Fall from Grace

Without altering events or outright lying there are two ways I could have made this entry ( the one that is about to happen and/or is happening) a lot more dramatic;  I could have started off on Monday with events as of then not yet having had occurred or I could have written down shit I was thinking of; reflection on real events, musings on life, sex, death and other fictions. Pardon me, I don’t mean to suggest Sex is a fiction.

Yesterday was the follow up conclusion to a down and dirty trilogy of stupid health care tricks that turned out to be nothing but a thing, or, in fancy health care language, nothing but a chicken wing. Under the writing down musings category, I had something well written in my head about a guy losing a hot-wings eating contest, and when the starters pistol signaled the end, he threw his last wing in the air like some ancient myth expecting it to shake the shackles of this world, breading, hot sauce and all and … well, shit, if I remembered I wouldn’t be bitching about … hmmm, something is missing in the first paragraph, something about how this would be a different entry if I had started on Monday. And that’s been part of the weeks problem. I’ve been missing connections. I mean making them, out loud, social awkwardness, drifting off, like accidental live and in person crazy old guy shit. At any rate I had some cool paragraph about a hot wing eating contest written on the walls of my skull.

I have been scribbling on the margin of word documents, but they are untethered like they were found wandering the alleys, feral, sniffing in empty garbage cans but unsure of what for. Food? Love? Somewhere below will be some orphan documents, the very feral ones just alluded too, if I remember. They aren’t, however, hot wings floating on the thermals high into the firmament. I can’t recall exactly the time or place, but I suggest my fingerprints are pressed firmly into the plastic of the keyboard. Oh, shit. I was reading something where the author said something about pliable acetate, trying to write about eyeglasses and, I think, wax poetic, for a fairly mundane eyeglass review. TR90 is pliable, acetate is relatively rigid. Keep your analogies close and your metaphors closers. If it’s not one thing it’s your mother, and if its not neither its one thing again. Isn’t ain’t a word. Dance like no one’s watching; Pee like everyone is.

Remember that first time we died? I was so in love with you I couldn’t even call out your name, afraid I’d shatter all history of this construct like glass and time and love. It gets easier doesn’t it? Soon even death will carry no memory like a river that leaves her salmon downstream then sinks into the sand, into some other age and is heard from no more.

You are like that river, I am like a new man, wood and cat gut on my lap writing songs so saccharine as to taint the well with my earnest and shallow mewing’s; that first time we died we were so in love. We were dressed in our funereal vestments, our viscera prepared for the fire, our skin for the tomb, for any event and rite that might one day challenge love.

Now, here in this age that calls itself modern (as all ages do) that opens love and sex like some new gift but one expected all along, with some praise that has been rehearsed; “Touch me there,” you’ll growl, I’ll loose a peal of laughter from high above the clocktower to the ground, and we will dove tail in our fall from grace with sweat and blood and sperm.