This is how it is:
Morning time- I’m on top of the world.
The shower is my personal masseuse -the closet a personal trainer.
Dogs bark my praises as I prance down the street.
The coffee at my local cafe begs to be sipped “give me a kiss, your lips are like heaven.”
I oblige - everything is free - everyone smiles.
The sky is light blue and the clouds are like personal taxis. No limos.
By the afternoon:
I imagine. Dinner: large plates of something… middle eastern.
Cravings set in: I crave, cigarettes, chocolate, lemonade, straws, high heels (stilettos), ramen noodles, erotica, months off - a vacation to .. bali… india… Taiwan.
And then I think of all things the predicted about my future, and the inevitable sadness that is said to blanket our world.
I analyze these: prostitution, global warming, slavery, rape, prison, divorce, war, gay rights, women’s rights, hypocrisy.
Each subject I can handle when alone: dissect, descent, disolve.
It feels good to be the doctor. I have answers! I have solutions!
By the evening: I’m a fraud. I realize all of my faults. I’m too tired to care.
Saying this out loud causes me to hum ambiguously for the rest of night.
My sweat pants are the only peace I will pull off for the time being - and that’s okay.
I just want sleep - but my eyeballs are restless and full of questions. Shhhh - to bed now. A little tea, a joint, some t.v., a late night phone call with a long lost friend, a lover, my mother - when I’m real desperate the operator.
Reading only exasperates the situation. Everywhere is the scent of anticipation - chaos:
As if to say “Was it worth it? The dressing, the eating, the pantomime Really do you feel productive now. At the end of the day?”
Now is the inevitable - and I feel like my whole method ends up in circles.
How long can I stare at this wall? How long?
And - who is taking notes on this? the typewriter in my head? Does she submit these thoughts to the collective memory? You know - the one that decides fate, and law, and history - or do I have to do it myself?
A self subscribed submission signed in memory.
And how much do I pay her? This secretary from hell. Incessantly typing away in my head. click click click.
I quit. Go to bed. Grab a drink - some food- something.
We do. Finally. And I drift off to start again.
