the corner of no-go rd,
and you know what that means.
Yes you do…
You gotta big brain buddy,
why don’t you use it to maybe do something good for you?”

There is no response…

He looks weathered in a way
that only rough living can wear on a man -
leathered skin,
wrinkled brow,
creased crows’ feet at the corners
of his bright gray blue eyes
(eyes that seem unsettling, at first glance
• almost animal •
due in part to a golden yellow ring
around his pupils,
and a wild flitting movement
as if he’s constantly seeing someone unknown
entering into his view;
But this wild-eyed creature turns
uncannily human,
as soon as someone
willing to listen more than a minute or two
gets caught in his gaze
and locks eyes for the first time;
And let me tell you,
it does something to you.
That gaze is magnetic,
and his hard scrabble appearance
is softened and sweetens
when he’s looking into you.
It’s not something that’s common these days
(steady eye-contact, that is),
what with all the distractions
we’ve entrenched ourselves in
with our phones and computers
and near constant stuff to do.
But his eyes are soft,
and  welcoming and it’s hard to not believe
he means no harm.
So, despite his appearance,
most people don’t shun him,
as people are often wont to do
when confronted by poverty
and personal suffering-
but he doesn’t wear that as armor,
as many of the indigent community will;
he simply lived what he was given
and doesn’t complain,
“Cuz, what good would it do?”  
He’s profoundly joyful
in his demeanor,
and He’ll tell you why if you let him,
cuz he’s “playing with house money
everyday he wakes up”
and he’s “still gotta a lot o’ livin’ to do!”

As he shuffles along the the shaded city streets
Every now and then, he stops
And squats,
Puts his hands on his knees
And props himself up.
He looks
like he might be having a heart attack,
but his back just hurts
(like it always does),
and he just needs a second
to let it breathe.
Once it’s released,
he pops back up, and continues about his way, spry for a man his age
but still brittle and broken
and whistling the blues.

I'm bleeding.
I know, I know.
Silly of me to talk about myself.
But I'm bleeding.
Paper towels and trails of blood
won't cover the way I felt.
It's embarrassing...
The blood on the floor.
But you did... hurt me...