Wednesday, January 13, 2010

PART I "The Kitchen"

Curtains hung down, extending to the length of the floor, teasing the floor as a dress does, mid waltz. The curtains wouldn’t normally be considered anything special, but in the midst of this altogether stuffy room, they are only things which appear light weightless. In my view, which is blurred by my stubbornness against wearing glasses, they make me weightless, and for the brief moments my mind envelopes their grand descent to the faded linoleum floor, I forget my worries. Interior monologue has always been easy for me. When there is no one to speak to, there is still me! I regroup my stance, having been leaning on the door frame, and I step out of the kitchen and into the hallway which, extends down the length of the house, connecting the few rooms of the apartment like nearly matched, yet mismatched puzzle pieces; it doesn’t quite fit. I laugh aloud, amused, bemused, altogether content with its awkwardness because it is not mine. I find what is not mine though, often times, much more interesting; a piece of gum on the coffee table in the living room of not my apartment; the iced pop (last one, and red to boot) in the freezer of the refrigerator in not my apartment; the already beat up, but not too worn in sweatshirt hanging on the side of the door in not my apartment: All of these things, much more amusing than my gum, iced pop, or sweatshirt. Even when I say mine aloud they sound so dull. The things in my life lack shimmer, as if reflected by the dull side of tin foil.

Back to the Kitchen though, my mind drifts their aimlessly. You would think, as quickly as my mind wanders, I would never have a chance to worry having thought past and through the worry. But my mind works much like a jammed printer, or no, better yet, a backed up assembly line, malfunctioning of sorts, yet still spewing its product forward, falling to the floor, a mess I want to, but cannot clean up! (I think of cherry-filling-filled Chocolates with a thin, chocolatey outer layer, after a while, Cherry filled chocolates set perfectly amid the white conveyor belt, thirteen or so inches apart, coming quickly. Then, and we never know what causes it, because the camera that is viewing this, the high tech expensive camera, is always a few inches off, not quite capturing the drama, and when it refocuses gets zoomed and turned: The back up has already occurred. (Break from that dribble) The kitchen is stuffy! The refrigerator opens cleanly without obstacle, but cabinets are cartoonish! From left to right, like an awkward line up in some dusty police station we have refridgerator- aged to yellow, slight outline stains where school papers were once pegged magnet to fridge; cabinets- chipped cream paint; below them counter top- that fake wood, light-grainy, that always chips to gray on the ends, like a linoleum that should have been used on the floor; the back drop-splattered with spaghetti sauce from two years ago, not so much stained as permanent; then, sink, which comes abruptly and doesn’t; excuse itself from the counter tops or the back drop, with that gray around the rubbery part that makes it water tight, caulking I believe, but that cool caulking that feels nice, little balls of it rolled on your fingertips.

The sink has a second side kick, like the Robin to its Batman, This sink is the bitch sink, even in trying to describe it, I lack the words! Then the counter turns, and I am talking “UPS truck trying to take a tight turn”, as opposed to those “Lifestyle of the Rich and Famous” turning counter tops, like Formula 1 on rails. It turns to nothing also, the end of the counter being there, but no side, you can actually look in the cabinet, see through and I am not a fan of that. There is a door way right their, and a nail or two, semi twisted that seems to catch only my favorite and very expensive clothing. I imagine the nails conversation to the other nail…but I will spare you that dribble.

Why the Kitchen though, the one thing that does it for me, besides such airy curtains, is the egg chair. It’s in the corner, sort of in front of the Fridge, but set back, as far as can be for this apartment kitchen. Instead of wooden chairs with the mock cushion, an eight inch piece of cardboard surrounded by fabric, there is an egg chair. Shaped like an egg with an oval cut out, speakers inside it, I spoon myself into the egg chair like I am adding back the hardboil, and trying to make it whole. When I sit in the chair, observing heaven’s curtains, my mind slows to a crawl.

I hear conversation in the other room, and even partake in a little of it, but for lack of grammatical iniquities, and shear laziness, I will paraphrase throughout my haughty diatribe. I may have just lied there, as I probably have no intention of ever getting to what others are speaking of. This is a truly selfish moment, one that may extend for pages, leaking in its paragraphs the ooze that creates life and destroys it. The ooze that ostensibly surrounds the kitchen sink, the one we call clean when bleach or Lysol touches it, but we know, even when touching it, cleaning our food and dishes in it, that we are only fooling ourselves. Against all odds we choose to ignore the simple truths, Plato’s Cave meets Joe’s Garage.

Rambling to Jesus

I am cold today, old today feel the bitter sting as frost crack-spreads across a pane of glass. I am enveloped, wrapped in a wet towel in mid autumn, having thought swimming was a good idea. Gusts pale through vacant door ways and we realize why window treatments matter. Who were we to not make these realizations at such a young age, an age of profound ignorance and egotism. We prayed to the isms to release us from the tender veil and safety harness we masked as witches grip our parents held strong too. Why did we ever doubt, because others had had experiences, others had been duped, been beat, been left for dead in a dank ravine, swimming with shopping carts and dead rats. Why do our minds coat the warped angst riddled folly of youth and create doubt in our elders, and splendor and joy in our peers. It is our shakespearian rant that echoes the halls of Beowulf and rattles grendel’s aching ear; it a plague on both our houses, it is to be or it is not to be it is double, double, toil and trouble, it is our stewing in the cauldron of what if. We are vacant to our steps strode seemingly sleep driven and deprived of intention and destination. Rolling stones on our own, destination unknown, completely alone, Dr Robert ramble through space like an echo in space that transcends walls in an anti gravitational flux, beaming as a squared imprisonment vacuum sucked and ever fading to nowhere. What are my chances of hitting atmospheric pressures and to rapidly descend after my free space float. Can we get a mathematician to establish variables to relate to a seemingly non right brained person, can he explanate and convolute, can he parabola and convex my existence, can I be graphed and measured, can I be squeezed inside a TI-82. Can I escape from that TI-82? Where would I be inside that gray screen, slanted and covered, plastic emblem of Texas Instruments guarding my movements as a watch dog of the 21st century. The plastic grips, thin strips of rubber so tempting, glued on the back rolling back from their stuckness as gritty nails of adolescent hands peel underneath them, the instruments, these calculation machines, mini computers, being used as a bowling shoe only no disinfectant, sharing calculators like we share Kick Balls, like we share the water fountain with no backsies no cutsies. The life water draining, pissing like an STD riddled member might in small spurts, our lips contacting that never cleaned metal and our coughs engulfing that porcelain back drop, mimicking the home of our churches Virgin Mary, oh how we bowed daily to that sacred religious fountain bursting the tears of Christ to satisfy our paining muscles, to draw water from the lips and deposit it between calves and thighs, swelling and pulsating chest, rise and fall rise and fall. I have neglected the use of the comma for the rumble rant of a sader speaker of a rabbinical ranting stupor, of a religious inconvocation of the 10th apostle, that Jesus was busy on Leno, and we had to settle for the second rate act of third party description of Jesus blowing up the scene at that wedding. We all thrust our elbows to our knees, fist to chin, skirting sleep and feigning interest. Oh how we feigned. The 10th apostle appeared enamored at our seeming attention and rambled, recited, quoted scripture and at one point I laughed one of those laughs that you laugh when you don’t know why you are laughing, and stumble into another laugh at the realization of your original uncalled for laugh. I got more applause from my arrant disregard for stage and performer, and thought, but only briefly, as these thoughts expire like milk in the fridge, that I might sub in for the misanthrope, former devotee and shadow boxer for the almighty. But like thoughts, those that no one ever sees, ever conjures in color, ever hears or knows exist, it dissipates, fades, fumbles itself down the drain to be lost amidst the other unused unexpressed un bridled and ultimately unsuitable for conversation thoughts. You cannot deny their existence, oh holier than though, want to be Jesus, cause you would have ascended pre crucifixion, the mystery of faith and the bafflement of someone who could have done it all. How many times did the devil descend Jesus in tow, Jesus cowering as he entered the mighty Beelzebub’s basement apartment littered with half drunk Miller Genuine Draft bottles, long necks special ordered, and hid his face slightly, but did it as if to not do it, knowing he was doing it. Face still visible slightly, and his beard a dead give away, Jesus saw John the Baptist, twisting a cap off a freshly acquired home brew. A nod and then a turn to the farthest corner of this now expansive bon fire rager, there is Judice, tempting a volumptuous mary Magdalene, teasing her shirt at the belly and rolling his finger upward below her bust. Jesus, guzzling now in haste and sweating in his realization that his father knows all and will surely be waiting up for him, begins to relax. He relaxes as we do night before a daunting day, seemingly forgetting, or drowning, or purging the thoughts of the next morning’s existence right down the toilet. After his third, being a light weight, arm drapped, one around old spiked tail, the other around the resident whore, he wiggles his nose, I Dream Of Jeanie Style, and a disco ball descends from the ceiling, “I just want to dance!” he proclaims, the floor lighting seventies dance party style. All at once, he pulls his ear and the floor is gone, people hovering over emptiness who had just amassed on this glorious flashing oasis, starring blankly ahead and floating much like wily coyote would. IN a brief, half blink, or upon two half seconds, the floor returns and jesus, smirking ear to ear says “JK motherf&ckers, J f&cking K!”

Tuesday, January 12, 2010

To Those I Have Lost

I have observed worse, obscured curse, devilish hell in the third verse, happen to expand my urban rhymes by ten times to include mother nature's cosmic chimes of squawking birds, flying by walking herds of talking heads lingering by the reaper's hurse, as they converse with a concubine, bodies ravelled, between sheets and entwine, screaming shouting, words so terse they tear through the fabric of time, printed ribbon of motion picture crime, captured by lense in 8mm, careful not to bruise but to beat her. But i've blurred lines to turn times turns elastic, bent shredded and burned plastic, automatic, words, head flashing to static, tv screens bombastic snowy visage, blissed out miscrient image of an edited scene, replayed in sepia tone, shrugged up in back don't you see me, hang up the phone, you won't drop knowledge from a ringing tone, nor gain your patience from the wireless zone, give a dog a bone, walk him in the park let him sit upon a throne, atone, for all the sins you've transgressed, living this life unimpressed, crush a leaf between your palm, sing a simple song, compose your holy psalm, obsessed with what's next, while I am quiet in solitude your heads a total mess. Best is the way you should lead, go check out books you should read, the prisoner's in your mind, locked behind, imbibing the kind, they could be freed.

I have observed worse, had hangover's to nurse, burst into laughter at the drop of a pin, forged forth towards a new life with my fellow kin, achin from the back to the front, been so high I was blunt, wrapped in my own mess, careful to step out of the press, dodging the questions they asked, wearing ten different masks. Why didn't I stop, flop on my back, tactically analyze my attack, back to the drawing board, tight twist turn of the cap, zipped up and buttoned the flap, corner pocket called eight ball dropped it, took another lap.

Board flipped click on the asphalt heat, sweat filled bodies secrete, sweat was never as sweet as the times when blood lingered to, careful not to subdue my body to the swine flu, mental gardens I grew. How I turn rhyme, in fine time and garner applause for the brothers I've lost, melodies swept through the halls, and I've observed worse, big oc curse, plagued the weak willed and won, contracted hep c then run, so you thought this was fun, when we let loose at night, only lighters ignite, not addictions you'll fight. Later, when it's dark, and you cannot evade, the sweat now trembles muscles like a death march parade, that I might sit by your grave, and recite good times we had, lost a brother, gained another, six feet closer to god, and why the f%ck'd you decide, that junk over our brethren kind.

I'll ask the question await the answer, it wasn't cancer, but then again it might've been, as you study that wiley grin, legs shake, half awake, nod til you burn up your room, quick quake, cavitate, try to speak and turn to stone, once again, fated fates, your alone, devil's all that's left on your shoulder, I got it, ashes to smoulder, won't get older, I turned the cold shoulder, divulge her sins, in your eyes, jaundiced with lies, as I decide, whether to stay or to go, knowing I may not know, this monster in Echo Gear, won't shed a single tear, tear down walls to appear at your side. your eyes now covered with flies, swatting away the ties that we sewed right, fabric laced so tight, we once flew that kite, key laced so lighting would ignite, incite a riot to peace, and rise the fallen to their feet, retreat hatred in a battle game, a starring match of the eternal flame, and when we pass the blame game to the kiddie pool and let it drown in a puddle of drool, all knows the rule, contaminated cosmic fool. Why Matt, Why?

I couldn't have written a script taking stock or a sip of this life we engorge, careful not to abhor those paths that we cross, nail Him to the glossy golden crucifix, that the churches afix to the wall of their home, god would be shamed of the dome, gold plated cold slated, obsenities flair as their paper's graded, sermon's they spoke and ill fated in their jaded misappropriated forecasted interpretation of the emancipated dead riser, wine imbiber who was consicrated by emaculate conception, for the betterment of all.