June 10, 2018
The last five weeks have been jam-packed with change. Change in the form of loss. Loss felt so deeply, so profoundly, I’ve invoked the rule of three twice to stop the bleeding. But the hemorrhage will not be contained.
Of course, I understand why they’re gone. There is a shared burden of responsibility.
Love is unrestrained alliteration. Love is also cliche. Together, they are unshackled from their deplorableness and spooled into vistas of meanings. They become the pertaining-tos and no longer-withouts, and take on ruddy hued waves of sentimental symbolism. They are the over lacquered woodgrain stared into between pints. They are bar stools that are claimed like inheritances passing from forgotten family to impoverished descendants and immediately squandered. Songs on a flip-board jukebox that once whipped the 9PM crowd into a frenzied ad-hoc choir stutter-fucking a slurry of melody and memory. The clock strikes midnight and the song ceases to exist for the aggrieved. Wiped from time and eternity as if the band was assassinated by some temporal department of righting things. First, kill Hitler, next smother Fredrik Saroea and Ketil Mosnes in the crib—also, The Cure.
Then the belovedness passes into a space between memory and forgetting. The mere mention of certain albums leaves sticky confusion and a gatling heartache as if some dark and brooding fury will truly never be completely leached free of a world gone wrong. I become Whoopie Goldberg in Yesterday’s Enterprise, feeling the shape of a timeline gone astray. My technobabble won’t get me home though. At least in this timeline, I get some sort of belt/suspender hybrid. It’s the sort of stupid article of clothing that is invented in times of trouble. A glaring oversight of both form and function. I suppose it’s there to answer the question: “What is missing from this one piece, zips from the back, military issued uniform?”
If you answered “pockets” you are wrong.
The answer is the suspend-a-belt. It holds your phaser. It toughens-up your onsie. Oh my god, the entire crew of the Enterprise D is technically wearing what Thaddeus Venture would call a “Speed Suit”.
You have to call me sometimes. You have to care.
Why did I write that as if you still will? Whatever.
I guess I get to write bad poetry now, and since I have nothing better to do, actually submit them to literary magazines like I’m in college for this shit.
Bill Murry’s curse in Groundhogs day was repeating the same day over. His blessing was knowing it. For me however, the ignorance consumes. It goes neon. It becomes a Vegas Strip cowboy sign puffing on a cigarette one second and then pointing at a slot machine in another. The starlight goes dim again. The decans will be back after these messages. Fade to commercial. Cue up the CRT television static. Crunch the foil over the antenna and douse the signal, drag it back. Screaming, if need be.
Jesus Christ this past fucking month. Nothing but eras ending all at once like a star collapsed somewhere in the place where our lives connect and snatched us from each other in a single breath. Or at least from me. Little old me. Still angry, still fidgeting with fear and loneliness. Failing multiple job interviews. Disillusioned with my industry, cowed by its closest cousin, marketing, and what nonsense that involves. It’s me. I’m snuffing the candle. On purpose. I think.
Fuck you, too