Archive for November, 2012

Little Poor Me 5

The warp and weft of who we are and who we want to be:

Who we are is the strong, taut framework over which we stretch the idea of ourselves, until the two form a seamless, flowing cloth we wear when in good company, and bad, or alone.

But it’s all there.

The idea of ourselves is only ever held in place by the reality of ourselves which created it. The reality of ourselves is only ever kept from unravelling into chaos and madness by the careful pattern we call our identity.

This is the warp and weft of who we are, and who we want to be.

Nothing of this is bad: it’s human, and fine, and necessary. We can’t survive as pure animal reality, or untempered ideal. Each one tells a lie to the other, and so settles a truth between the two.

It’s the balance that matters.

Living life in a spare bedroom. I feel like a guest in my own brain.

That’s not me in the mirror. That’s some thing. Some terrible idea of a person, roughly packed into a mockery of the approved shape and style of humanness.

Those aren’t my words leaving my lips, and they’re not my ideas entering your ears. They’re just the quivering of genetic acids filthed through chance, packaged by time and place, and sold to you courtesy of the good people at General Electric.

It’s a dream fucking a nightmare.


But I’m doing alright. Nothing much. You?


Regret and hurt are the household gods I carry with me out of the house each day.

The those that done to you, and the that you’ve done to others. It’s the simple equation with the difficult math.

Given enough time, it becomes a spiral-shaped difficulty to remember if I hurt, or was harmed; if I acted out of self-defense, or was taking punishment for wrongs I inflicted.

I hit him, he came at me. Hysteron proteron.

It’s difficult to tell the cart from the horse, anymore.

It’s difficult to know why it matters.


Make plans and keep them; make promises and break them. Wear away your welcome, while there’s still a welcome to wear. You’ve made a bed somewhere, so sleep in it, or not. Or you haven’t, and don’t.

Those may be the only choices you really have.

This may only be the idea of a life, but it’s the only real idea we have of life at all. Everything here is fiction, but everything else is fantasy.

That’s why it matters.

It matters because it is.

Life limped its way into the most important thing we have, because it was the only candidate.

And we’re still trying to vote for something else.


So stain the world; it’ll wash out.

We’re the idiot-wanderers of the universe; regretful heirs to nothing in particular; drifting, ever drifting toward wine-dark sleep.

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A Ferocious Missive, Written From the Basement of My Brain

Friends and well-wishers: Go away.

You have more important things to do than to worry about me. And you’re already doing them.

I don”t mean to draw your attention to me — but I do. I always do.

It’s hard not to be the most important thing in my life. After all: I’m me.

What an entire shit it all is.

What a strange and stupid struggle.

What did we do to deserve such an interesting life? There were other possibilities less interesting that deserved more attention.

All of these are in-the-moment observations designed to keep the reader abay of the thing which is actually bothering me:

I miss the me who used to be me.

The realization is that that me was who he was because he was with another person.

I know: you’re crying a concerto of who-gives–a-shit? for me.

Luckily, very small finger movements of mine make small black scratches on a white space, which are words on digital non-paper, and they exist whether you read them or not.

Until the very moment I post this, I’ll be thinking about deleting it,

She exists completely in my mind, except for the fact that she’s real.

It must be nice for her to know she has her own life entirely more dimensional than how I think of her. But, to be honest I don’t think of her.

I only think about her.

I can only think of an idea. The reality is too painful.

People are too real. Why do they insist on being so real?

A while later:

I’m making chiasmic tap-tap patterns on my desk with my glass of bourbon. Tap-tap left. Tap-tap up. Tap-tap right. Tap-tap down. None of this makes a difference.

My tics are legion, but hidden little things.

Lines and pines is all I’m good for.

Care and leeway is all I want.

My thoughts are no more than barm, and my soul is no more than lees, and only alcohol separates the two.

Oh, who has a soul? Not me.

Souls are for the soulful.

Souls…are for the soul full.

Strutting through the telegraph rain on a city night. A radio-song heavy with history. The taste of this or that; food is life, is memory. Sleep.

She owns them all.

Sign your life’s experience over from Mine to Ours, and when Ours disappears, it takes Mine with it.

Nobody gets half of something that doesn’t exist anymore.

This whole shout is a disgrace: I shouldn’t be talking about any of it.

The thing is…

The thing is that the temple of our mind is a lonely worship. We’re always looking to expand the religion.

But am I talking about me, now? Or am I talking about Her?

Sometimes, what’s the difference?

Ah, well. Ah me, ah my.

I might as well be a child again, the way I hurt and limp and complain.

If you see me, and talk to me, I do an amazing impression of a human being. If we talk about this small and that large, know this: I’m lying. I’m lying because I’m not telling you what I’m thinking always, always.

The truth is, I’m thinking: Where is she? How is she? What is she doing?

What went wrong?

What a lone thing it is to be alone. What a careful thing it is to be full of care. What a…

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