Sunday, April 27, 2014

A Bad Gasket And A Broken Windshield

DILLINGER: Maybe this’ll be the night?

SPALDING GRAY: Not so-so sure of it.

DILLINGER: Another botched repaving job. Another notch not marked.

SPALDING GRAY: We are the basics, the swilled indifference, the hunger and the desolation.

DILLINGER: Then, well, somebody to tell it, that’s a need that’s going unmet, still. Still, we’ve got isolation to be ourselves in.

SPALDING GRAY: Ship-shaped, another doddle, a wealthier way of strolling, and the booing just doesn’t do justice to what it represents. Another semaphore gone unseen but never hidden.

DILLINGER: We get summed up by it, yes we surely do. The limit’s set. Looking for a little splash of red in the breaks of all this boring blue. That happens to me never.

SPALDING GRAY: A surefire ticker that’s taped up, bandaged with rose stems and caged radicals. Nothing’s bought at less, or what it takes lying lifeless on the operating table to be somebody’s neighbor or idol or soap-scum of a husband.

DILLINGER: We give a little more-or-less all the time.

SPALDING GRAY: Wiser, heaved on the pyre just out of time.

DILLINGER: This’ll give a little assistance to the flame.

SPALDING GRAY: Perhaps. But I never treated her right or wrong enough. I keep throwing all of these genuine things away to make room for the tousled sort of thoughts I keep getting, having, ignoring, or whatever’s next left to do.

DILLINGER: “Her” is just some dim idea you had one blustery concomitant afternoon when the train butchers were luring saps with five-dollar-bill fingers.

SPALDING GRAY: That’s the slurp without the gulp.

DILLINGER: I’d rather the skies spell out what’s going to come, harbingers snuck by clouds through sullen folds in the weave of my sentiments, almost like a pretty girl or an untouched bottle of rye. Peruse my gray-white specials all you want. The greasy spoon’s downstairs, Dick.

SPALDING GRAY: The past tense is so passé.

DILLINGER: Without’s just another way to stay closer than faraway.  

SPALDING GRAY: Grades, escalators of the more mindfully mannered sort, steps or just rungs to snap off and fall through, stairs to tumble around on. We give better names than we get every time.

DILLINGER: Yup. Like, “He’s a lawyer. He ain’t the one for you.” The things in our past we just can’t give up on or get past.

SPALDING GRAY: We all carry our own damn crosses. We all bear some ailment of some piss-poor reason to keep going. I want my bus driver to be a holy man.

DILLINGER: Well, we all have a propensity for sentimentality some of the time, correct?

SPALDING GRAY: Right on. More to it. Whatever bends.

DILLINGER: Huge hearts. Fucking gigantic fucking hearts.

SPALDING GRAY: The opposite of that?

DILLINGER: Bathing at odd hours. Keeping a scorecard at a day game. Operating on Mission Accomplished visions. Melting spoons into rings. A gas, really, isn’t it?

SPALDING GRAY: A damn shame, for most. That’s the shit I stepped in.

DILLINGER: Leonardo The Cat is where it’s at.

SPALDING GRAY: Sure. But who goes in for all the mushy I-wish-ewer-here stuff?

DILLINGER: See this? That’s my hand shooting up to be counted.

SPALDING GRAY: By the way, Francis Ford Coppola can suck a toe, by the way.


SPALDING GRAY: No. No you don’t. You see, we’re rafting without the white water or the rapids, or even the river. The edge of it’s here, though. Tough as aluminum.

DILLINGER: Another dope duped by a plunge into necessity’s kitchen. See this? This is me grimacing hardly at all.

SPALDING GRAY: A thimble of white wine for your cognition.

DILLINGER: Pass the water. I’m over contagious habituation. Hold on. See this? This is me under the table, all curled up with a bad book and an awl.

SPALDING GRAY: Let’s get found.

DILLINGER: Sure. Sure. Sure. Sure. Sure. Sure.


DILLINGER: And in the beginning there was an apple and two idiots with the morals of a couch louse.

SPALDING GRAY: The slithering ways of the world waiting to be discovered. Misery marks its territory with cocktail napkins. Look. I’m scrawling my name on one right now. It’s a dissipated pleasure, at best, but still I ain’t looking for a trade.

DILLINGER: Live it off. Sleep it on. I’m deteriorating right behind my eyes.

SPALDING GRAY: Later mornings lead to later nights. I haven’t caught a worm in twenty years. Fuck it. I’m disregarding good judgment for the rest of supper. My heart’s so swollen with self-absorption that I hunt hunched and bent over after whatever’s leading me through it all.

DILLINGER: The busses are crammed with hasslers of mailmen and creeps of unjustified means.

SPALDING GRAY: Yet near’s my only far, still.  

DILLINGER: And I still have some answered questions for you, Huckleberry.

SPALDING GRAY: The things that April brings, sourer and sorted sorts of things.

DILLINGER: Gravitated towards some ill-fitting grace. Talking ain’t the thing.

SPALDING GRAY: Some guys can wear hats. I am not nor ever have been one of them. It’s just the way it doesn’t go.

DILLINGER: Fuck it. I’m buying up all the lottery tickets in town and calling my lawyer.

SPALDING GRAY: And there goes another petal, afloat just an inch above the muck.

DILLINGER: I don’t go out for all that. A rheumatic temper that just leads to more pointless temptation. I think I might be suffering from an avalanche of delusion.

SPALDING GRAY: I think there might be another voice in your head to tell you of such occurrences.

DILLINGER: Now that I’d be lief to believe.

SPALDING GRAY: Ah. Just another copout’s disaster in that cranium of yours.  

DILLINGER: Calling no cars. Good morning, doctor.

SPALDING GRAY: Ok. Get it out of reverse, Chief.

DILLINGER: Cloudy tufts, pooled resources of lavender and hand-washing’s linger. Roosevelt’s exit strategy. A plain man’s planned canal. Forget the fruit; I just want the core— what remains, what’s left.

SPALDING GRAY: You’re drunk.

DILLINGER: Again. You forgot, “Again.”

SPALDING GRAY: That’s a given.


SPALDING GRAY: The most slender of all apologies, Hula Hooper.

DILLINGER: Shed the happy act. I’m splitting town with a Korean girl named Bo who knows five languages. Fuck all these melancholic asides and all of these soppy-saturated bastards. I’m walking the show with a stripper named Codeine.


DILLINGER: That’s right. That’s it. Go on. Go ahead. Give me a tissue of déjàvu. I’m in need of some of reminiscence’s insistence.

SPALDING GRAY: The plight of the meekly insistent. To be worn like bandanas on the neck. Overstate your case, please. I’m out of touch with such misgivings.

DILLINGER: A simple balm for a burn. Rest more. Live a little. I’m ordering the drinks from here on out, Hal.

SPALDING GRAY: Because is its own why.

DILLINGER: Hey. I used to say that all the time.


DILLINGER: Now? I just refuse whatever's offered to me. It’s great fun. Give it a shot sometime.

SPALDING GRAY: Speaking of which, I need something to toast with.

DILLINGER: With or of? Or in? Or…fuck it. I’m moving to the Outer Continental Shelf.

SPALDING GRAY: Is that even possible?

DILLINGER: I don’t know, and I don’t give a shit.


DILLINGER: Fuck George Saunders. That guy’s crap.

SPALDING GRAY: True. But still…

DILLINGER: Blown down by some dirty trade wind. Knocked around by another palooka biding his time on the vine. I don’t get what I don’t for a reason. Get it?

SPALDING GRAY: Getting carried away, again and again. That’s what we’ve got. It is all there is.

DILLINGER: Left. Right. Left. Left. Motherfucking left.