13 Sep 2007

methadone for a memory junkie

This morning, it's
manufactured consent with self.
I'm not chasing dragons
or chaste maidens
or even the whore
who scorned me.

Dram fills the cracks
with hard candy.
I don't taste the sweetness
I just admire the glassy sheen
of allowed oblivion
the iridescent cracks in the care-free front
a fractured brain patched together
with the ridiculous synthetic.
I laugh as the waves of stupidity lift me
up for a queasy view of the big picture
how absurd, this vantage of
a stupid self, dishwashing
ing, dish washing in the kitchen
at the kitchen, the station, a mechanism
laughing, continuing to wash dishes
and sweeping the bottomless feeling into me
the dead certainty that life is meaningless and ridiculous
and seeing myself plunging deeper and deeper
into that ridiculous ness, sicker, deeper into life

but not having to take it seriously, not having to accept the horror
of being so integral to it, a machine tool, and continue ing to
wash dishes, watch dishes, wash dishes, watch
how I continue to wash the wheel as it spins
sloughing off the seriousness, saying
I am not a player, sometimes a tweaker
like God, but not a player, still prodigal son
to a father that never existed, guffawing at the
G word, the english word that most closely
balances the triad of funny, stupid, common.

This is a decent plateau if you can get it
if you can ride what feels giddily stationary
like the center of the gravitron
the steady sickness of solid-state obsequem
where I take jesu at face value
where the void looks into me
and whispers to me:
“ooglebooglebaka2”, where I faced the fear head on
dead on, swallowed it, where it left me
happily over the edge, gibbering.

I’ve made a ghost town of my city, cause my inner
strength is tapped, we’ve run out of resources
so I’m sitting on the porch hallucinating and
claiming I don’t need people, real people,
to the desperate degree I did
in the gold rush days, the endorphin rush days
when I would fall in love with people, silly circuits
still tantalizingly tweakable, so close to the surface
that when opportunities to activate them come along
my heart races, I get that uncertain sluttiness, readiness
to do anything for the thinnest sliver of possiblity
a hail-mary pass, always an airball.
Now I’m a lone hedonist, alone on the range,
mimicking those full bore life livers
apeing their player patterns with hallucinations
a womanizer without the women.

Living with rejection, eating drinking rejection
having dinner with rejection, making comfort with despair
yes, I'll take the hard room to live in
anything for a change.

One day the candy will melt, and I'll have to feel voids again
and take things so seriously.

I want to put on my grim game face and blank my way through today
and the next day, shrug off response, abandon obligation to be better than I am.
I've taken on too many connections, shallow connections to people
that don’t satisfy, I’ve taken them all on, out of desperation, a hundred
lottery tickets in my pocket, a scatch-and-loser, a rolodex of reichmarks
for some post apocalypse that’s never gonna come.

Abusing nostalgia
Abusing nostalgia
looking back makes me sick.
Hallucinations are sicker, and better
methadone for a memory junkie.

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