When
I was confirmed in the Catholic Church I was given a medallion of St. Jude: the
patron saint of lost causes. Ten years later I swallowed that medallion on an
acid trip; I don’t remember it ever passing.
God is good and great and kind, when
the church is raptured I’ll be left behind. I’ll flee to the Midwest where
nobody will be left and turn on all the vacancy signs. I believe I should still
have seven years left to repent.
Well, that’s the extent of my
theological training, I woke this morning to find it raining; an excise tax was
levied on the excrement of my mind. A drop of booze I cannot find and no one
can sell alcohol for two more hours. It will probably take me that long to shower
and get dressed.
The world is unimpressed with my
words, this diary of diarrhea I call The Dark Streets of Decay. Reality exists
apart from my perception but I can only perceive and I don’t like to perceive
reality sober. I am not in the bell jar or down the rabbit hole; I’m just an
arrow without a bow because the archer is waiting for the wind to die down.
I’m still waiting for the stores to
open, staring at the confines of my quiver. The rain makes me shiver or is it
the withdrawals? Was there a point when we crawled out of the sea other than to
eat forbidden fruit from a tree? Pleasing to the eye, making us die sooner than
the sun in winter.
I am the dancing splinter on the
surface of the eye viewing a liquid avalanche of bourbon whiskey and bullet
rye. Can there be cinema without circuitry? Can left field be to the right of
me? Can I drink enough to empty the sea so I will never drown?
Why is morning never a habitat for
horror films? Waking up is the worse scare, I need to calm my nerves. It’s six
A.M., batter up, prepare to serve. I wish I had a windshield with a car
attached, I could get there faster, walking is a disaster, but it is probably
the only thing good for me I will do today.
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