Bugs Bunny’s Suicide Note
I
had a dream that you were parking cars last night, and you were parking them in
very strange places. There were few spots and cement bars and holy winks at
glint and chrome. The shimmy of spring was almost lost in the moves you made. A
chess player’s countenance you wore like an expensive mask. It soloed just a
bit, over the rim too, when I bid you hello. Raised in costumes to eat live
crickets, sporting couch-cushion aegis and toilet-paper-tube swords, we had
enough to not do, then. We lifted and clanked bathwater seidels to car horns.
Mesmerized, we took cover together on the most crooked streets we could find. I
am marking myself fragile and bucking all trends until further notice.
The
pigeons around here must be eating Cracker Jack.
If
you find me dangling, neck snapped, from the end of a rope when you open the
closet, please do not be alarmed at my clothes. Finding the right suit for the
occasion is beyond me. I think I shall choose a minimalist sartorial approach:
plaid shorts and white v-neck undershirt, perhaps some green or yellow socks,
shoeless, as always, just hanging around without a watch, white gloves still
on. Though I do think that I will run a comb over myself beforehand.
There
is no guilt to throw yourself upon. Do not worry. I have made sure of every
first and last thing. The dogs will be garage bound. The moon will be in the
meadow. The trash will be taken to the curb. I promise not to haunt your sleep,
my dear. You did nothing to encourage this. The emulation of other’s emotional
distance is only a reparation for denied handholding requests. Just wonder
about my older enemies who have been squabbled to chips over such over-hunted
issues. But, as you know, I’m not one to name names, and we never had time for
ladling out our regards, did we? Now all of our ex-companions can retaliate for
what our ex-enemies never compensated for: my life.
You
sit around all day, trying to think just one of my thoughts. I know it. And I
know it’s never too successful. I can taste the skuzzy grime and dust of your
past with every swallow. I know some things about it, still. The tree trimmers,
the snap of branches, the sidewalk’s blush, the whole sordid ordeal. I know
some things, you see?
I
had to wake up. I’m only here now.
It
is not morning rain that gets me back to Ukiah. It is not champagne in the
afternoon. It is not the chatter of seagulls or the stupid laughter of stupid
girls that compels me to voluntarily quit being me. Perhaps it is just an
uncooperative shoelace, or the missing buttons on my favorite shirt, or the
radio’s static-filled roar. Putting on clothes, such a phony attempt at change.
Alone is not a way of life; it is a slow way of dying one lost conversation at
a time-- slower than most at least. I am fit for solitary escapades only, and
so it is fitting at last to say farewell with an isolated flourish.
Commandeered courage, for a bit, I profess to access. Yes. I will never utter,
“Of course you know, this means war,” again. And for me? Well, perhaps a little
halcyon charm at last.
There
are runny tones of white slurped with gray washing carrot-colored towards what
might be up or down to any old Doc, or whoever’s around. Imperturbable and
playing it cool, the sky’s blue’s just a loony cartoon’s ruse. Look down any
rabbit hole around; you won’t find me. Hunters be damned. Nothing will come rifling for me anymore. Slide and sidle; mock and wish. I am up to every
trick not in the book.
Fuck
it. All squeamishness aside, selfish bastards take the easy way out less than
you’d think. I think. Well, this’ll have to do. Fuck it. I’m through.
That’s
pretty much all,
folks,
--
BB
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