Corrosive spittle and an oily bald head, for you that need a hero. Guided in by fragrant bacterial bloom, never has the table been quite so full. Slick crimson pudding smelling of copper, but soon to sweeten. Dew moistened death will be dulling by noon.Dig in before its all gone.
As I start this diatribe, long in the offing, tis hard not to contemplate the sound of the scoffing, the ordering, the onning and offing, the daily endurance, of moments denying and ones of assurence. I know that a color never forgives, placement near another with which it can't live. And living is the thing which we, being given, are bought sold and processsed, canned and death driven. Only in the last moments is life ever so precious. And for what? It is living itself that is being wasted, seeking matches, wanting things, and then leaving them untasted.
And the chance to know the knower.Nothing is what you think it is so close your eyes and shoot. Do your best or your worst, a foot within the boot on a wet asphault evening, that brought the coons and currs to sniff and root, on a patch of road, not far from here, wet and warm, and smelling of early summer steam on tar, puree of frog and snake, wet road death, in a breath, beneath your car. Nothing is what you thought, for thinking is not the key. Charmed to be here, you must be. Pleasure to know you? I think, what You will. I'm never sure Who's in here, not often the one I think, but with a chance to feel the other comes a rare understanding, an unnavigable sink.
April 17 99
I just can't tell yet. Something about all this futility. How did I let everything happen this way? Is this possibly a way to a way to be? The signs seem to point down, still I pray that I'm not going to continue that way for too much longer. There is to much to life to forever be a bottom feeder. Not that I harbor any predjudices against bottom feeders, most of my favorite fish friends are bottom feeders. Never the less the bottom is also the realm of scavengers and trash fish, and the unsavory feel of fish shit and human effluent, wastes, and discharges. Often it is so murky that food and feces are traded in the rush to consume. When the light at the surface is no more, direction is anywhere and nowhere. I take the slow walk to the mailbox with masked hopes that today some good turn will find me. Instead my IRS tax return comes back to me with no postage. I'm not all here I fear. Why should I complain? I was the one that deceided to rely on the unreliable. Its not like there weren't a myriad of other choices. Some may have even been right for the occasion but I don't remember them now. All I know is that they weren't weighty enough to tip the balance, they weren't holy. Now the choices seem to be making their own realities wherein the choices are no longer many, or mine. Can I find the courage to see myself before its too late? How do I recognize me? How much further down is it. I don't want to give up, yet surrender seems to be the prescription. Its impossible to count the separate instances of this mind state that possesses me. Each one has had its own special degree of immediacy, yet each instance reeks of sameness.
10:50 AM 4/18/99
And now it is a new day. Even a few hours of extended sobriety makes its own changes. Black is now grey, and the numbness in my heart has moved away from paralysis. Yesterdays few words were yesterday. Today will bring its own bagage, but as yet only one small change purse has been opened. In it was enough to allow me the easyness of a morning cup of tea. The lawn needs mowed, that's a good sign. Chores, today, seems like a concept for world peace, and even possibly my own. I wonder if I will swallow or just chew the cud of reason. It's rather like ysterday in this respect, that I am still contemplating action, but today I'm a little more animated. Today is better; I prayed last night. I am given to forget the power of prayer, even when the answeres come instantly. And now the glow is fading. How typical.
2:06 AM 4/19/99
Now I sleep, or rather, in a moment I will. Ebb and flow, flow and ebb. I have fed, washed, thought about what waking will bring. Wondering is not the way, doing is the only way to change the circle to a spiral. I only wish I knew more. Plants only grow at night, maybe then, we do too. So, as they say, "who knows what tomorrow may bring".
10:13 AM 4/19/99
