black sharpie

 

as i stare into

the

inconceivable

aloneness of

existence, the

black sharpie

of

consciousness,

nothing

matters

but the love

i’ve shared

with the ones

i’ve loved…

even the ones

who never did

or no longer

love me back.

maybe them

especially,

maybe not.

slowly, but

surely

i replace the

particle board

in my walk-in

closet

apartment

with

real wood.

i spill apple

juice on the

carpet from

a mug my

grandmother

gave me,

towel it

up with my

pants. i miss

my shrink. i

could afford

her if i was

sober so,

whatever

that means,

it does. if it

feels

familiar,

it’s called

style…

if it’s new to

you,

welcome.  

at the gas

station i

stand in line

behind a

man buying

lottery tickets

and bananas.

i listen to him

chat with the

clerk about

the weather,

imagine

breaking his

neck, paying

for my candy

and getting

the absolute

fuck out of

there…

instead, i

stand

around

like a

stupid

asshole.

a daring

juxtaposition

of feeling,

china white

sensory to

your

dollar store

senses.  

rain writes

poetry in

morse code

across the

country.

thompson

typing

gatsby, to

learn

fitzgerald’s

rhythm,

hemingway’s,

farewell.

the republic

of biafra

existed for

two years

and some

change

before being

reabsorbed

into nigeria.

paradigm

shifts occur.

history

repeats itself.

i play

penny arcade

games in the

corner of

the cantina,

while

duke’s

diminuendo

and crescendo

in blue is

scratched into

the air by an

antique victrola.

i watch

pedro the lion

at the

cactus club

with

matt and

seamus,

i see jay and

an old lay.

we all catch

up and then

for the first

time since

the last time

i saw her,

we don’t

fuck each

other.

later,

during the

commercials,

i kill myself.

i reincarnate

as an

advertising

executive,

kill myself

again and

come back

as a blade

of grass to

be cut by a

lawnmower

the first me

bought from

the second

me’s ad

campaign.

milwaukee

babies

drink from

bottles their

entire lives.