Thursday, May 16, 2013

The Sad Nincompoop Of Post And Jones

            People around here just keep voting against their best interest. Something moneyed folks tell ‘em they need. But they don’t. Not ever.
            People around here stink of feebleness. Mushy crackers. That’s what they’re made of. They don’t get married on a whim to somebody they hardly know. They don’t rant about trash night. They tumble into the ordinary with low expectations. 
            I was writing The New Twilight Zone episodes when I was eight years old. “The owner of  yellow streak so vivid it could be slathered on a hot dog, crazy as a soup sandwich,” and all that sort of stuff. I might make my vileness better known than most, but the sprawl of nighttime’s neon twizzle spin is not less than what’ll dance up happy with the harshest tidbit of my person.                
            People react. They dive in and swim shallow. I hope there’ll be deliverance in my name, somehow, in the costume-party delving of stooped guards. There’s not much breath to hold, though. Not around here. There’s drain cleaner in the tap water. I swat flies and never remember their names. Nothing ever happens.
            Listen. Somebody is singing.

We are not arguments
We are not made of fancy clothes
The bouquet’s gone bad
And there are no more holes to fill in the lineup
It is today lastly
What’s better off being last
We are stitched together with death and cigarettes

            I’m the best time waster on the planet. Give me a way to put something off until a day that never comes and I’ll take it and make it my own and then some. Paint the dogs blue and call ‘em Who’s Who. There must be wine in the toilet water. Get the busiest part of you down to Town Hall and make a Rule Of Pinky about it all. People around here keep their mouths open too damn much.
            Buddy Holly is dead. 
            I really need to start looking in the mirror before I go out into the world.
            I am suffering false awakenings from the nightmare of my history. The electrocutioner’s at the door: the pickiest guy there ever were. Mark me “For Lease” please. I don’t need my mother to dress me funny; I do a damn fine job of it myself.
            Rectify. Splice. Still the difference in palm wine. That’s what I keep telling myself. Use the hardened coir of your existence to build doormats for your messiest thoughts’ shoes. Stuff like this gets me cuts in line for anti-existential-angst pills, and in the end I’m mumbling something like, “It don’t matter.”
            Traits of what I’m not about, at all: a steady temperature; getting everyday girls to like me; rising to the occasion; setting up shop on the roof of a tall building; pampering; sailing; affecting the lives of others; squeezing limes in my hair; paper pianos; law; bickering with the ceiling.
             It was an unsettling glib taste of air, crisper than most, that did it, finally. Volume control notwithstanding, I can be lured into trouble without much trouble. Paste me to the sky with it; I’m shapeless.
            Somebody is at the door. Of course. Somebody is always, always at the door. I’ll just sit here. I’ll be still. Get them to go away, perhaps. Or-- shit-- maybe not.
            This guy, he comes Fosbury Flopping in here like he’s reinventing the bait and hook business model, and I’m off guard a little, but not caught, well, not really, so, we’re rolling through workflow mockups and the likes, and he’s January Standing in April’s mustiest stuff. I am not taken aback at all. I rumble along with it. Integrated marketing be damned, I like big noses and glasses on my gal, you know? There is just not time for sweeping. We’re stuck on Baltimore chopping our way through mountains of fluff. It’s no way to get surceasing without rasped bewilderment at the sitch we seem to find ourselves bending soulfully under. But the moves we make get noticed. I don’t make unnecessary eye contact. Like when Lennon would get drunk and scream, “Yoko!” over and over while they carried him away. Carried away. Shit. That’s where we were all heading. Demanding limes for our tomato juice wasn’t enough. I knew we’d have to get no-nonsense silly to get even close to even. In the maundering séances in lit-low bathrooms, well, we placed often enough for time to tell us we were not as chosen as we’d formerly wanted to believe. Taking flying fucks was more than plenty to get us off that particular rocker. Calling all dumbfucks, you know?
            Well, it’s Treats Time in office supply warehouses. Were it not for ice-in-your-drink meanwhiles, I’d have less to do than a retired umpire. Challenge is, you’ve got to harness everybody else’s willpower for them, and, at some opportune moment, wish it all away from yourself. Does it suck sometimes? Sure. But I rumble along with it, of course, as is my fucking wont. Business is business. Away on business. Business as usual. It’s the climb that gets them, snags them as they rung-by-rung go by-- up or down, or sideways, it doesn’t matter. Peaks of gold trim rise higher while we never sleep. Tell my boss I’m late for a practice test of supper. There’s amending to get to while I can still muster my means for it. Let’s tell on ourselves before nobody else cares to, you know?
            This fishy bastard, who’s like swimming upstream with feverish dead-eyed abandon, is just about three flails away from me taking his neck beneath my armpit and getting an old-fashioned noogie. It’s waiting that gets them, and he’s all hyped about some new systematic way to erase bloopers from cheat sheets, and it’s frustrating as hell for him to be netted before he’s rollicked himself at least midway to the higher sparkle of it. I understand. Been here; done this. You know?
            Now, I’m of the belief that if you use profanity, you should make it count. Don’t just slather it like cheap mustard on any old hot dog that comes by. Save it for those rare times when its puissance will make you king of horseshit in a toilet-paper world. Most of these here denizens in these here parts know at least this about me. Maybe I make it known. I don’t know, you know? Is it really that difficult to be subtle about dying? Maybe I just don’t get anything anymore-- not a thing.
            Fuck it. I’m running for Assistant To The Mayor’s Assistant. There’s garlic powder in my oatmeal. And, for this timeout’s time being, I haven’t hit that proverbial wall just yet. Glory days, you know? Just, just down behind. I know. But things are frustrating for this boilerbreaker of a guy. Things are glum with ample stereoscopic visions available to most in the automatic garage door business. “Take a break,” I’d tell myself; but I don’t. And this guy brings a stink with him like God just titty-fucked the ocean. I can taste fucking sea urchin every time I swallow. It’s a hard sell and a harder buy. So, I push and lean into the decaying mold of the whole rotten sitch. This guy’d vote against himself to prove nothing. About always he’s leaning back in his chair, and so I can’t help but wondering what it’d take to spill him-- just a soft tip and he’s through, you know? I don’t want to be the boss of the whole ordeal here, but hell, what’s what is whatever is, right?   
            This fucking chewed-gum of a guy, he comes in swaddled with bad ideas. After a while he starts to reek of camphor and piss. I moan audibly about the breaks nobody should ever get. I kid myself that I’m wasting somebody else’s time and not my own. We argue about the weather and make worthless artifacts out of justifying our own idealistic approach to curing coworker retaliation during take-fifteens. If there might be something to this guy it’s really beyond me what that something is. It occurs to me that willed resilience is only borrowed hope, and it don’t last for the remainder of my patience’s lapse. Fuck all of it. I’m tossing this corroded-innards asshole out on his last ass, and if he gets out, well, he gets whatever’s there. Out. Gone. Humped by the starved bulls of winter. And you want to know what I think about it all? Shit. I don’t give a mule’s privates about it. I really don’t.       
            So, it seems it’s Barbara Day in Kenneth Town. I don’t want jumpstarts of coddling prancers. I don’t want fist bumps from psyched PBA fans. Open my eyes just so I can look away, you know? Blink. Twitch. Nod.
            Fuck. All of you are really inconsiderate of my emotional state, the things I might need from you, not just the other way around. Well, vice my fucking versa. I want blowhard thieves leading petty-cash lives. I don’t know why people feel the need to be mean to me, to belittle whatever it is I’m feigning to be at the moment-- proselytizing home-cooked morality at me like Ann Landers and her damn twin sister. Shit. I just want to be left together. Bail me in, composed with heartache and heart attacks; coolly paler in the tunnels of my limestone-lined past; riddled with hamper-stuffed demotions, blurry red-eyed cocktails, and just the sad-old pomegranate-colored, defeated anachronism of typewritten rejection notes. Well, call me Maria Gaetana Agnesi and throw my pillow in the fire. I’m outside-in with banal ideas. It is so dark here. It is just so dark.     
            A great light has gone out.