Kinless the Ghost calls for his shadow

“I have seen a person who walked, walked, and walked until he ran into a train”
-Akinwumi Isola

Alcohol is a harsh mistress. A shame society accepts it, but society also accepts people you love who don't love you... coincidence? Yes.

Wisdom is a miserman, hidden away on top of a lonely hill, in a cave perhaps. Having been to that cave when last on the mountain I can tell you skinny he makes a fat lot of sense that doesn't sound anything near the sense people expect you to spout when they say: "make sense" (Mandate.)

For instance: Last night having determined to write a blog about how love ain't for me I meet a girl who is. (Man, date!)

Provocation is fleeting. Here's the damn blog anyway God, you asshole:

I type in my password: BATMAN, (My password is always BATMAN. Except for those systems that require you to change it frequently, or add a number or lowercase, in which case my password is NotBATMAN1) log into the blog site
and slog right
into the writing
of my lastnight forgotten amblings aplaced bry beaded blossoms
mercuric on the evocation of the idea:

What wrong right? Meditate:

Intimacy is an almost muscular struggle for me, both literally and metaphorically. It's debilitating. I come out of a relationship like a miner after a 48hr day, permanent exhaustion buried like a flock of lice under my eyes.

Then the demon alcohol calls me. A Stoli mermaid on the rocks, siren. I don't want to go to the bar, wail. Protest, don't wanna a drink tonight (Waa!) but still my Chevy swerves, drives there anyway, traffic conspiring against a turn-around backout, I go in. Await the initial shock of the shot I've instinctively ordered, waitering for the perfect sad god jukebox moment to swing in and signal, it has begun.

I won't meet anyone tho. Tho the lights dim.

Meditate. Thinking

Perhaps love isn't for everyone. Perhaps the "there is a someone for everyone myth" is a façade, for for some people love is more of an effort than others, the extremities of experience and feeling are these great vulnerable impasses that impress upon them that perhaps they are meant to be hermits. I am one of these people. I cannot connect with other people. I was not meant to. I am not meant to connect with people.

You know who I can connect with?
The litter strewn open road
-The spontaneous poem
The sleepless night

-The heat lightning that never leads to rain
The nearly moldy leftover Tupperware container at the back of the middle shelf of the refrigerator

-The pot smoking dishwasher's duct-taped Converse
The empire state building as seen from Nova Scotia

-The fighting spirit of the Pecan
The pioneering correspondent on the edge of forever

I am meant to be a heretic. A loner, a frantic wanderer of the worlds of words like
a nude woman running the hallway I like to sing in winter. I like to prick seduction, modest in death alight

when I smoke I take off my shirt and sweat, drinking

Pale. Ale. A bittle of spittle on the drip of my uncommunicative lip.

Somewhere long ago something prematurely
killed off all the minor-key affects in me
like friendliness, boredom, low-level appreciation, passing affection, passionate sexprayer or the wingéd-angel inamorato birdtouch of the unseeable unseeable godking.

The only fermata a lingering yearn.
What left is all

Lascivious sexual fantasy in the chips and candy aisle.

Existential epiphanies in the arbouretum.

I consider writing some lines, some
weight of the world song
couched in lyric light and haw haw but can DMM write it?

No.

____ ____ will end like so many earnest nights thinking & drinking I been through before, a different hand stamp every weekend, the stifling airless bars with inhabitants indigenous & indifferent grumbling & ordering things while in anguish I languish in search of the girl & find instead all inter-woven only human mortality, empty glasses, fears of artistic failure and a tenuous, ambiguous relationship to time reversing til they dig the old sadsacka- up,
Light me up that cigarette and drop a coat on my back
and walk through the valley of the shadow of the last train laughing footsteps that were next to me go
have gone and in the prisms of my mind I've seen enough now to know that beautiful things don't last that way
done enough to know the razor sharp rules of love come disguised in smiles and light
walking towards waters small boats of solitude scrawled upon with names like cowardice leaping rudderless upon the blue ocean blooming crests beneath a chandelier of stars your words remembered still in silent

Meditation: Here I am today.

Despair, debasement, awake the stagger from Dantean music to blunt dejection in the single flicker of his eyes as he shakes his head returns to the purling old-om eastern lung rhythm, sigh. But it could be fun, everyone would love- she will come- he doesn't think so. Write nothing. He returns to the deep from whence... such squalor tonite, I think. Such clamor and fake tits in clubs with such steep covers. Dark pits, the pounding, I look back and see he is calm, or mostly. Like a sigh, A cow, a child going off to school on a day when there is nothing better to do, than go to school.

Of course that's never how it works out.

I met the girl in a simple conversation that you might just call chance and leaping hearts abound, you
, astounds, you. You, O

We all know

where this is going. We make plans and love sours them. I have no idea why I even went out last night. Next thing you know I'll be marrying the girl and then kids making me ambitious get a job to support the many suckling suck mouths and I

think

Man!

Man fuck the regiment and it's little interlaces of certitude. Ask about my String Theory. What wrong stellefaction? What wrong mundanities? Animism? My saints protect me, stroking I pray

to:

St. Nothing of the Real Hard Sadness

St. Nothing of the Doggystyle fuck

St. Nothing of the Steady Speculation

st. Nothing of the Little Strolling Week

St. Nothing of the Smoking Recollection

St. Nothing of the 9000 Parliament Glare

St. Nothing of the talking Dead Chicken Dumpling

St. Nothing of the Least Remembered Conversations

St. Nothing of the Hand-holding Wonders

St. Nothing of the Thinking away the night

St. Nothing of the Whole Boring Yesterday

St. Nothing of the Last Seventeen Rides

St. Nothing of the Nonstop Phone Ringing Ringing

St. Nothing of the Let's Talk Exception

St. Nothing of the Stewing Purchased Want

St. Nothing of the Pictures without Voices

St. Nothing of the Grisly Wild Lake Littoral

St. Nothing of the Ruthless Tide Salvation

St. Nothing of the Another Weekend Ends

What wrong adoration?

I want to write a blog saying love is not for me, and meet a girl. While I am sleeping the clouds roll in, I guard the interior from a further interior, my dreams prey on each other, procreating vultures, copulating with their dead offspring eternally groundless that usually live in the darker recesses of my mad cornered mind. What do my dreams dream about?

When the last nostalgia?

Where the floorboards of content?

My brave night disguises melt and pour onto the sequestered self's tiny remaining box, inaccessible, the singular puzzle inside I hear the rains harden and moreover watch out the window with my eyes still shut as great uproareous projectile shape-clouds graze the sky. I am deaf, I scream in the dream and awake, naked. Meditate.

The whole thing weighing on me, finding it's apex on the back of my throat and I yawn, not alone any longer. She beside me. The tousseled blankets our nights' only legacy.