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Carter Monroe |
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Christmas Verging I I lived there until it was all gone or at least until I was spent. Too many details to handle without pay or recompense without the rush of needle whether real or imagined. Too much scouring domesticity which led to exponential compromise that was unhealthy for a work whore such as myself, a man whose mirror was inside and tarnished. Fair game was implied more than once and the offing held a barricade that crushed the incentives, spoiled the milk, hid the change, and left the gas tank empty. We're all kids on a stage of adulthood, cringing at being a "mister," choking back the mistakes cloaked in misdirected blame. When the clock speeds up, all that's left is dread. II When my kidneys wake me up literally in the middle of the night, I always start the surf at channel 2, the local PBS. It's teachers teaching teachers and they're all as ugly as hell. Makes you wonder about responsibility and how many people succumb to their first piece of ass. We've got talk shows, Hollywood gossip, guys picking out dates, the masturbatorial babes on the shopping channel (Ernest Borgnine's wife better not bend down in front of me. I'll use her own lotion in the process.) real life child stealing movies on Lifetime, and some "Mr. Wizard" type explaining lettuce on The Food Network. It's cold outside the door where the ashes have blown in more than once to singe the carpet. I should probably wait until I've had my shower, but lungs don't get spotted overnight. That gut imploding Christmas candy is begging like a wet puppy and trying to finish off the left side of my teeth. Christ! It's time for coffee. Hope the poker machines aren't occupied. The money that comes from so much effort can sometimes float away with ease. Too late to care at this point. I made my pact long ago and never even reached the crossroads. III It's been a John Lee Hooker life and I say that with all humility or at least as much as I can muster. Different streets and storefronts dot the mind's sky (or is that eye?) and I've been begging since I was three. Thank god for handguns. They help dissuade the threats. Of course, he fucked me up with bifocals and I may have to return to shotguns. Too many wandering worthless beings coming in and out of the haze. I don't mind slipping them a fin, but they damned sure aren't going to take it. How to get melted cheese on non-toasted bread, the issue of the day. There is also a mayonnaise problem that begs for an inner summit complete with a facilitator and contrived audience responses. Who cares about Frank Zappa rote? It used to be cool in the old days. I miss the guy at times, my cynicism surfacing like the runoff from a liquor still. I want to take a kitchen match and test the purity. That's more than I can do with my thoughts. IV There's a player piano to my left, but no one else sees it. They just stare at each other and wonder about my legs and feet keeping time to silent music. They try to cover it up; and use the beer as an excuse. That's just the way family is, you know. Particularly, around the holidays. Let's see. There'll be perfunctory gifts. Shirts that don't fit that I wouldn't wear if they did, comments about my being difficult to buy for, that same calendar I've been getting for years. Nary a carton of smokes or an 18 pack to be found, but all ain't lost. My niece still gets to read from the Book of Luke. [Index] |
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Thunder Sandwich #26 - Summer/Fall 2005 |
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