Color Me Chaubert
The home smells like marinara from that time however many days ago that we made linguini or whatever. I wish it smelled like marijuana but nobody, literally nobody, donates to my Patreon account. It doesn’t feel like I’m living but rather surviving, when I can hardly fathom the idea of leftover spaghetti, the sauce being left out sitting on the counter, a ton of it, and half the noodles still in the box. The taste of leftover spaghetti smelling so good, missing it so much.
This scenery that I am in and a part of. Tilted church spires and blasted out windows. Present home still without knowing of the permanent. Yet to know though what it would be like with bombs and machine gun fare pressure in my babe, myself. Carlton, sweet little boy of a dog, not to mention the unborn child that may never be, from inside of my bruised and bulging testicles. Well, does nightmare space trader mark my rooms as he exited the television shows we have streaming 24/7 through the chromecast’s PlayStation 4 Destiny. It being something I can download for $40 (The Taken King) and have it delivered straight to me without my having to move my feet.
Musette is asleep. Pansexualpixie is not online. There is a massive ball of wadded up toilet paper in the pullout shelf of my desk from the time I found bootlegged videos of her on a site that doesn’t seem too sketchy.
Digital bootycalls only a click away, transcending time. But even when I can’t find something good to watch, images of one of my two ex-girlfriends come to mind everytime I start rubbing myself. It used to be that way when I was with the ex-girlfriends in question, but instead of images of them, at that time they were images of Penelope. #Originstories.
Sometimes I am a hyena prowling through the night. Sometimes I am a skunk. The schmig tasting absolutely horrible as it burns my throat. This I say with farts leaking out of my less itchy asshole, preceding a shit.
It feeling so good sometimes, sitting here the same as always, changing shape, looking for the best means of expression. What say you Sylvia Plath?
Finding my way through this maze, using as little power as possible to keep from alerting the landlord of our thievery. I can’t figure it all out, but there may be something to the constant narrative? I haven’t figured out the best way to go about everything, but one thought is to be a paperboy of myself. Working to exist a deeper version. More complete. Nourished and nourishing. Can’t we just say that I’m working? Is that really too much to ask?
I should probably try to eat because something feels wrong with me. The schmiggy tasting horrible and leaving a bad feeling in the back of my throat. The white spirits when bad taste like light beer. My breath smelling like Rice Puffins and my back and neck are in pain. I ain’t no happy Jim Gaffigan. I am in pain imagining the health I could have were there some functioning union for writers.
I almost forget that Musette wants me to meet her downtown at like fivish for some sort of girl’s night out that I’m invited to. She had thought that I worked today, being excited about that extra fifty dollars because she got less on her last paycheck than she was expecting.
She texted me earlier, telling me that she was having a bad day. I was asleep when the message came in and am too embarrassed now to write her because it is past two in the afternoon. So I end up talking to Piper instead.
Where does the time go?
Some sort of power beyond the grave manifesting. Chaubert. Just another day in life. Getting ready for the subway, I’ve got this zit on my face, at the corner of my lip, on the left side, and dirty dishes in the sink, marinara from however many nights ago, made of a packet and a can which I didn’t know how to utilize, submitting to the higher knowledge of a Michelin chef, my wife.
On my way 2 girls night out. Everything is very quiet at the Hoyt-Schmeggerhorn stop. It is New York Fashion Week and I’m going into in Manhattan.
TJ Carney’s 57 between 8th and 7th Avenue. Horses carrying bound officers, one with the driver using his phone. Another after another, always moving, always keeping on moving. Such skinny legs beneath a trench coat. Woman stopped and painting her nails red on the sidewalk.
The Ghostbusters car drives by our dinner but I am too busy talking with her chefs about what goes on in the kitchen.
I am a chef myself, I tell them.
What else am I supposed to do? I ask, reaching for that utilization of the ship’s presence to become one in a sorts. It’s amazing the way things work out in this world, the way sandwiches drying out gets to me every time. The way the dog watches us as we watch TV. He is a good dog but will break the rules after so long even when I’m here, quicker when I’m not. Looking at the spots on your body like to the markings on a secret treasure map. We are detectives of some sort and don’t forget it. I’m not giving up on anything, nor am I giving up on anyone. At the moment, I’m hitting a full audience. I feel like I can hit you harder that way, with more umph, more rapidity. Just getting it out there, bang bang, turn your television on, you can’t miss me. I know then that the story continues. I know it. I see it. It’s happening. We are alive here, surviving. Didn’t I say that it was going to be as easy as writing a text message to a friend? I know I did. Eating at life like moments are niblets of corn or something more nutritious. Making myself quite edible in more than a snack food sort of way. With these blades. Some sort of surgical prayer rising up out of my subconscious.
Sometimes I want to use the PlayStation as little as possible, preferring to control our viewing experience with my phone. Suddenly receiving a flashback of Rainbow 6 on Nintendo 64 wherein I am storming through a garage entrance with a shotgun wielding Burke, towards floats or sets within an indoor theme park.
Green poo = Starvation poo
Me being quite possibly the worst person I’ve ever been around, I imagine her thinking.
My children being more technologically advanced than me. Me being unable to hide myself from them. I am bibles’ doomed walk towards success.
Do you think that I will ever get a grip on my sleep schedule though?
Remotes having always been magical devices, like wands of special purpose, the phone being more advanced than any I’ve ever seen before. Keystrokes monitored by Google creating writing machines of the future, combining the styles of us, the current greatest, with the efficiency of them, more than we can fathom.
I have a hard time sleeping until I am alone in our queen sized bed with our small to medium sized dog. You wriggle and squirm enough, and keep your eyes closed, and you might fall asleep at some point. In my dreams I’m looking for nutritious, delicious, juicy content.
Spill your deets, I say. About shy girls, Penelope, Subtransience, film school. The dog sitting on his pillow. Expansive lift operator. Janitorial service working on the building next door, taking trash out, sweeping the leaves. Look at us now though, wandering, floundering, struggling for existence.
No way am I sharing that with you! I mumble, turning. That’s my super secret public journal.
I release certain expectations which fall from me like overstuffed cutlery out the sleeves of some pilfering servant. These are incomplete, these chronicles. They don’t need to necessarily change with the times, but they are broken up here, shattered. How to heal myself the old fashion way, alone. Or better shall I say, on my own. It my shadow plus my form, how long the University fence line.
I refuse to feel guilty for utilizing any of the explorative techniques required when undertaking a mass work. Aren’t you more concerned with telling a great story? I ask myself, walking the dog down the street after having made him wait longer than any dog should and what, just cause I get tired after work?
It’s just like one thing after another, always having to be done. We have groups, people we sit with at school, during lunch, in the cafeteria, at recess, in class. I wonder if you still enjoy my company.
Originally published at appropouture.wordpress.com on September 24, 2015.
