Wednesday, December 16, 2009

Why is it that...

when you wake up at four in the morning, aware but not truly aware of the happenings of the previous night, that you do not feel hung over yet. It is almost as if you are born back into your body for the first time and seemingly every little bit of your history previous to this 4AM point on that random Wednesday in March is not present in your mind...But wait, your first memory clicks in like the distant ring of a cash register. Oh how sweet was that first Guiness and the car bomb, how sweet it wa...wait wait, here comes another one, I think, a memory coming swiftly down the line completely crashing into the back side of the other memory at the bottom of the most unholy of unholy memory slides! Weeeeeeeee I think at first, but then, like the sound of gun shot, the cash register KaChing hits really hard and there is my memory looking down on me, tall shadowy, sinuey outline of an angry...and I begin to realize that my peaceful womb like state is slipping through my fingers like sand into my now scratchy sheets. I try to meditate on not allowing any other visions of the previous night enter, blocking the shadow in the distance from striking the keys of that cash register, but no...The second bar, oh the second bar with the shots of Jameson, why oh why and...the ATM Machine, $150.00 for what? For what I ask myself, and KACHING, now even louder, the cash register mouth opens and a tongue comes unfolding with a memory on roller skates, knocking through the roller rink of my head! You had to buy that didn't you, you had to...now not only am I fighting with myself and trying to stave off memory from coming to light in the forefront of my mind, I am strangling myself, mental envisionment of what I might look like, if i feign open my eyes.

I push my head from the hot scractchy texture of the pillow up towards the untouched cool section of the bed far in the corner, as if this motion, eyes closed will slip me into some catatonic fronzen embryonic state. Ahhhhh, it is at least cool up here, and maybe that might freeze the memories from trapsing in...NO...and now driving, oh driving, and the next bar, with road soda, now ripping through that stuff, and thinking...No no no...another ATM, another, what...a whole one...and the drinking, the smiles! I am looking at myself, hitting my arm of myself from the last evening, knocking drink out of hand, and the image wisping away like a cloud of smokey reminders only to reform with the drink intact and headed straight for my lips. I protest to the company I keep, STOP!!!! But to na avail, I am now, KACHING, registering another memory, what the...where am I, stumbling now, it's beginning to get light out side, and I come too again, my breath having warmed this section, this cavernous cold I had discovered now heated from teh global warming of my mind and breath, and spirit. Were it not for...no, in coming KACHING, the shadow and outline laughing sinister in the background, and me clicking away at the keys of my computer keyboard, alta vista search engine of what? How do I think shaking my head, shuttering at myself will some how heal all the grossly injust things I have summoned from below to wage war against myself, how would the outloud grunt heal my still intoxicated, bad breath having, stale smelling "once-temple-of-myself?" At once, all memories flicker and register together, but that kaching is my kicking foot, slamming the side table and knocking the lamp to the floor, that is a real KACHING...and I know, the lamp isn't broken...worse...the bulb's delicate filament is shattered, and useless, like my silly attempts at pleasing myself the wee hours before now, which, in all estimation: Me attempting a mathematical equation; akin to a horse trying to dial 911 on a rotary phone with it's hoof: was only 30 minutes ago.

And if I was a baby for a brief mimicked smattering of a second, somewhere before this tidal rush of everything toxic and corrosive washed over my once fleshed bones: I am left now the skeletal remains of my id, and these tiny Jax like objects scattered about my boney visage, the memories which forsake me! As Abraham, I lie here ill-fated, and psychitzophrenic as he may have been, I too Must live to see the days past these inexplicable dealings with Self rejection, humility, mammalian indolence and petulence of another worldly kind! Cruel are my mental mumblings, tricked to taking LSD and forced to live their lives a babbling efficacy of puddled illusions transfixed, spun, swirling and mixed as oil, canvassing a rainbow, in standing water.

I shriek aloud for a chance to be heard, that my whinning might catch the wavering hairs, and register with the follicles of a passerby's eardrums; and in this sharing, however incomplete, of a tortured moment with another live being, I might invade his mental scape, and plant as memory mortars, mines, like those Jax lying around my still boney remains, for this other being to feel a morsal of the suffering I must endure for at least another day! But I wish death, or at least a disowning of those who I might have referred to briefly as "friends" so as not to harken back their feeble memories of my obnoxious clammering, noxious odoring, concocted scheming, and overamplified duely notarized ignorant synopses of how life is all coconut shavings and open wounds!