Start of a Bad Joke

It feels like Tokyo. My pockets empty and any other patron is silent, heads held higher than the average stance, hoggish air space violated by such inflation. Swine in rewind while the tender looks around. He passes me something in a glass, three ice cubes- the usual. I sit down at the usual table and my mask dips down. The usual neon glare, and it could easily be only after noon. The usual farce.

Fuck, I need a drink and I move my chair- it’s mocking me in the way the ladies down the aisle are. I make a tremendous noise on the tile. Always a little over zealous, my show is interrupted by the sneering of strangers. They’re all staring, looking through my stucco-stone visage, fuck. Why is it so hard to sit with the same composure you walked in with?

They’re all staring and I’m looking so hard at the third cube in the glass, fuck, it might get a hole in it. Stir. Stare. Ah, that sound is so fucking nice. Like that girl outside, her shoulder showing. Chick’s got daddy-issues and, shit, smoking a cigarette- too young. She’s staring. Fuck, now I have instantly become ‘that guy.’ I should get up; this show isn’t working for me right now.

I should leave- but I’ve got my usual spot and this drink. Too many ice cubes, that bar guy is new and he’s hitting on my usual waitress. I don’t blame him; I’ve been working on her thighs for two weeks. Every Wednesday. Fuck, I should drink this. The damned thing is mostly water now- too many ice cubes, the ratio was off, amateur.

I’m a start to a bad joke, aren’t I? A middle age man walked into a bar. Fuck, I need another drink. The usual. There is a woman at the table behind me. I saw her when I turned around because I was uncomfortable- they’re all staring. Well, they were. She wasn’t, and she won’t- I can tell. She’s got the thighs of the waitress and the shoulders of the girl outside, and she’s got a drink with third fucking cubes. She should love me.

The floor is stickier than usual. At this usual chair and my usual table, this is shit. I’m already drunk and I haven’t touched the stuff in front. I’m acting like a child, fuck. This lady is staring at the back of my head; I can feel it like the ice. I could think twice, but I always do. There is something about the vices I already know I’ve got- I’ve lived this shit long enough. Alone, per usual. I would kick myself, if I could. I’m being a child.

I don’t know, fuck. The windows are letting in way more light than usual. How may times can I look out- too many people catch my eye. But, only when I’m being a voyeur- so it fucking goes.

Oh- wait, the thighs from behind, with their shoulders so cutely there- so not Freud’s wet dream- I can do this, I can follow them. Oh- and she looking back. What, at the fucking window? Is she being coy? That’s so good, too good.

Wait, fuck. Is this a test, all I wanted to do was rest. Work was a bitch and if I have to report one more- ah no, she’s lagging at the door down the hall. Chick knows her stuff. The bathroom- cheers, lady that better be an invitation. I could go for it. They dared me before I left the office that I couldn’t mack tonight, bet I would wack tonight. Alright.

The chair-on-tile is a crash, as I get up to assert myself in some lady’s kitten in the bathroom. We’re all left with the mutilated metal mentally resting on the side of rt. 128 at rush hour. I cough to cover up some of my awkwardness, but tell me when that has ever worked for anyone- they’re all staring. The waitress- the bartender. He should make me another drink while I traverse the joint. This is too much, I would laugh at me, too.

I ordered a beer and it’s probably the only words I’ve said out loud since I’ve been in, today. I don’t like the way he’s looking at me, the prick- bastard. I just want my beer. I order what’s on tap, assuming that makes me look cool to these kids. I wink at the waitress with the thighs- Ill received, duly noted.

Stare. Two minutes. Drink quick. I get to wallow here for a moment, and I realize after about two beers that I forgot about the bathroom puss. Fuck. It’s remarkable how right people can be about you- Fuck. I owe the boys in the office a round.

Forty-Year-Old Man

I'm working on this short story for a solid bud. I want to read it out loud and only aloud, but we'll see how it goes. I've been working on in through out the week, between piles of work and Gogol readings. Maybe that's too much of an influence. I hope this is what it's like to be a forty-year-old guy. Maybe I will finish it tomorrow.

Not trying to impress

It's around the base of a tree and I expect you to meditate on it. That’s what the dig was for, you’re hair is too long and there is temptation a little past the normal DRIVE. Sick and conquer.

The train was a vehicle, dumbfounded by your basic understanding of physics; I ask how far the trajectory will take us- out of the bubble, that’s the idea. When you’re only calendar is from 1985, there is only so much confusion you can legally project onto my lack of grasp. You both pulled me into something you don’t even know about and to watch the product in a bizarro experience of racial outpost, you brought me to the roof and nothing will ever be so good. But in the whiskey driven quips, I see what I’m conflicted with and the old man is a challenge I might have not been ready to accept. The looks of clear profiling, scanning and appeal- we’re blind to it out of a universal benefit, but again, only human and sort of out there. Things happen. Told to tie it together, but that seems the most daunting. The sage burned so nice when he told me there was maybe a real thing, but the jolly Joe blinds a little girl with grandeur and expectations. Things only placed by her nativity. We have no idea what you know and to be on the streets with real things, buy an outcast, you better start minding the gap.

Paint

[picture credit- Kevin Crouse]

Hank’s old man tin can played on the sounds of a looping similarity. Honey in the veins of nothing close to sleeping, chaos and inquiry- some times too curious. Moments of indecent silence and a want for company in the meek morning maybe dream. Flags bearing some prior historical significance are a fashion statement for posed tolerance. You dig it because it is politically incorrect, misjudged amplitude of reason. Treason in the breaking down, showing through opacity reaching maximum capacity. Deviation from the prose, receiving only what you asked for because it’s your time now- damp dawn with some fucked up song of old remorse. It’s an awareness for repetition; join the coalition, lost in some static voice. Here by choice, the shoreline isn’t a viable option. Wanting to share a craft, daft in the way you show broad interest. He’s here only to narrow some interest and be that man gravity favored. Orbiting something fierce, we’ll see how long it lasts.

Watching it kick your ass

The way they fall and kiss the sand. Totally consumed by this amorous adventure, hidden away in something intangible. There is wilderness in the most archaic sense just outside the walls of Eden. We read the Russians, ogling at her glorious superiority, melancholy so handsome we are reached universally. Jive baby and hear the sounds in your head, from a past life, from an old place. Flitting, fleeting in such organics- a shit label to boost consumption. Sound is caught on the bricks being sold on the fourth floor, whiskey in the drains and you’re bare ass it in the wind. HEY! You are desired, you are required and I am acquitting you. The devil is far-gone from here, the temptation will be here until the morning, every morning only to return for due seduction in the elemental reduction. Your mind, it is another and it is nothing. Repeat yourself and make the real shit a joke, it’s easier and we are laughing. Always, laughing. The birds are busy in the face of such joyous repentance. Here for rebirth and receiving, instead, the eternal post-here. Pseudo-reality, post-neo classics, make love to the tree. Make love to the thing; be ever-there and never totally here. It is too impossible for us to imagine that, grasp that. I implore you to only play with the game you have got- watching the cogs do their sound. Green in nothing, totally removed and totally enthralled in what is so over my head. Blow what I’ve got, that is why you are here. Absorb something.

Some Icke shit

Shit is so good and the moon is so fine.

Made love to the thing

This is beyond safety. This is beyond reality. Sell yourself to something else and see how well the world puts out. My body, the body- it’s on fire. Corporeal, unreal, jiving to something completely different, removed from what there was at that time- present in what there is right now. Coursing, the seven sins. Confusion and absolution- animalistic down to the intrinsic value, I put forth nothing but what I am. Fundamental, intellectual- pseudo being and the lunar baby, scary beautiful. Silence baby, it’s a commodity. We’re all absorbing, my name is Casa Nova. Unreal because it is SO real, I am shaking and I am loving something heavy. You’ve brought music with you, it is in me and a smile so strung out. Green in places it’s been before and color where it ain’t never gone. Let me bounce off you, it’s jeering- we’re jovial it’s juvenile. It should always be right now, right now, right now. Right now. This is cohesive and no one is coherent, totally in awe of this very moment, this very right now thing. It’s in my fucking hands, it’s seeping through and running down my back. It’s a perfectly human flaw, contentment. That’s why the moon is so- you can see the flaws, they’re right there and you can touch them. They are all consuming and ever present. EVER PRESENT. Your sound is stuck in my head, it’s reverberating off all the wells, cinderblocks and brick. Deafening, total vexation in the midst of your sex. What have you got to give to her, they’re putting on a show for you and can’t you see the insecurity. That- that is ever present and it shows through their façade, leaking in the way my moment is running down my back like sweat. Decay doing something cool to my living, it’s breathing in a new sense- we’ve died and returned, rejected by the light and retreating to the night. Sound everywhere. Voice everywhere. Being everywhere, many times at once- many things at once.