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on staring at coffee cups at 8AM

staring at coffee cups at 8AM

isn't it silly...
if only not so deathly serious
a plague in Africa
eight workers - volunteers
two journalists
five doctors
and a priest found
 dug out from the bottom of a latrine
throats cut
drown in feces and piss
I guess it means something
starting out as children, spending so long growing bigger
getting educated and trained
imbued with a desire to assist the other side
and it all ends at the bottom of some tribal shithouse

every man dies, this is true.
it gets a man thinking,
staring at coffee cups at 8 AM
how we're all marching towards
the same infinite zero
shifting & maneuvering
shaking off the day before
letting go of defeat
while the stoic laughs at midnight
and the zealot cries alone
it's a constant hammering
some futile struggle to keep one's head hanging in
our condition can almost be admirable
all things considered

JS Mills had the right idea, sure
but what isn't factored into an idea
is the distance the descent has to cover

Camus died at 36, and
I'm content today
Ol' Albert doesn't have to see it anymore
the lucky bastard can finally sleep.


update on the writer's condition

Allophrenia - when, after an extended period of shared isolation with a schizophrenic patient, one begins to exhibit similar characteristics.

the truth is I can't write a fucking thing. my mind is some kind of fog, with death, love, and some irritation blocking out all connection to itself. could be a woman. i dont know. i keep having dreams that i should cut my losses and split. but a smile is god damn difficult to think beyond sometimes, a beautiful smile in particular. then there's that warm feeling of letting it all wash over you, letting the mind drift to places where there might be some chance. what does it mean? what can it mean?

but deep down i see it as a failure of adjustment. we human beings, especially us old dogs, do have such hard times adjusting. no, we'd rather live on in our smelly little burrows, with depression, misery, ideas, and an unwilling nature to change as our only companions in the dark. i don't lie. some of us, the very worst of us truly, will go on kicking every sliver of happiness, easiness, cleanliness of peace out of our lives like soiled garbage. GET IT OUT!! let me rot like before! erase myself from existence, shielded from anything I would later be asked to protect.

but as I've said before: whining never has and never will move a damn thing forward. it only picks open the scabs you've tried to let crust over and scar. but is there not enjoyment to be had in laceration? in picking open dried wounds? i contest there must be. and the world is littered with their corpses, and their stench. there are those hidden individuals who live out this entire interlude of tragicomedy in such a state. opening up old wounds and letting the blood and puss flow out into the world.


an anecdote on work (the release)

but she was there last night. those big brown eyes looking at me from over her shoulder. she put the right index finger to her pouty red lips, gave a "shhhhhhh". she was leaving the place with someone else. and i guess by contrast i was free. but this entire narrative was created out of nothingness; it was only a dream. yet somehow the rest of reality made sense then. it's a constant scrape for meaning in a desert of chaos and self-creation, framed by the brain's frenetic attempt to tie everything together within a linear progression.

still, why do they always come back?

i have to think that the mind itself just gets bored. eventually the brain starts coming up with all kinds of solutions or cures. how ironic if it was the brain itself that could not handle truth. what if this whole god damned mess was simply a competition for serotonin? I suppose it would make all the mystics, all the stoics & monks, the logicians & scientists, the free-lovers and the right-wingers feel pretty damn silly. all these castles built atop a very simple and biologically mandated thirst...our pride would never allow us to swallow such dryness.

i burst through the door like some industrial Ronin. no one was at their post. the redhead, big (400 lbs), volatile, she was absent. Janeene, the office manager, due by 8, missing, presumed shopping. Tim, former rodeo cowboy, voted for Bush, both of them, twice, he wasn't there either. just me, returning from Barbeau's dream interruption, that "shush", feeling very little and wondering what it might all mean, sitting down to the sterile white noise of the office environment; I guess humanity had made it, I thought.

why'd she come again? and after so long? things didn't quite feel right. i should've stayed home but i couldn't afford it. there was the electric, the water, the gas, the cat food, the insurance, the car, the tooth, the foot, the drinking, the lung that didn't inflate correctly, whatever shit was to come, and the off chance that someone would crack and try to kill you.

it was a bad Dr visit the previous morning that kept me company. "chest pains doctor. things don't seem to work right. constant fatigue and thoughts wasted on lives I can no longer live."

one phone call and the woman on the other line had me scheduled for a Tuesday morning, 10 AM. those familiar stinky waiting rooms, with all the people leaking and wheezing, old magazines and hard chairs. these led to suicides no doubt. suicide is in everyone else's best interest.

we waited a long time. after a few hours it was my turn. they took me, weighed me, "oh, heavy for your height", measured my height, "oh, you look taller than that. doesn't he look taller than that?" she turned to the other nurse on duty. they both nodded then led me to a room and sat me on a piece of sterile white paper.

there was a brief period of staring at empty walls and contemplating ending it quickly before the Dr walks into the room. looking over the chart "what is the problem?"

chest pains doc. fatigue and a general lack of movement.

"are you drinking?"

well, yes. of course.

"and how are you sleeping?"

by drinking Dr. i drink until it knocks me out. when i don't drink, life is too big. large jagged corners everywhere, waiting to nick and tug at you. drinking smooths everything out.

but it's my dreams doc that keep me up at night. constant interludes about death, dying and some type of distant happiness. what does it mean doc? it seems im always happier when im not forced to live my life. and each week, one night, usually some Tuesday or Wednesday, a meaningless period in a meaningless corner of space, i get these dreams about the apocalypse. the big one. can you imagine it? dying with all those strangers, pale horses and all that. i guess a certain part of me wants to see the look on Man's face when He finally trips and falls over the shotgun. other times I'm chasing little figments from my past, memories i can't make true again, only participate through like a spectator. what purpose does it serve to remember? when so many of us don't go right, and simply stumble back into the same open hole?

and the Dr reached back in southern drawl and asked "how much are you drinking?"

he wrote me a prescription for sleep medication and sent me out the door.