Wordieword’s Weblog

-note: originally posted for ennuiLA, an up and coming publication by a close comrade in the struggle, later removed because it was unfit for the struggle, now to be posted here because it’s funky like your mother–

EnnuiLA,
if I wasn’t the Hyde to your Jekyll, I’d be
The Jekyll to your Hyde,
let it not be raw, phonetically my puns I draw, like the arrows out my case–meant your blood to draw, I’m drowning in this stinkin’ flood, and may I mention it’s my own damn fault, my bank account overdrawn and finally I’m neck deep in the mud, the type that makes you nauseous from fifty feet away, the type that is putting out my breath with fifteen cubic inches of clay, the type that leaves you in mad disarray, what exactly did I say? I said that madness is upon us and little can be done except to pray to that old god the sun, and the fucker you know he lies, and for unfair advantage constantly he vies. Those fees like forest fires you will never get to extinguish, the sun is drawing ever nearer, sun setting on your puny forest, who’ll win the battle? It’s like Adam trying to remove his own Adam’s apple–god damn unrealistic, and dangerous at the same time. Who will see the end of this god damn rhyme? (Maybe old man Time)

So much for lyrical introductions, let me begin with a piece of silence interrupted, the type that makes distinguished ladies in concert halls turn to look at you with that shockéd gaze, the same type that you know is associated with much alcohol consumption, the type I call the asshole dysfunction. So, since the rhyme and reason of things has been disrupted I can get to the main issue on my palette-tax evasion and jetting for freedom.

Bank accounts– can’t count on em’, though you can surely count what’s not in ‘em. I know the natural numbers, and this shit ain’t supernatural. It goes 0, -1, … n, where n means you are headed straight for credit hell. God bless multiple credit cards and shuffling credit, it’s sort of like gambling for safety every twenty two seconds. Can’t sleep at night because the teardrops, sweat and urine are wetting your sheets, sheets so wet you could bend prison bars, and keep that in mind as it might come in handy when the time comes around to slip out the fudge house in a dandy, possibly the same house that brought clout to strange old birdman. A game for the criminal with the white collar, how to get the hell out before you get turned out? I don’t know but give me a holler, it probably involves graft and lots of swimming but I have another idea altogether.

See, my mind state in this affair is that I simply do not care, call it what you wanna. Some refer to it as ennui, and it sort of sounds like in your eye, but I prefer to stay out of it, because I stay in hiding.

See, I need to be patient, I’m sitting in the basement, watching TV the–arguments are baseless. I’m sitting here facing this virtual reality that makes us so selfish, having emotions opens us up to the painful, so instead of intensity we cash that in for ennui. Sitting in the basement listening to tapes, and reminiscing on the days when I had my own fate in own my hands, got on the street and stuck out own my hand, and had fortune not shone my way, I’d probably have made my own way.

I used to let petty things like this here possible incarceration drive us away and draws us apart, but now I let it not tear out the sinews of my heart. I let it take just a piece, piece by piece, till its beat shall cease, till my last rhyme echoes off the ceiling of the bottom of this building, till my shrill screams hit you like a laser– performing surgery on you to lower your capacity to see, so that it’s all a blur– just like me.

Tired of sitting in the basement, I get out–impatient. Failed at my assignment-needed to stay put, needed to stay quiet, needed to lay low, needed to take my time, wait it all out and then I’d preserve my freedom in the basement, but feeling that clock- tick-tick-tock my life away, and feeling how the sweat beads form rivulents down my spine, I can only say that this claustrophobia must be a sign of the times. If I wish to not disclose my location, it would be wise to conceal my occupation but seeing as my occupation is like the housefly–common and more prevalent during the summer, I guess you can limit me down to the states where it’s hot enough to dip yourself in a chlorine-laced bowl of water. I’m headed elsewhere.

Whether it be the great white north or towards the center of the earth (and these need not be conflicting categories), I’ll leave for you to ponder, but lets rest assured we will both be in the dark as far as this issue is concerned. Me–due to my proclivities, you–due to your reader’s ignorance, both blissful like that first hit off the H– throwing up in mama’s place.

The womb was warm, but the streets are cold and dark and seedy, they remind me of the dim light emanating out my tv, just sitting there–a pigman in anonymity–it was so easy. No longer can it be that way, my true nature will lead the way as the gremlins haunt the usual haunts, looking kind of wet, trying to roll the latest cigarette, smoke em since they got em, I collect my coins for the bus stop since I gotta get to going, the bus arrives, I wish it were a Boeing but I’ll settle for a mule. I got something in between–megabits per second. It should handle the hurl.

This was the tale of this little pigman’s trip to cyberspace. Peace! ‘Till our next embrace.