Valentine’s Day. A window to peer through. Who indeed celebrates it? Cupid, even hobos having heart shaped red boxes full of candy to spare. Bright sun upon the disuse of snow. Melting stopping you in your tracks. Long pursed lip pause along the fractious social inattention. Some have shopping rags. Some have deeper closets. And some are on the bum within their own long overused underwear! And yet, still others still, are contemplating a much freer life! People watch normal. Normality whatever that is? As abnormality goes, too Left or too Right. Something at the apex, or within the lowest dimension of a crevice. People liberally in surround as inexplicable as the fact of one’s own existence. Why? No qualms about cameras, static or drone mounted. Yet flash those human eyes in an unwarranted manner in an untoward direction and then catch the hoopla! Iconic visage topics undergone in tomb borne possibilities of inane explanations shunning these modern times. What a dialogue! Held in silence within one’s self. About the many demeanor’s passing by one on their way to uncertain futures. Perhaps a machine producing same existing just out of sight? Is this responsible for the singularity of the greater illusion? How do you put this mental Swan Song in print? Tchaikovsky? These animals padding back and forth behind this glass before one. Whatever the incongruities! The attempt is genuine and faithful and even being well-intentioned.
Concert time of decadent works of longstanding presupposed art. The same old prudish characters hobbling in. Some approaching on their last legs. Dear sweethearts all! All and all, faithful to the glories of the past. And determined to be as best as able in consort with the fade afflicting them. What remains within the ancient shells of these still young? Resisting that fate with whatever remains lurking within unsung and still young? Resisting what meager fate that has inevitably descended from above to rest upon the inevitable. How many will be absented from this gathering next Spring? Music that Maurice Ravel could appreciate. Sweet, delicate to the ear. Bringing forth the best tones of the instruments. Someone’s perfume overpowering but not reaching the level of annoyance. But yet, not far off the mark. Gothic old lady chic. “What the fuck is chic any ways?“, as the latest popular movie had said. A forest of hopes. All strangers, some transfixed by this performer. Some by their own God almighty. The imagined remnant of the grand salon of the Belle Epoque. Hanging on collections of fast paced notes drifting into imminent oblivion. If not cheerfully so. Pleasure and happy thoughts. Items no longer in fashion. A separation from audience to performer, not unlike from left hand to right hand. The level of respect maintaining silence in the hall growing troubling like a dumb cane. Some traditions, all ‘black‘, lodging loud protest in constant discontent from their own persistent surround of this enclave of whiteness. Something that they call in their own self-conjured sense rightful consternation. Something by the fact of their own moral lack to right of evidencing same. The slow creep of death announced so over dramatically by Liszt. Dance of Death like some Hollywood big budget vehicle summoned from a half a century past.
Wrestling with the border guard who took liberties with my eyeglasses. Taking his tit for tat. The battle for each in clever words and a over the shoulder flip while my mother looked on. I was not Douglas Fairbanks but I took his cue.
A struggle in my bed and reach for my gun but it is suddenly too heavy to employ. I wake up and drop it back down. A lady salesman appears and shows me a pellet gun and a small revolver. A Daisy. The two remarkably like what I had in childhood. The younger generation hates me. Hates my generation and wishes it would die. As I wished for my own father to pass on sometimes. All for the mortal crime of being out of step with the way things tend to change. And daring to become ancient in spite.
“And God took away the power of speech and thus all humanity was confounded.”
The state took your balls. They leave you no options. A woman of today is not complete without a man to order around . Very publicly so. No more room for being male. Picking up the check perhaps? Daily life from one crisis to the next. Long train carriages leading one boxcar to the next all a foregone conclusion. Only one’s demeanor shifting.
The cold air format the gray world outside should have frozen the empty heat within. It merely challenged those supposedly within its reach to recall it. An artist’s life struggling constantly like fish just taken fresh from the water. That shrug of an explanatory smile. A fearless display of the plunge out of earthly existence. Mystery posed by a pair of over ample hips. A portal? One absurd assumption posed after another. Life cannot be that bad! Aggression barely clothed in the thinnest apparition of humor. A coffeehouse. A lifeboat.
Escape through a wooded glen. Pile of old weapons of war. Everywhere the shade of rust of what was. Supposedly was? Small arms and machine guns. Everywhere! MG42’s, a memory minefield foregone. Conclusions waiting patiently just behind the treeline.
There was a certain restlessness in his demeanor. Something beyond the collusion of opposites. Of the imminence of joyful times and simple relaxation. And constant disappointment. As if he stood before his own closet trying on old items from his wardrobe. Seeing if they still fit? The scheduling for the operation was on this coming Monday. The best part of the day and Sunday to work out or discover whatever enjoyment was left. Whether his usual routine would continue? Continue or not.
Death A. Head. The surface only skimmed. Raked. Above the tender surface below. Of, “who I am.” Of who I was. Or whom I had become. Life, purloined thoughts. Interposed with maybe? Maybe not. Maybe not my own. Trivia, Trivial. Vitality to be sapped. Childhood destroyed. Old, old like the odd fellows. Their bar close up. Up upon the ceiling. The phone falling apart and rendered un-fixable. My lady friend far ahead long gone. A head. Time to write the will. The world gone gray made sick . Turned afoul. Destroyed. Humanity. Godhood gone.
What would have been like to be in the arms of someone who loved you. Again? What! As if it had ever happened? Old memories buried in each other on a pile. A pyre. Locked in place and no longer available. But you’re here. Still? Aren’t ya! That’s it. Walking around like a ghost without a clue of what brought you to this haunt. What kind of love is that. Smelling the stains. Laying on an old broken down mattress. Pretending that you know something. Like something, someone knows you. Who is kidding who. Who has? Yourself. A thought after thought after thought after thought. Echo. Two mirrors! Someone’s truth lies between. Is it you. Your’s? You want her talk. Talk, talk, talk. You wanted them all to talk. Safe to talk. They did! Then they did! And it was all about something. Anything!Nothing. But not you! You couldn’t understand that. Not you. That you didn’t enter into the equation. You never did. Never! You were a ghost. A ghost of a dream. A ghost in a dream! Your dream. Never! Never, never, never. Neverland. You were a child tucked into pajamas. Not a man. No! Never. Sucking your thumb. Sucking their tits. Sucking and fucking. Fuck off! You might have felt their passing fury. Felt a tremble through their body. That tremble. Trembling? For a moment. For an instant? Never. But you were not available. Never were. That was you sin. The sin of self. You alone. The key that wouldn’t open any door. You were locked out. Out in the cold. Cold. Dead cold. Like dead. And so why? Why ask the questions. “Where’s my money?” Why ask. Why! You know the answer. Don’t you? You do! Now. Now is not the time. The time. No longer the time to ask.
The proud parent thinking that they had done the right thing taking their child to the amusement park asked, “Well! How was it?” The little boy stared back quizzically and replied, “I’ll tell you when I finally get back from the very last one.” And who of any of us can say that we have ever gotten off that merry-go-round since? Or indeed have wanted to? Even if it finally kills everything about us that may have been decent in the end? We spend the night in fear of our own cowardice to act in our own behalf. Leaders and perpetrators may be one and the same but the real party at fault is ourselves for going along. Is the life of a fantasy soaked slave so sweet that he cannot risk breaking his chains? What is so magnificent about carrying the very weapon of your enemy about in your hand and then taking it’s cancerous emanations into your head? Who told you that you could not wash your own clothing by hand in a washtub? Who told you that you had to allow yourself to be injected with the same poison that is spread by the same institutions that wish to eliminate you? Why must your take a necktie as anything beyond what it is intended to symbolize beyond a noose that you eventually hang yourself with? The populations of the major cities are simply self deluded fools that think that their lifetimes are simply about being owned like spoiled pets. Fulfilling a false illusion of individuality while in fact they are merely rearranged cogs glued into place on phantom wheels designed to grind them into their own slow inevitable destruction. The plans of which having been planted through careful drama’s endless repetition written by those very enemies that have lived amidst them for generations as parasites. The existence that your persist in perpetuating is your own folly and no one else’s. You let ‘evil‘ rule existence, that less than ironic polar opposite of ‘live‘, and then wait around humbly, like empty headed sheep, for the consequences to catch up to you. The only sure thing in this equation being your own assured end on someone else’s terms.
How to meet your end. Do you hold out your hand like a hobo? Thumb out in the relative direction of travel that you wish to go? To new places where no one knows you. And those few that do only will find you again in a passing sigh at the discovery of your obituary. Is this mortality? Are we all so timid that we cannot risk the road and the reality of life beyond the waiting chaos of another day? Who are the zombies now? Those who would brave the wilderness living ont he edge? Or the rest of use who are terrified at the prospect of no one any longer saying, “Hello?” Can you say goodbye to an entire existence of your own few endless decades? Who is the captain now? To give up the power of the illusion of certain destiny in a bus ticket. To be willing to be left in the middle of nowhere and not survive. In the final chapter that you yourself have not read but can only write. The one that you suddenly realize in shock is that last instant. Who is the fool then? Who is the fool now? Maybe we are all fools to think otherwise?
This universe feasts on questions. The emptiness of chaos ever eternally hungry and needing to be filled. All the temples of the world that sanction safety mere dust on your divan. The gold melted down. The metals gone to rust. Smiling corpses of fractured marble and granite. Nothing survives! Yet life persists? We all dream on at the foot of an awakening volcano. The approach of warm covers in hot magma.Stay to still and the birds will peck your eyes out. You will wear down to the ankles. Yet inside you will be alive. Fatally entombed within the withering self. Needing to be free of the past that weighs you down. Those unkind stares that convey short tempers and a basic irritation that people like you are still alive. Short fuses and big lawns. They all want their fantasies free of you. So how do you survive? Commit suicide by just walking out the door without ever stopping to look back? Ride the rails until one day your head lays squashed upon it? So many questions that cannot be answered except through inevitable actions. So get going and find out!
Exquisite bits of pain
drift your glass across my heart
let the shards cut deep
let me melt
and know what it is to be alive again!
Watch it drift across the lane
lonely and low
lest it seek you out
lest it call your name
and know what it is to be alive again!
Step slow step along
upon the edge of teeter upon your long dried tears
lament your into knots
lament her as you had once known
and know what it is to be alive again!
Exquisite bits of perfidy known
that tails the lies that you dare not speak
lock tight your lips
lock off your heart
and know what it was to be alive again!
The doors of old familiarities close and other theoretically open. Or so they say? Your’s is a universe neglected. So filled to the brim with that others now considered as refuse from the hoary distant past. These gates are to your palace. Neglected. When you become quiet enough to remember so. Old melodies of sad love gone awry. Plodding finger strummed lute-like across faded things. Who can remember their sting? Those old disappointments when love’s ship was pushed aside by an ill wind upon rocks of a foreign shore. And now, as all else fails, you are brought back to that very moment when you once again abandoned all. And now. You want to hear that melody sung again from the sad living instrument of her bygone voice. That very same one that so long ago you heard last before you turned her into a mermaid. Bereft of limb and heart. The very one that you left so far back and behind by you lack of virtue betwixt land and sea. You deserved your sorrows. You deserve this death. Locked out from what once made life worth living. Sitting now peacefully before the gates of time. Errant winds of time caressing you absentmindedly like that same forgotten hand. So long absent. Long and slow are the strings that drag this feeling out of you. The ayres about you moaning in their slow mournful cry of sailors, decks awash, caught within their tears. Too late. Eternal winds blow. Blow forth into that narrow space caught within the past. Both horror and delight. Your sleep will take you from this safe refuge to return finally only to yourself. The current drift of that barque, now empty, that you once called you. Slowly down to the river’s mouth. Slowly on through towards the end of time. Your lifeless eyes surrendered unconditionally to the endless blue of heavens long desired above.
(John Dowland – “Dear If You Change”)