Ticking clock, party with porn stars or collaborate with math problems. Do you have an idea how much I've written the past 9 months? I did not fit with the kids who hated English in the introductory level. Those who hated writing like some hated math. Then and again I did not fit with the kids who loved English and were pretentious with their scholarly intentions behind miniscule details in their (amateur) short stories. Mine was also amateur. I resented them and therefore I partially resent the idea of writing like that as a career. Such stale and safe material. Write about death and hurt and moral messages. Scuff your shoes on the gravestones of the literature giants of old. The best and the most in tune with language whereas we drown in our overproduction. I need to read or write music or else I die. There is something real and honest in that dedication. My god. I don't do this for YOU.
* *
Why didn't I make any friends? Or keep them. I don't know true motivations. I have always felt uneasy. Judged. Uncomfortable. The party scene meant nothing to me. Those people. Those clones could jump off the nearest bridge. (Would die of exposure before reaching one of adequate height.) Jostling and jolting. The electric currents behind friends. The stale breath of enemies. A musty odor in the air like a deflated birthday balloon from your childhood.
* * *
Sing along inside your hearts.
Okay, here we grow.
Yelling poems over soft and interesting music. Subtle in its interest. The front man is the main man.
Wishing for Dos Equis. I want it to appear with two or three fascinating bronze-skinned, black-haired, senoritas. I want limes and corona. Tacos and sombreros. I want to fall through a stairway and become conscious in the midst of a great raging fiesta. Turn the red white and blue into the red white and green. Cervasa porfavor. Dos. Tres. Etc. I want to steal a car, black out, and wake up in Tijuana. I want to avoid broken legs. My spine is solid and I could fight off one or two of them. A whole group would accumulate though, as always. The outsider gets beat to death on the barren and dusty streets. Everyone out drinking joyfully but no joy for me. I am not sad or bitter anymore. All of the sadness and bitterness has been released. Just read back and see.
I'm left wondering what happened to time and the peculiarities of the spaces between. (sit still in your apartment... breaking tambourines every night.) Please baby, don't you worry. I am strong standing. I know what happened to me. I was afraid of molding in with these fools and enjoying the things they do because I did not want to become like them. I could not bare. Tonight though I have the potential to be whoever I want. Who cares how people think of me? Social interactions should not be planned and thought out performances, manipulating the outcome in order to get laid on the floor of a friends living room. Two girls, two nights. Go out with a bang? In the bare wall apartment. Empty and devoid of meaning. All of the meticulous precision to get the posters and paintings just right... I did this for myself. I felt it might inspire me to constantly me stimulated with colorful and beautiful images. Or of musicians on stage. Feel the inspiration. Did it work? Am I a successful experiment?
How is it possible I don't have anyone to hang out with on cinco de mayo? Where are my people and my festivities. Only loneliness and bleak sobriety. Run off some steam. Blue/red lights everywhere. Pulling drunks off of the road. I watched headlights plunge past and wondered if and when I would be murdered by one of their steel boxes, careening up towards Mill and the dive bars up there. All of the restaurants with drink specials based on imported beer. The beautiful women. Whichever bar has the least fat or ugly women, gets more tips on average. The more makeup and the higher heels. Stilettos. Tumble down an alleyway into the arms of a sexual predator. Ready and able. Willing and able. There are so many things you can't talk comfortably about. Why not? Let's talk. I can help. She can help. I kidnapped you to ask you on a date. I'm not crazy I swear to god. (Tear duct tape off of mouth). My heart burns warm blood (poison-free) and my fingers are tingling. The joints sore from reaching tough notes on the neck of the bass. I wonder what it would take for me to succeed in a good final night? I don't believe just wandering out and around will do. I have no business on Mill. I would be shunned further. (Possible?) I'm afraid of what. I just don't feel welcome anywhere around here. Sure it is a ghost town now. But it has always been a ghost town for me. The faces are never warm and friendly. The smiles feel like put-ons. The dresses seem to be flashy on purpose. I try to resist looking on the beautiful girls because they dress that way for that reaction on my part. Not me specifically. Well actually, yeah. People like me. They wear low cut tops to catch my scanning eyes. They laugh and tell their friends who laugh in turn. And walk away like I am a cockroach. They say 'tough chance, loser. go play your guitar and jerk off.' And stomp me out. In their eyes I will outlive the nuclear holocaust, scurrying around among the black powdered bodies of most other living things, but I am not capable of entering their bed or their arms. I am a rodent. Why do I feel so small here? Who did that to me???
