Wednesday, July 21, 2010

extended-release form crucifixion

That noise I made was inappropriate. Don’t listen to such things. Don’t pay me any mind. I’m just practicing my poor-man’s ukulele during office hours: a miniature tennis racket with very pluckable strings. It makes time pass, though time would pass anyway I suspect. It’s hard to know these things for sure.

I flatter myself with suppositions as to the true nature of reflection. The rudimentary aspects of mood, daunting indifference, pages of unread letters, a tenseless love for reiteration and madcap lessons in saintliness. Do not want. This is what I tell myself on long, dull, menacingly slow afternoons. Just be. There is no end to the present; it follows one with stingy footfalls; it becomes itself all the time--a constant leaky trickle above the clogged drain of the past.

A woman here said to me, “Jesus. Jesus. You must accept him as your personal savior. Can you do this? Huh? Can you? I dare you. I double-dog dare you! Accept Jesus as your personal savior. Repent! God damn it! Repent!”

I thought, ‘Is she warbling or wobbling?’ Her dewlap was most certainly doing some jiggling. It was like watching the scrambled screen of a Pay Per View Channel I hadn’t paid for. Sometimes life is like that. I thought, ‘By jingo!’ It was a loud thought, but it didn’t scare me so much.

People were praying on the sofa. At first I’d mistaken it for a divan. But, as I gave it a twice-over, I realized that I was wrong in this generalization. A clear head was needed. I began to wonder if a couch would make a better place to pray, or maybe a bed? It was possible. I chalked it up to half-a-dozen of one or three-times-two of another. Blessed was the whole situation, I do believe.

Caustic remarks will not be tolerated. A few triggers of regret might slip in, but right away they will be plattered with teacups and beach sand. Getting a grip, a few people in here whispered about Moses. They proceeded to slap each other until a good lesson was felt to have been learned by all involved. “Tee hee,” laughed the widow, “I will not be underfed until the sea meets the ocean.”

Tramps sweep the front steps with greedy brooms. Outstretched arms with palms up--that is how they pray--make others feel either ambivalent or chickenshit. “You must give of yourself,” says the over-sexed Pilates instructor. “Feel at home with what you can always afford to not have. Bite snakes. Take time to be irrational. The dimes add up. The favors grant themselves. Be lax with your fortune if you can. Bend. Hide. Retract. Piss me a river.”

The yuppies come here for supper. Before eating they place their hands in a washbasin filled with rosewater, making sure to remove their rings and bracelets first. The Cosby Show will play on the television. It makes everyone laugh, even the butlers and henchwomen. “Reruns are for suckers,” cries the Holy Ghost. “Want all. Waste all.”

“I will not kiss you. My lips were made for daffodils only.” That’s what I heard the house paramour gibing about with the Evil Loch Ness Sailor. They danced directionless. North, South, East, or West is lost on most dinner guests. We strive for circles but end up with motley wends of amorphous shape. The sailor quips, “A kiss is never a kiss until it is kissed.” Nobody tries to retrace their steps.

Somewhere a dog hunts his superiors down and feeds them to hushed kittens. A horse is made into a radish. A ball of chewed gum is thrown at a burglar. “Felons! Make amends! Amen!” screams the venomous ex-uncle of the bourgeois. Nobody is scared at all.

Clamps keep us down. I do not mean to make errors in my nonjudgmental opinions. It is just those clamps, those vices of virtue, which hold us pressed to our fear. “Fear all!” scolds the breadwinner. “We have not made even an ice cream cone yet.”

Dessert happens in heaped-on helpings of affected scolding. I do not pay attention to the pace of fortune. I make disgruntled burping sounds at the end of the table. I clean my fingernails on the tablecloth. I sit bowlegged and yawn gratuitously. I earn a discount on forgiveness.

The dishes stacked. The silverware rattled. Dancing became a factory-made necessity. I grabbed a paunchy stout kid named Lewis and threw him against the armoire. A few panes of dismal glass broke. Some china was chipped. My foot fell from grace. I decided to eat some odors. It was not the wisest of choices. A clatter of stampeding gaurs rambled by. A clay clown figurine exclaimed, “Gadzooks!” All present were relieved by this. While nobody was looking I made a dash for the crapper.

The toilet runs. My hands tremble. There is a mild threat of retaliation from the hard-nosed bible humpers. The door, locked for my safety, resounds with blows. I make haste. There is nothing good to come from this. A leap from the window? The guards would have me dismantled before my batteries had a chance to refresh. I will sit down. The toilet seat is cold. I have premonitions all the time, but this is not one. A voice rends my thoughts, “Do not flush away your soul. We know what you are doing in there. Stop this madness at once!” I relive my childhood. It is nothing but blunted bursts of electricity. Somebody read to me.

I was not made for nights like these. My circuits are irreconcilable with despair. I do not want these thorns of things. I do not want this wayward soul. Get me to a place where I can arrange all sources of light, where I can make that light flattering to me. Kindness repays itself. That’s what the gardener told me. My exit has been misconstrued.