All my shoes are backwards: what’s right is left, and what’s left is right.
Music while walking and Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony played entirely by children has me vibrating. The Biggest Irish bar in the nation is wanting liquor for their Saint Patrick’s Day celebrations. I stand, the young knight, with my big sword dragging behind me, malnourished to the point where I’m pulling energy through the aether of my fat, not describing these monsters as anything but what they are or may be, just tugging at that grapefruit juice like it’s the fuel for the expedition; Crazy Jane rid of her dog; Billy dead and over the side, smiling in a heaven rotation of rot. I am the fog found psychopomp delivering messages through the grey area in the form of spirits and the epiphany of drink. I am the revelation destined to be seen as a rotted church. It is a subject we all pave: Christ’s Gassemenie meditation meaning more as we witness our own constant crucifixion.
I got shit on my fingers… This isn’t the first time this has happened. It’s because Charlo decided to poop in the road again. Musette and I were together. She tugged him to the dirt and I cleaned up the road mess. I had the poop in a bag but he pooped more. I tried using the same bag and ended up getting poop on my fingers. We went back home. Musette was getting upset with me for holding my finger out so obviously.
“I don’t want to get it on me.” I said. “It’s natural to hold it this way.”
I couldn’t believe it. How could she be fighting with me?
I didn’t want to go to the park anyways. I can be such a crank. It’s Musette’s day off and she wanted to go out. The weather was perfect. All I wanted to do was sit in front of my computer.
“Everyone will be out.” I said.
She didn’t care.
We have lost control of time since the daylight savings shift. It completely wiped Billy out, blasting through the aether, disrupting reality; releasing his soul into what he thinks may be heaven; releasing us onto an earlier place on the clock.
They’re the same monsters from earlier. The same force; new levels; new characters.
That’s what happens when you keep moving forward.
Flashing in the image of past heroes. The phoenix rebirths with remembrance. Joan of Arc remains through the flames. That’s the way Adam is to me, right now as we are approaching the strobe; but some people are getting confused by the storm. It’s a cloud of data popping and jumping the signal. This and that connects and then a beam of energy shoots to Earth. It’s hard to tell what’s going to connect, but it definitely helps having a lot of nodes. These things make us. They are the building blocks of literature’s castle. Carcosa is filled by pregnancy, without sonogram sight there are only letters and surface shallowness.
Just know that I want ‘Purple Problems’ with ‘Heaven in a Handbasket’ as the ‘or’.
This is as close as I can get to myself. It’s the same thing that shows the ships and the storms. There are aliases and diffusions. Butter spread over toast until the buttered toast is a unit itself. Going through, breaking up, building up, breaking up, building up; rearrangements, new truths of the universe I didn’t realize I had lived through. Eyes are organs! The organ plays what it can, but existence is a symphony. Dream is a key swirling that paint in my forehead. Raveling a path into my knowledge. The bullets of Camus are words on the map. Life is lived and recorded. Portlas are constructed through roads and reflection. Dollars! Dollars! Dollars! Transforming our wishes into material, giving purpose to our existence, separating hunger from its satiation, and instilling pain into the empty pocketed.
I am an enabler and provider of hope. I am the holy spirit and she is the Earth whom I am so afraid of losing and so happy when separated from, taking that juice of her love and spreading it through my solitary confinement. I am the little priest, following the call to truth.
“How long do you think you will hold out?” asks the villain.
“All that matters is that I still am. Life is a continuous act of surviving.”
“Do you think you can beat me?” he asks.
“No; but I might be able to.”
“You think you can avoid your own death?”
“I believe in the possibility.”
“Keep coming closer, let’s see what’s possible.”
“What other choice have I got?”
“End it all before it gets worse. I prescribe a revolutionary suicide.”
“Maybe later; I’m still too in love with life.”
“What worth is a suicide when that love no longer exists?”
“At that point may the worth be all mine.”
“I am here to make it more and more attractive.”
“There are different levels of beauty all of which you cannot possibly encompass.”
“And perhaps because of that I am guaranteed the final victory.”
“Perhaps.” I say, flicking my cigarette.