To Any Whom Who Might Be Concerned,
Bespeak
me of moans truer than honest, and plead a mere beg above the fray. Shudder
what riddles this corpulent bag of ex-dust with pinpricks of doubt, sure, if
thy will be shameless, if thy tires be worn through and through, or if thy name
seek holier climbs than these shallow open-ended chaffings of mine. Jesus,
what’ll we come to next? Rubber machines? Tape-recorded prayers? Would the end
of the century pool promise if thy feverish spells churned bleakness to a
buttery glint of surprise, or even wonder? Laugh, sure. Go ahead. I am worth
the buff of damaged marble. I am heavier than moldy molasses. I shut dark in
closer habitats than these dank and dour caverns. I am made of foodstuffs and
chucked change.
I’ve
had it; you’d better bet.
Very
much and soon I cram my bookend life with deceit’s pleasure and other horrid
tortures of staying put. Or, dear Lord-- Oh me! Oh my!-- I am crass and so
checked by thine crummiest yoke.
PS-
The girl of my dreams just went jogging by while I sat ogling the deckle-edged
state of this tear-stained parchment. Grief? I’ve given up on it.
Back
and back to other forths, and so the swam of past strokes goes unnoticed, and
germane to all points of surrender, I slip up faster than one might suppose. I
suppose.
Dear
(I meant to put at the start) God, even with the sway of scrounging in
abeyance, even in mightier squeaking-bys, even in heart-heavy and hand-light
days, I am given to furor and mistaken-- or misplaced-- unlashed tongues of
being lonely. Give me this? Well, grant it if thou may. All of my Jehovahs are
marrying other Josephs for the umpteenth time. Be not too unduly harsh, for my
sake, in the gruel, in the mucked care, in the salivating expectant doom of
this 100-yard dash to salvation. See me as I both am and am not, as only you
could, while I trustingly abide down deeper holes than even the saddest worms
will ever know. But, you know me…so.
All’s
worse than some lighted spittle towards any better. So what’ve I so offended
with some mere spilt verbiage? Not thine omnipotent omniscient hold on things,
for sure. Not the beauty of a spurned bloom of belladonna lilies. Not the
blessed or bleeding tributaries of bleaker holdings in thy name. No. I am off
to worse things in the exiguity of time I no longer possess, but am possessed
by. Trust me? Hell, what right have I got to call thee out for such inane
feasts of promise? It is doting of the utmost class. It’s tripped and wired
differently from all I’d cling to or be flung from the heights of. Or, maybe I’m just as delusional as the
rest of them. God knows, you know?
Of
course. Of course.
Willing,
be it as it might not be or should be, to shrill the echoing rise of grumbling
from these depths, I plow holy in my native joy. And in the between of the
toasting of sobriety, I un-take the planning steps of these humbling and
fright-filled stages of hulking wonder and traipses of kudos-less courage.
Readying my baser instinctual zeniths for an eventual plummet, I’m just
browsing about in the lost nadirs of squandered inadequacy, not looking to buy
or sell any wiser knowings just yet. So, whose propositions are being abolished
now? A union of hybrid causes. A cloak of foreign magnanimity shoved deeper
into the dingier holes in which one could possibly find the lost reportings of
one’s more sad-stay-ominous climates. And then, as if pleading could ever
matter, I find my worst sense in such stuff as, “If anybody’s got a prayer to
spare, well, I could really use a few right now.” Nothing touches this demonic
beast inside of me who kindles jealous flames for immolation. The devil’s got
my tongue; I can taste him in every swallow.
Bemoan.
Bemoan. I know. It doesn’t suit me. I reek of ungrateful weeding and oil-soaked
rags. The sorting of feckless jabs at made-up deities grooms the fits from
these restless legs, this borrowed fashion of faith I hold to be crooked and
shapely in the same sour breath of defeat-- which, of course, is distinct and
uniquely my own; or perhaps does it somehow belong to thy puissance of random
selection that collects souls for thee as ornamental knickknacks? Bemoan. Blah,
blah. Bemoan some more. Holiest of crappy days. Dear, dear. I think I will
start spraying the gardens for worms before the apples are all plucked or drop
to rot. At least boredom can be counted on, arriving more consistently than
threats through the mail slot. I am just verses chanted from a deserted beach
at sunrise, goldbeater’s skin hammered to infinitesimal thinness, a rabid dog
all out of barks, a stone, a leaf, a discarded losing lottery ticket, a
worthless buried coin. Nobody is counting on me. I just know it.
Dearest,
dearest…whoever. Damn it all. Really, damn it all for now. Think of Emerson.
Poor Old Ralphie Boy. I do. And because of this I can relate to thoughts such
as these:
‘I
must be myself. I cannot break myself any longer for thee, or any. If thou can
love me for what I am, we shall be the happier. If thou cannot, I will still
seek to deserve that thou should. It is all I can do.’
All
I can do. That is enough, right?
Oh,
and before I forget, could I get a rain check on my passing? You see, I haven’t
been late to supper in years, and my egress is still badly timed, and with all
this freshly added weight sagging upon my already unpromising burden of
exile…well, it’s just a giant no-go blown beyond any proportions I’d ever care
to conceive of, here or in any other where. Well, my contusions of doubt
proceed me, I guess. Thy name, written and never spoken, it seems is still
hallowed around here, while mine whistles hollow as reeds in a dry wind.
Proportions be damned. I am using disgrace’s wings to flap a bit closer to the
moon.
Please
do not doubt my sincerity.
(sentiments
not included)
Quite
possibly yours and yours alone,
SR
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