Thursday, June 28, 2012

sorrow is my only trashcan

            Mr. Bing’s is the kind of place you walk by and there’s only one guy in there. And it’s the bartender. And he’s shaving in the bar mirror. Some people claim to have had a good time there, once or twice. But me? Well, every time I’ve been there it’s been an absolutely miserable experience. Just glancing in there is usually enough to drop my spirits and scare up some vomit. But for some reason I keep going back. And they hate me there. That’s very clear. There should probably be a picture of me on the wall reading, “DO NOT-- WHATEVER YOU DO-- DO NOT SERVE THIS MAN!” There isn’t though. So, well, they keep serving me, probably to their own detriment. 
            I am not infallible when it comes to matters of technicality, at least in the supposition of hard drink. I take on a persona non grata, if only just a hint, only on the occasions where an out-of-my-hands attitude shovels my better half farther than below, and I’m not shifty about placing blame in scenarios where I am granted a lucky fistful of anything but common sense. So, well, you’ve got to take the good with the bad, I guess.                                    
            “Glad to be of service, shit for brains.” 
            “I don’t get even. I get mad.”
            “Ornery Neil Diamond fans can go take a shit in a lake, for all I care about it.”
            “Just another McDonald’s commercial. Take it or take it.”
            “Jesus. Somebody hit the eject button. I’m done.”

            I had something wonderful in my life, and now it’s gone, and I miss it. Is that so hard to understand? Everything hampers me. Roads kill the meek. Inheritance bucks and anchors more or less deadbeat with hard-to-master strums of luck. I’ve lived on Assassination Street for too long.
            Fountains of old age splash the Paris right out of me. I want discipline and rooting fans and jaunty cocktail waitresses. What do I get? Loveless old lace spiked with arsenic, just unlike the movies. 
            Pages and pages of phone numbers inked in the margins of kept library books. Dancing around loopholes. I am carried and sputtering. If love is something to fall in or out of, well, then it’s been corroded and bandied around without much solving going on. Clacks grandly, I say of it. I am indebted to the chase. The company I maintain. They are dropping bowling balls upstairs.
            Something good descends, or is on its way, or it mangles itself into rotini.
            “For the best, if a corner turns on itself.” 
            Tricky stuff, the things a burp struggles to say. Hard to be half of what was never whole, in sudden instances ranked as brutal. Sham sweepstakes results. Tracking codes gone for a spell. Instances of bioluminescence shallow in what’s gone and rounded on back. There’s a trailing mercantilism lobbying for less justice and more dough. I get botched in the midst of it, somehow. An instance of spontaneity spurned in hopes of something sooner, more direct, possibly tuned to sudden, immediate gratification-- or a farrier’s charming touch quickly whipped into shape. Boom time is upon us.
            Count, spell, sit in traffic, get out a calculator and tilt it towards the sun. Truth at times shuttles, slides, or defectively wields an aegis of counterproductive blather. There was some advice once that went something like, “Don’t get in the car with it. Lock all the doors from the outside. Desecrate its license plate with flowers.” And then you find out, on your own, that it’s difficult, dreamy, and rain won’t wash it away. And then you don’t find out anything. And then? Well, right about now it is stolen property. You can only keep your fingers crossed for so long. 
            “A cichlid for your thoughts.”
            “Good. A circus avoided. Out of the safety net. Born from fire to fire. I only inch along, and then there’s that just-married scrawl of shaving cream on the back window of a pickup, and so I flinch and I fumble my last giclée of hope into the bog of here-we-never-were.”
            “That’s more than not enough.”
            “Every ‘so’ is often found malingering with a wily ‘no.’”
            You test questions out. You merge the ping of aluminum with lightweight neural action potentials. You greet mourning street sweepers with toroidal fortitude and tightly coiled handkerchiefs. You giggle in horror. Observatories built in thin, clean air. Strange egg-shaped swirls. Red shifts of insignificant galaxies pull you away from somebody else’s etcetera. The amplitude of primordial fluctuations, hot gas filaments between clusters, the fraction of mass in visible matter, and all of us basking in the afterglow of the beginning of the universe.
            “For the observed magnitudes we expect to find no arcs over the entire sky as bright.”
            Not well heard.
            Refractions count for something. Seven identical Wolter-1 mirror modules, each containing 54 nested mirror shells. Hell, there must be some room for indecision. More room for heaven scouted on the outskirts of cluster IDCS J1426.5+3508, busy bending and twisting light in a strange blue arc, for now.
            There is something dreadful left here, pitting around in my stomach. I don’t know what to do with it. Where can it go? What’s to become of me? I could walk longer, invest more time in carving up my personality, or maybe join forces with a wedge of geese. There’s no telling what could happen. Things could get better. The universe could start contracting. Also, I could plead indifference. But nobody believes that. Nobody.
            Please stand clear of the closing doors.