Silly smoke slithering through the air; how many today? I don't know, I guess it is something like hisssssslickpop and I'm done. We talked for awhile, it was like old times. Driving through the jingle-infested-where-are-we-now-and-where-is-the-flame morning/afternoon/tomorrow, we opened up and said, “ahhhh, glorious today, where is your new overcoat?” We would poke fun at Plath, Proust, and perilous rules and laugh out loud at the women who wouldn't have what the baker's called “love in the sense of photographic angels with come in their hair.” Nothing matters now I suppose, and it is all for the better besides the distance. But that is merely small talk, the way they all say “Hello, what is your name? Will you buy me a drink and slip off my locks of hair down the body of my father's Catholicism and woe?” That is what we deal with now instead of the poetic and lustful words of Conrad and whatever kind of jabber ghastly old spice we could come up with at the time.
Snowy nights of smokey bumbling happened once. My father was sick with society and had to have the operation which would apparently save his soul if only he would repent and give on with the good lord and savior, George Washington Reagan. You came then as a fully lit disciple of Miller and contributed to my romanticism in the sense of Kerouacian alcoholism; it was all bangers and disasters on cold nights. But we got sick, and that sickness was something that we could all hold dear and close like that of a mother and stillborn; sadsadsadsadsadjackalwaysaloneanddrinking. But he wasn't alone, and somehow that made it all the better. Jesus Christ where are you tonight with your beard and your cane walking down an alleyway singing along to the words of Walt and dynasty going “I left her down in Reno, the woman had it coming, she died alone last Saturday, she never stopped that running.”
I remember that Port, and that meal that never happened. Oh, how the imaginary pancakes were something of a lustful approach to dealing with the cockroach infested waters of my brand new twin-sized bed and how with every creak and crack I felt more alone. You were near the windy city at this point, yet that cold wind blew you in colder directions. You took her down that night, as I could only hope of; I am good at propositions, just nothing else. Until later months that is, and she said that only the good die young when inside of the serpent. But you did it, and you beat the men with their stiletto-induced-masks made of papier-mâché, semen and celery and you told her lies and it worked! Oh how it worked! But that morning after coffee induced madness stemmed from a deepfearofsucidalfighting set afire my best intentions. Aha tralala laladdy nownot where is the sugar?
Now you are gone again, and I am alone. Oh alone alone alone down a hole I a-go, drift away away away down again another day. The spiders came out and implanted in my head millions of tiny slimy seeds that never again would do the same things to me that you once did. Where had the intellect gone? Probably away with my brain when it ran way afar with the tea and tar and everyone exclaimed, “Hey come here and part from your soul and experience the outerlimits of what everyone claims is love!” LIESLIESLIES! But we will talk, and you will save me from all of the things that plague me, and then, oh how then, the door will be opened to my darling creativity and my spontaneous mumblings of sex and how nobody will have it but I deduce it to my lack of dapper imagination.
Sit down shut up, you will never understand what it is that I speak of. You who claims that love comes in the pronunciation of proofs and declarations. That commitment means something sexual and meaningful and magical and whybother and whereisshe and whoishe and whathappenedthatnightwhenyousaideverythingwouldworkoutsomeotherway? When the screen blocks out the flies and their maggots and everything falls into a deep silence the same way the wind goes when we all die. Want a glass of tea? I want the tea that makes me asleepanddreaming. I want the love I always thought was all alone and personal and you-know-the-way-she-makes-you-feel/drink/distrust. But mostly, all I really want back is driving and poems and triviality and that one day when everything goes black and we have to leave and we do nothing but the same: sit alone and talk.
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