mad drunk genius

I used to have all sorts of problems. Now there's just the one.

I am a fool who knows better & chooses worse

April 11, 2017
——I sat here last year, also with the sun in my eyes.
What good, what hope, is there that this cycle will exceed the
prior ones?
——Waking not-hungover (tho deserved) on a couch as like
——from a nap to hear the splash of stomach purging
——into a toilet walls-away & wondering, ‘Is my
——housemate sick from some microbial invader or
——last nite’s microbrew invited excessive in?’ The
——answer of sickness put-upon or self-made soon
——arrives as he leaves his room to go to work usual.
——You must live with yr misery when you’ve earned it. 

The older I get, the more sensitive I get to my creepiness.
I always was, but I’m more aware now than then & suspect
people will be less forgiving of my flab, wrinkles,
& gray hairs.
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You’ve loved this much before & know how it ends

Knowing & behaving are cousins, but only
kissing cousins. To be fair, well, we already lost.
——Whores know better than to kiss on the
——mouth. That’s how you mix up work & love,
——esp. when both are pleasurable. But I havent
——learned that yet, or ifI have, I cant
——quit doing it. You cant come back.
There is inside me a powerful critic, good & useful
& worthwhile when pointed at a great many things.
But at myself, in a depression, it is nothing but a
magnificent rot, spreading horrible into everything, esp.
what I love. The peculiar genius is to connect all
that makes me happy back to some triggering incident of
unhappiness. ‘Your grandmother is dying & you’re too
old to be enjoying cartoons.’ ‘Your family is in pre-mourning,
and you dont even bother to tell them about those you
love or why.’ ‘Everything you write is embarrassing,
not just too you but anyone who is connected to you.’
——Your happiness is no less worthy.
I dont see how ‘I ruin people’ is a good addition to my
resume, no matter how accurate it is. She knew better.
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Everything terrible thing that happened once can happen again, & worse

——It aint been a year in this margin quite but nearly & may as well.
I’ll switch to a narrower pen in just a line.
——I never know what I want except that it’s always the other thing.
There’s a woman at this bar, lead singer of a damn good band, and she
asked for my number twice, texted at me twice, then ignored me. I dont
fuckin know what she after, but I’m too tired to put any work in to figurin
it out. Maybe that’s what she’s after & if so, good call by her.
——The band playing just now is good enough, but he cant really play
——Roger Miller worth a damn
‘The lead singer has laryngitis.’ Aint that just the way.

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Words that taste

Synesthesia is a fun experience, or can be. Drugs draw it out. They help temporarily pull down barriers between senses or corrode the segregating walls so that later, a moment experienced several ways is understood in one shared way rather than by sensations committee.

Even when full & happy sober, the melding of perceptions strikes, and the one most common is taste & hearing, but language really. I don’t have the oral palette to appreciate much of anything, and yet somehow my brain is able to intake words it doesn’t fully understand or has heard used only rarely before but still grasps some of their provenance & texture and still able to love & enjoy words as if I’m rolling them around on my thoughts for pure pleasure.

Using ‘indolence’ instead of ‘being lazy’ makes a sentence feel massively more clever, more specific. The idiosyncrasies of connotations versus denotations—ah!

Good conversations are like meals that feed you just as well in the remembering of them.

How many socks is everything

At a college bar, arguing art, inspiration, the genius of Jim Morrison. At the end was he still clever and the poetry just too much unrestrained genius for mere mortals to comprehend, or was it just the pure unadulterated shit from a lazy and undisciplined former talent?

It’s the tension, I said. The need to be creative in opposition to something. It’s the Prolific and the Devouring. The Satanic creativity chokes itself to death without some fire coming to burn up the chaff, to force it to go beyond its own wont and find some new path.

But my trouble ain’t in not having restraint; like most people it’s not having enough genius. My brain don’t have the good thoughts anymore, my eye has cataracts even for what it sees clear. I can’t hear nothing, and what I do hear, I don’t write down so it’s just lost.

The other day, on the bus, fellow says, ‘I can’t talk. I used to be pretty. I’m kinda fat now. And nappy-headed. But I’m still pretty.’ ‘Cept not that exactly because he used a different word than pretty before using a mocking an African immigrant next to him and ‘joking’ for 10 minutes about eating his dog. Dude was drunk and stoned, but that’s just a bus ride, and I warnt drug nor stoned and didn’t write down nothing so what even was the point of bothering to notice or drop eaves?

There’s creativity just in bothering to notice reality and preserve it, present it in a certain way. I lost it. All I got left is arguing with people, writing in opposition to an idea. Hatred and spite, that’s all I can manage. It’s all I’m good for, some inert blob except when provoked, like a frog corpse that kicks reflexively when jolted with electricity.

After the original argument at that same college bar, I played darts on boards warped tit-shape till some fellow rolling on I don’t know what did climb up on his drink table, then go lay down on a pool table, then get coaxed down to take off shoes and socks for maybe half an hour before climbing again on the table and starting to play with his fly as like to try to water the billiard green. That brought the server and bartender, and he got off but laid down on a second pool table, then chased off that, laid down on the first one again till he got pulled off by his ankles and threatened with physical violence to get the fuck on out.

But I didn’t take any details down in the moment, no shirt color, nothing about the hair style, or how many socks he had on going out the door, and that’s fucking life man! That’s everything.

I used to have people who’d ask and chew me out for not knowing what color eyes a dead toddler had, and now I can’t even count socks. So what’s the point?

‘Shanghai’ — like the city

The tragedy of contemporary mediocrity is that you don’t even get the satisfaction of feeling your displeasure is anything remarkable.

No! You’re one of millions experiencing exactly this, and no matter how intense you think you feel it, you know your mediocre talents mean that you’ll never be more than part of a chorus.

There’s nothing wrong with singing in a chorus except that you’re aware there are also people out there who are not of your same class, but think themselves so, will be far better at expressing the ennui of people like you than you are of conceiving of your own.

The last refuge of mediocrity is supposed to be ignorance of it, but in our wonderful world of progress, the standard of criticism has risen to the point where that is no longer possible.

The WiFi password here is ‘Shanghai’, except the server demurs to tell you exactly how it’s spelled. Deferring to their frequent experience, I understand that this knowledge is not at all universal, and yet it’s the biggest city in the world. Who wouldn’t know how to spell that?

In the United States, tens of millions of people. And then some number, I have no idea how many, can be aware of this while also being aware that neither this ignorance nor this knowledge is remarkable.

In Europe, after the fall of the Western Roman Empire and before the rise of nation-states, almost everyone lived under a worldview that Christianity was correct and everyone had their place in it. Your suffering was proper and deserved.

Modernity has brought this same sort of secular awareness. Life is short, death is certain, and suffering is universal. Your own is neither more intense nor more interesting than anyone else’s. You don’t deserve to feel anything, even disappointment, when your experience is placed next to the whole of the human race.

I am one small flickering light among many other flickering lights, and although my pattern matters somewhat to the cohesiveness to the overall, on its own it matters not at all.

This is difficult teaching. Who can accept it?

You’re never really dating, just sharpening knives for your future ex

Youth is an experiment in disappointments. Youth is trusting stupidly in the unwitting hopes it turns out well for you against odds you don’t know or don’t believe.

Maturity is the accumulation of aches, not least among them the knowledge that love sours. All sweet wonderfulness felt prior disappears but not invisibly, because like Newton’s Third Law, any affection once gone turns to hate, and so all that you once trusted in a person will be turned against you.

They love you now; they’ll hate you then. If you agree happily to a sex video while mutually raptured, the hell of their solitary relationship confinement ought to make you fret and worry.

I don’t know how relationships work except by this fantasy, and the fantasy is not sufficient to preserve most, even so.

Maybe that’s fine or proper or necessary. Some small portion can be jettisoned off into bliss, or workable hard work, and the rest of us are excised like pus filled infections to torture one another, mostly, till we find someone else poisonous enough complimentary to be antiseptic to our worst impulses.

It’s OK. I have few motivating impulses, but the natural rest of my own misery is one of them. I’ll make no one happy beyond the temporary, but I’ll help a lot of folk learn their future lessons well.

I’m terrible boyfriend material, and I’m non-existent marriage material, but as future ex, I’m tough to beat.

Memories all, but some blacked out

Everything terrible, everything horrid.
Garbage in, garbage out.
Except never out,
always collecting.

Kitchen corner piled trash:
never opened paper mail,
almost-empty cans dripping
sticky sweet puddles solid underneath.
Brown longnecks, stripped label-naked,
stuffed to fit wherever in.
Grease-soaked pizza boxes stacked
navel high with rocky crusts
growing mold fuzzy-hairy,
like the technicolor garden in the sink,
it filled with dishes twice past the brim,
casualties of a housemate standoff.

Living room Solo cupped,
living room paper plated.
Living room strewn:
empty half-wrappers,
bags of Cheeto crumbs & dust.
The guitar leans behind a chair,
in tune, maybe, no strings missing.
Stains, you know, stains here-there
Memories all, but some faded.
The red wine spill never comes quite out
in the morning.
Coffee-yellow carpet,
burnt-holed carpet,
from when the hookah coal tumbled clumsy out.

Gallon jug outside the door,
pregnant with cigarette butts,
some few lipstick kissed,
leaking ashy rainwater from cherry-melted plastic wounds,
bursting like a two-day ripe corpse
with all its maggots
in poison stillness frozen.

In the street,
a red-blacked baseball cap,
gasoline-doused & set on fire till
streams of crossing piss choked it wetly,
hissing smoke till flames no more,
an end to the gift of a rakish father,
dead to his son, laughing sobbing drunk.
Come daylight what vapors saved in handle Everclear,
burn the nose, cause throat to gag
where what was spent had bought
hoot and chortle and liquid purge ethanol.

Everything horrid, till after gone for good.

There are already simulations of you out there & more to come

When I drank a lot more, and wrote slightly more, I used to sound like a religious paranoid schizophrenic, manic-depressive with delusions of grandeur and a handful of nearly obsessive associations.

——Humanity is a perversely well-beloved pustule on
——the face of God that’s appreciated for ripening &
—— soon bursting open in  cysty self-destruction.

——’I smell blood!’ the first shark yelled between his guffaw.
——’Why so do I!’ the second chortled.
——But it was just uterine lining.

I am tired & hot & sore and
staring at the ceiling because
the backs of my eyelids are
a view that provides no rest.

There’s an app to take your Facebook statuses and use them to write something about like you’d say. A bit of you, an exaggerated & often nonsensical but occasionally a reminder you’re not so hard to simulate as you might think.

Some of them aren’t anything like what I’d say, only because the grammar is off a bit.

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Piss in my bed, piss on my life

On a Friday, I lost my job & with it my healthcare.

On Monday, I learned that my longterm ex had been sleeping with my housemate, and that his infidelities in their relationship—and her complaints about him doing so as her direct superior—led to his firing & her continued mental breakdown.

On Wednesday, I learned my teeth are in need of much attention that will need dental coverage I probably can’t afford.

Thursday morning I awoke to find a sexual partner had drunk herself to excess & pissed herself in her asleep (again).

Thursday afternoon, a woman who’d just gotten out of a break-up let me know that when she wanted to hang out with me, she had no sexual interest implied.

Very little in this actually related. All of it feels like it is.

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