Thursday, May 23, 2013

Suicide Notes Of Fictional Characters #4

 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,

            -- BB