Christ, this is a very rough start
Louis rolled out of bed. Rolled was the perfect way to describe the action: it was the sort of lazy, anti-methodical, passive-aggressive manner of waking up (that, coincidentally, leaves the subject as asleep as possible, rendering the act almost oxymoronic) that would benefit a person of Louis’ mindset and lifestyle.
If he were ten years younger, much more satisfied, and more resigned to a low-paying job in some obscure, neglected, rural section of the country. Like a Dakota. Or Arkansas. Or somewhere else square and flat and a solid shade of desert tan whose uniformity mimicked the bleak, resigned outlook of its residents. Like New Jersey, but flatter, more sparsely populated, and less peculiarly shaped. The uniformity was there, though — alongside gaudy, overly-unbuttoned shirts and slicked-back hair.
So Louis rolled out of bed, which was (as we’ve now established), an action that contrasted sharply with the persona he had adapted — or hoped to have adapted. The truth is, we all decide who we want to be perceived as. And then we hope that everyone we encounter is blind enough to ignore the glaring discrepancies between the two. Those between Louis, “sharply dressed, street-savvy accountant;” and Louis, teenager at 30 looking to score with the next piece of pussy to walk in those doors. Or maybe not. Or maybe the next. No, definitely after that one. No..”
Or the difference between Louis, “tall triple shot latte, extra hot, cinnamon, $3.75 ‘keepthechange’;” and Louis, “cold pizza from the box left out on the coffee table, instant coffee.”
Or maybe Louis, who waxes philosophical about such things, but can’t hold a job for more than a month.
(…)
I’ve always liked it when it rains.
Not downpours, per se,
But rains just hard enough that the hard edges
(the brick wall, the air conditioning unit painted grey
but tainted brown by rust stains and weather, the trees,
now leafless)
are still completely visible,
forming planes that intersect, cross,
merge.
I’ve always like it when it rains
Because it gives me a chance to dress up
To dress differently
To re-enact my childhood,
Enacting scenes of adulthood,
Clad in boots and a rainjacket,
Stomping, stomping to some destination,
Cursing and splashing every puddle along the way.
I’ve always welcomed the opportunity
To sit inside without being a recluse,
And write away,
painted in grays cast by my window,
clamped tight.
We, as children,
splashed in rainpuddles
and crafted images
among the banks of the Seine,
interpreting and creating
works irrelevant
in even their first publication
but ever so alive
in our minute ink-stained paws.
I suppose I very much prefer
the notion of our fragile, chapped lips touching
brushing only broken by
delicate streams of amber resin
scarlet
cast from any beacon
illuminating vast expanses of apparently necessary absolutism
filled with naught but sea-oats and negative space
and the occasional pact or carving — detrimental to the town’s overall image, but irreverently inconsequential.
I
I.
I am not artsy enough
nor pretentious enough
to possess an eating disorder,
terminal depression,
a particularly nasty drug habit,
nor an addiction of any interesting sort.
I do not
plan on dying in any particularly interesting way:
embracing the gutter with my drunken visage, a la Poe,
nor recreating creation:
Soundlessly (Woolf)
nor
Literally, noisily (Hemingway)
And if in neither death nor in life can I command the captivated masses of yearning hearts and hopeless romantics who seek an antihero far more than a mentor and an excuse in many more places than an exit then I will be happy I suppose or at least content with the fact that all the sellingoutIhappenedtodo,Ihappenedtodoformyself.
My stomach,
by this point in time,
has grumbled, gurgled, and digested itself raw.
Such that the only things left for the vermin
that happen to inhabit this sphere referred to as home
(until something cozier takes its place)
are wilted manifestations of regrets
carefully bundled and placed
in neat little cemetery rows
interspersed with tiny streams
of will.
And mine eyes,
which have seen so much
and yet no glory,
will continue to blink themselves dry.
Such that they serve no particular use
but to fill the holes that identify
and act as a barrier between open air
and axon.
But my feet and hands,
though not sympathetic in the least bit
to the plight of the bourgeoisie,
will continue to beat in unison until forced to stop.
Pearls before Swine (flu)
Slowly, ever so elegantly,
she stiffens, greeting the encroaching morn.
And the concave, contrasting shadows rimming her eyes
extend, their tendrils of tint and shade reaching out
to mingle with the rosy fingered dawn.
Pockmarks.
Skin betrays form betrays function
begets the horrid torrents, nuances of reality.
To which thou dost escape, briefly,
in a less than dynamic prayer,
both exuberant in belaying
and in stark indifference to
proven societal norms.
Everything I Know, I Learned From Camus
I was probably in the realm of truth.
But truth, cher ami, is a colossal bore.
There is a sort of pristine order
in the unlearning of commandments:
a debauchery of the highest accord
in the passive betrayal of fellow man.
And it is true, Albert,
that I exist not in heaven
nor hell,
but within the distinctly Latinate vestibulam
of trysts and benevolence.
And I, much like the expatriot
of myth, legend, and fateful lore,
seek the reward not of the warrior,
whose bravery,
bravado,
and necessitated honor,
guarantee him at least
the satisfaction of a meaningful existence;
But of the much vilified thief,
whose venerable atrocities
number fewer,
but cast the toll to the wrong side,
garnering shame and representation,
where virtue dost hide,
lost,
trifler in passion.
Literacy
Introduction.
Introduce introduce
Introductionto…risingaction
rising rising
rising
rise
ri
CLIMAX
falling
falling
falling
falling
rising
rising
rising
Cli…
rising
rising
falling
Clim!..
falling
falling
rising
Clima…shit
anticlimax
bathos.
cigarette.
