I haven't found it.
Before I simply was,
I resented it on some level,
but before there was something in myself
reassuring me that there was more.
Everything became a sum
calculated to the tenth of a cent in time, goods, effort, and return.
In ever diminishing return.
My bones continue to grind in thanotic anticipation
and as I peek one breath above, gasping,
I'm deluged in bullshit anew.
I remember feeling more. I remember words birthing,
and a bittersweet mosaic of colors and life.
Flavors and foulness.
Joy, and glib pacification of passion.
It was taken, some say lost, some say sold.
Vacant, absent, regardless.
It's like falling off a bike.
The same bike.
On the same pavement.
Skidded palms first. Skidded rest as we come to.
And the static acid of dirt laden scrapes and crumpled faces.
More asphalt than blood. More halt than stop.
Things got dusty while I was pretending to sleep.
Same dream of a warm, crowded bed.
The smell of pre-winter dawn,
and the promise of cigarettes laced with tomato juice.
A chance morning-breath kiss on dry lips,
askew to wopper-jawed straps.
Matted hair in your face.
And the baby-duck stumble of dead legs and limbs.
Waggling a wrinkled pair of cotton panties as you vault over me to get to the can first.
These are the things they'll take from me first.
I got a job.
It's not great, I've had worse, and it doesn't physically harm me.
I've got a nut job sniffing around to murder me when my guard is down.
I went to the doctor.
I got overbilled and fucked over a barrel.
More expenses pending.
Three months working, and I'm about wiped out instantly.
I'm in the process of contesting the amount to get a write-off.
The prices they're asking are for guys covered in gold-rimmed monocles.
I have no monocles.
I'm on the thinnest, narrowest margin of my finances, homelife, love life, professional life, all colliding and imploding at the same moment.
I haven't been this broke since I was drunk.
Drunk sounds pretty good about now.
Every time I pick up a strand, another three fall out of my hand.
Weird thing is I've been in much, much worse positions.
I'm becoming accutely numb, but harassed.
I just need something to make this all... more worth it than it is.
But that was a moment ago.
That moment is gone.
At the moment.
I imagine my dog will pass away before I get a new place.
This place will have to do for a bit.
I dunno what's after that.
Squirreling my nuts away for another thieving accident, whore, or house fire I suppose. Or literal thieves. I am down several thousand over that still.
I'm going to crush this under my heel,
and emerge a shade darker than blue.
But it's not like to be worth it without you.
Because when I have it.
Fort, vault, hoarde,
there won't be anything left.
That's a scary thought.
What's to want, after have?
Yeesh, this spot gets abandoned from time to time.
Well, I'm at this moment 29, nearing 30, and for the last week the lower half of my back has been grinding and freezing up, and biting at me.
This morning I couldn't get out of bed for a few hours due to surging, branching pain in my spine and back. Every disk felt shot, and every muscle group was wringing itself out.
It wasn't the worst pain of my life. By a long shot.
But it hurt.
And it sent me down a spiral of self-loathing and depression and flashbacks.
When every step made me wince, my family suggested I use my obummercarez and see a doctor, get x-rays, and get into physical therapy.
From my experience, physical therapy hurts.
And doctors cost money.
I cost thousands times more than what I earn.
It's a frustrating thought.
I'm terrified they'll find something, like bones eroding bones. And a projection that involves
or spinal surgery
and more not walking.
Or a life of painkillers or pain.
Every little reminder, every little shooting pain, every little thing that reminds me of the accident sends me to dark, angry, hopeless places.
I get a daily taunting memo from the stranger that took what lingering hope and joy I had in my life.
Where every affirming or possitive thing is ecclipsed by fear, pain or a traumatic memory.
I can't work on a model if it knots my entire back, neck and arm.
I can't read, write or play for any extended period of time without a spasm or a shock of nerve or bone pain.
I can't go for a walk, do a pushup, or bendover to pet my dog without a raw grinding pain somewhere in my body.
I can't stand at a bench to work. I can barely sit in a cubicle to work on some mindless soul sucking task in exchange for money.
It's killing me.
Every god damn day.
Will I see the doctor?
I dunno, I've put it off this long, and all they'll do is reaffirm once more that shit's bad.
I loved you like a stranger putting on pants
dust and cigarette butts
winnowing away in a puff,
after the first creeping sunlight of dawn.
Graffitti in the stall, sequences and liquids swapped.
From the top of an invisible tower to spit on the rest of that rainbow-bliss night.
The evergrowing list of numbers I never put together.
The chances I didn't take twice.
The flick of fingertips in passing, always passing.
Faces seemed more real with scars.
Like there was a story we could share.
A touch we could have.
More intimate than lips.
More there than it was.
The moment it was before.
What does she see when she's making the change?
Shuffling with the lingering glance, and the stiff turn aside.
What would she have me feel today?
Something stolen and secret, like glimpsing through a naked mirror.
Shame came with my curiosity, but moreso my pleading.
Just a game worth losing. Where no win, score, or error will ever be recorded again.
Was there ever more?
Lemme just dust off a bit here.
Where to start?
I'm not dead.
Well, not entirely.
I think I've lost all vision and aspiration, but hey
that's poorly managed alcoholism and depression for you.
I can't get past the very base necessities right now, and until I do, I'm not going to get much of anything done.
My brother moved back to town, and that's been a mixed bag of envy and glee.
Glee because we barely missed a beat.
Envy because that son of a crazy person is working within three days of coming back.
Granted the job
And his arms might not hold out. And summer is coming.
Unairconditioned warehouse, 100* heat with swamplike humidity
you do the math.
I don't want him to work there.
It's a job I can't and won't do.
But ... things are actually getting worse here, and I don't know where else to send him for work.
I quit smoking (again), but I've doubled down on hooch and snarky remarks.
And some sort of mega chronic-fatigue.
I feel like I'm walking in mud, all day. Been this way for months.
Doesn't matter sleep, coffee, routine, exercise.
I can never get started.
The simplest things are exhausting and rage-inducing.
Could be PTSD rearing its ugly head.
But I don't wanna be that weak and encumbered.
After this respiratory infection, I'm gonna get back to exercise, and I'm just going to stab myself in the leg with a fork until I'm up, mobile, and crushing my enemies.
and I might be the victim of identity theft and insurance fraud.
Other than that, books, robots, and more books. TV, movies and games are continuing to circle the drain as means of diversion.
There is no work here.
Much less imagination.
A place where nothing grows.
No magick metamorphose
No flickering ember of hope clasped desperately to a naive hero's chest.
Whispering "please" rather than "no".
Dust dancing in the meek shafts of light.
A dry damp.
A linger of chores, and once beloved pet projects.
The crumbling walls.
The mildewy rafters.
The golden clarity of ignorance.
From which I could emerge
from the same old thresholds anew.
If I could write you a song about the green vales
dotted faintly with columbine and dandelion
with warm fingertips of sun brushing against the grass-
My soul would sing you an anthem
Chorus a hymn
March to a rally
Harmonize in rapture
Instead I belch a hollow dirge
Mourning the rags that wrap the cankers and bile
Clinging to the bones
grinding on bones.
With an unctuous rotten pump for a heart,
writhing only in defiance
hopelorne and full of a chill, bitter vitriol
beyond the grip of reason, power, and purpose.
I couldn't sleep but I had nothing else to do.
Well, that's a lie. I could read any of 9 books, or watch hundreds of hours of stolen footage up here, but it's just not in me right now.
I could be free clear, and done with a $10/hr full time job and a small loan.
It doesn't escape me, but I've been stuck spinning my wheels since my brother came back for xmas.
Just haven't been able to get started.
Haven't felt a surge of confidence, or a particularly driving force.
Sure the threat of violence and crazy lingers from before.
It's ever present, and magnified when I'm alone.
I don't think I really left the day of the accident.
A part of me stopped there and stayed.
And nothing else feels real.
I'm horrified by those words, but there they are.
My brother says you can't live in the past.
He's been through -some- shit.
It was infuriating and brazen for him to say that to me.
In a weirdly true way.
I have to move forward. I have to survive.
No one has made it clear to me why, but I've accepted that fact with a skeptical fanaticism.
The hope is I survive, and I get
I'm safe, I'm private, and I'm away from the explosive rage of the strangers in my house, or the murmoring envy of unacquainted family.
Would a letter once a year suffice
of just the following words:
"I am well".
It'd be interesting to find out.