I lounge behind my desk, utterly satisfied and exhausted, sipping wine and watching The Doors and reveling in simply being and being simply satisfied amidst these trees and rotting salmon stench which permeates all persons present. We who have hung our heads out windows, easy targets, waiting for a view of heaven or some star when we should be watching where we place each footfall and frail breath released into space to mingle with this ether we suppose elicits artwork.
I cast myself in a one-man play behind my eyelids, watching from afar, tucked away behind synapses and grey matter that really doesn't matter much at all. I spy the constituent pieces of myself, incongruous with the puzzles of others for the most part, parceled out over minutes and milestones, spread thin like an emaciated hooker tricking for a quick fix of lust or love. Alas, at times the lines in-between the lovers blur, a kaleidoscopic frenzy of frayed emotions, threads read and woven, binding our bodies into one.
I see each archetypal image of myself bound against reality's rendering of a lens. I see parent, bookie, poet, printer, drinker, dancer, loner, loser, lover, fighter, fucker, faithless fool, flop, sullen sucker, soulless savior of sad saints, glue that holds far hearts together across loss.
Where is the nobility in ego? Where does hate sleep in the house of love? Why do the stars blink when we look them in the eyes? When will we feast upon last year's harvest? When will our telephones laugh instead of ringing in our ears of corn?
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