Broken, down and out, no store of self-worth left.
flat tire car dreams, with no spare
out of gas, a path left to weft
with just some more bumps in the road
“The designated driver of a car hauling four young girls, post teenagers laid up on a small college town Saturday. Looking for fun, all giggly and crazy, and in their newly found sophisticated way finding new avenues in unsophisticated avenues to explore. Dropping them off at the front of the school in the downtown portion. Walking around the main building having to pee bad but only searching out a hole on the second floor parking level making me somewhat hesitant to give it what for. That spy hole serving simply as another view of what’s below. Recalling all the way how they all chimed in just minutes before about I was the original Adam. And chiding me in a chorus about how I was such an old man guilty of this and that! And then I told them that maybe I was guilty of being the original Adam, but then again, who knows?”
We were all young and uninhibited at the beginning of the seventies. Pumped up with that reigning propaganda that it was a new world and you can so anything! It didn’t matter who you screwed. Pleasure was all that counted. Her face showed all the symptoms of stigma. Tiny, skinny, emotionally faceless, a visage presenting a mask of Latex rubber, something that served to heighten her display of angst combined with passion much too readily. She played the baby doll! That was her thing. Acting out this phony form of innocence while all the while obsessing about her empty vagina and how she might have her own fingers within it. Or connive somebody else’s fingers into it to give her pleasure. So she walked about bare bottomed in an over-sized tuxedo shirt only passively inviting anyone that was near. But little was she aware that the face that she presented was exactly the same as that of a cheap plastic love doll. And everyone in that house rejected her. And now she towered over her rival, the one with the big hips, as she took the garbage out. An invitation not necessarily rebuffed, but followed up with her slyly insincere smile having left the bottom buttons of the shirt undone to display her sex nonchalantly. The other unperturbed still posed in a serious manner that did not bespeak any favorable potential in the moment. After all, what was sex but the relieving of tension by two people belying an unconscious contest of two people to see who would finally surrender to whom? Could she drop her own facade of propriety and surrender to the rubber face doll woman? Or would she have the other one on her knees licking her own hairy cunt? That salacious juice of those times flowing forth social anarchy. That insincere smile of her’s now a half snotty leer.
It was last call at the Paradise Cafe. Everyone sitting at the tables, those few left, not having been taken away. Dreams of paradise in a world of stretch mark pocked paradise scenes. Look at the table! Is that an ant you see? What once might have been a thing thoroughly renown, now no longer but in a ditch where others could be found. Why wonder the ways of man and his fundamental precepts less bland? Trying as hard as one could imagine those dark mysteries carved more nefarious than any Plantagen’. Let thee flow, those thoughts from afar, but once flesh severed plunge Formaldehyde forth jarred. The chisel gone awry. Chipped and cracked, this visage of the end; all the lovers and companions, once your friends. Not much to be said that one would care to hear. Another Autumn come and gone, another new year. . . [flushing sound].
Old and totally useless. Don’t let me near anything, valuable! Because, of course, I can’t operate them anymore. I have no new thoughts, all my old thoughts have boiled away. I am white lime scum upon the inside of an aluminum pan over worn to mere lead and toxic to any new ideas. The past should rightfully be killed! And all those that dare to linger in it, summarily suffocated by the same old lid that goes upon that old pot. The temperature turned up all the way until the contents dissolved leaving pink white bone fresh sluicing through. “Yes, the bone, answer the phone!” Since everyone now watches the phone bereft of any possible sense of noble dignity, that phrase is lost passed as well! Nobody watches a telephone, unless it rests smartly in the palm of their hand. It has replaced your Dick that you used to unconsciously grab and pump. And likewise with any female in terms of that magic groove. Instead, there’s the phone in your hand! Ever ready and ever present always there to Siri you along to your most expected point of desire. Unfortunately, there’s no more points left! Just you and the phone. Somewhat of a desert island happenstance? Even Robinson Crusoe had his Friday! Mister Godot keeps on waiting for another text to arrive. Or another missed phone call to be recorded so as to, “Call me right back!“, without hesitation. Yes, it’s a paperless universe! And the trees of the Amazon are safe once again. Because, of course, your life is not worth being inscribed. And your bodies are not worth the drain that will most likely be poured through at some later date when you’re no longer useful to that sense of endless, mindless consensus. It will just struggle on without you like a wave hitting the beach only to recede into the same nothingness of the total singularity of humanity. Always selfless and ever worried about the other guy, the other gal. Those no longer willing or able to attend to one’s self, and in that way achieve a form of eternal satisfaction. No epiphanies. No alternate forms of sexual fulfillment. The orgasm now as forgotten as it theoretically was in the age of one’s grandparents. They had each other! And all you have is the phone. Sitting there, waiting again for a text to arrive or someone to leave a message so that you can call them right back. Do you think that is the way that things should be? Because you Samuel Beckett type of experience having no longer anything useful to say beyond something trivial spoon fed to you over the airwaves or within one of those pitch black flickering auditoriums; where the seats are full of butter popcorn cum. The oil soaking into the loins of your Docker pants that are getting threadbare from that seat, . . . and not from sex! Let me remind you that it’s just last call at the Paradise Cafe. You and the bedbugs sitting around waiting for the next sucker to arrive to give him the once over. To check his, or her’s, passport as they wander through the way station of another one who just unexpectedly disappeared into the nothingness of forever. As the waves beat down on the shore, mindless and soulless, without any expectation of any fulfillment beyond helping the unseen anonymous others. “Making the world a better place!” “Being part of change!” “Making a difference.” “THAT’S WHAT THIS WORLD IS!”, as you sit there and look at your reflection in the palm of your hand from that instrument that buzzes, and vibrates, and tries to take on your persona; and steals your breath and emulates your life source. You go down to magic land to walk around with the rest. “OMG“, you say, “There’s horseshoe on the street!” “I haven’t seen that scene since grandfather days!” Well, you can sure smell it, and walk through it, if you care to. And bring a little home on the bottom of your shoes to reminisce later on. Oh, how to stop this wheel, this merry go round, this Ferris Bueller type of world; where for one day we look for epiphanies for everything that’s lost when our hands were empty and filled with ourselves. No longer the significance of others to consider, to concern. No, we’ve got Siri in the palm of our hands.
There was a time when I was young when I still felt pain from being alive, from going where I shouldn’t, and knowing what I should, and meeting those by happenstance, that would, or wouldn’t be my friend, down below that theater stage. Finding purpose, the first time in an instant, to make my bones in a world that otherwise would be indifferent. I think of that girl, that woman to me. A “Miss” in front of her name by necessity of authority. That Dutch name, and that gal, six or seven years older trying to inspire and promote. At the same time going out to Old Town for a little action to maybe find a “Mr. Right“. Transfer hopes and dreams over to the next generation of another world. To take their innocence and mold it and give it direction like an arrow sent forth over a stand of trees into the next field unseen. Well, now, that field is bare. And those trees have been long ago cut down and strip malls built over them. And those strip malls are mostly on their third of forth generation of consumer focused business. The ones that, all they do is dump goods from the other side of the world in return for paper dollars and virtual plastic swipes. All the mystery and gladness in waking up each day to find something new deferred to some magic time where hope still promises an ending that will satisfy the quest that’s been carried upon one’s back all these years. The legs weary and the feet sore in the attempt to find something. Something that was lost long ago where that arrow hit the ground into verdant green. As if reflected within the blue of pale flesh surrounded eyes. Yes, many of those have come and gone since. And now they all look into their own drowning pool wondering how to continue being able to stay above its surface and not sink down. For it’s all past. Who knows there that Hensel girl had gone? Or if still with us, and what she thinks now after all those efforts to send many, like those of us, forward into the world. To find, hopefully, who we were, or at least to know who we would become. I am a design from a pattern that was first conceived from the model of someone else’s life. An empty ritual, a fatal ceremony, how can I speak otherwise? How can one really know what it is to be that arrow to be set forth by hands unknown? To be driven away from the very thing that set you forth with an idea in mind. And you, just an empty shaft streaming through the bright blue sky; for a moment to have an epiphany of what it meant to be alive. Only to fall into cold hard mud beneath the green coverlet grass; to what purpose or aim since you weren’t a seed to grow anything new? Such is life on the planet of doom.
“There was an available job far up north in Minnesota. And I was out already, a far out around the city driver, driving around or something . . . I don’t know? I was told to immediately take a bus, or a train, or a Greyhound all the way up there with whatever money I had in my pocket. So I am thinking to myself, yeah, I travel all the way up there to do whatever. Very little money in my pocket, if the whole thing falls apart, how am I going to get back? Stuck there in a city without anything! It’s an urban thing versus a rural thing. The rural no longer could trust the people, trust what might go on. It was too happenstance. What I was about to do was a hundred percent film flam.”
– POSTSCRIPT –
“The British regiment in another land acting as some part of an international body that was carrying out a variety of different missions it had to carry out over a short period of time. The regimental commander was changing up the orders and not necessarily following the script that was handed down to him by the powers that be of that international body. And there was some questions as if he was responsible for decommissioning the unit as some form of protest of being under a different flag in terms of command. This was very interruptive the plans of the body that was directing strategy from afar.”
It appears that I have caught up with myself? I am my own fugitive in trying to hide from myself, hide the truth from myself, so that I can continue on care free. You can’t run and be care free. Sooner or later you have to face your own truth and give an acknowledgement of the same. Quit frankly, I’ve given up. I’ve given up on myself, I’ver given up on others, I’ve given up. Like a blanket of snow upon a car’s engine block at midnight; everything below is dead and cold. You can’t engage with life unless you are ready to abide the dirtiness and discomfort that quickly wrecks those fantasies that you took so long to carefully craft. To accept without question those that you claimed to be entranced by to promise to love without reservation smelling the smells and enduring the headaches and accepting it; engaging in it; and perhaps growing to love it in total. Though the very sound of my own voice voicing same sounding inauthentic knowing that I have always been a performer, performing an act for the benefit of the imminence of my perpetual forgetfulness expressing the right answer before ever asking the right question.