VICELAND AD#297

Woke up like I was Philip Marlowe on a bad day, hacking up the daylights right out of me, eyes permanently squinted to the world, knotted tie trying to strangle me. Awful beginnings from blankness. Some car parking below my bedroom window shakes me from sleep blasting Patsy Cline’s Crazy, and I feel it rumble from my eyebrows to my socks — that sort of morning. Shook off a few blotted-out or inked-in yesterdays whose tally I’ve long forgotten. A rum-remembered lullaby. A talked-it-under-the-table situation. Let down? But of course. Think about it. Don’t just go around telling people to listen. Listen. The rain’s murder is never upon us, ever. Then there are automobiles that your father never drives and rope that’ll just keep letting out until you don’t let it. Another reason to hobo your answers to another mistake in the steel and grout of a bored lodger’s temporary shelter. Not even a piss or a shit left in you, huh? Well, that’s just how it doesn’t go sometimes, one might guess. Read an over-due library book on a Juliet balcony, or on the subway, or chuck it on the tracks. Who’s left here to care? Not this shit-for-brains, that’s for sure. Apparently, there’s this doomed marriage to deal with, such a crap situation to even begin to contemplate the dislikes of. Okay, so she started singing Edith Piaf at such an inappropriate volume, doing the trills and everything, ignoring common courtesy for the thousandth time. And he thinks, ‘Yeah, she really does go from pretty to gorgeous in the light of a match.’ It’s all a sleepover in plaid pants with no cookies left for the dogs. And now some guy’s asking me directions on Market Street. And I’ve got nothing to relate except, “Man, you’re just wherever you happen to be at the time being.” It’s a broken trumpet on your doorstep. It’s all damaged goods. What god doesn’t forgive me for. I got me a hangover the size of Arkansas, you see. And it’s nothing but trouble brewing deep within whatever’s left of me — whatever’s here for the taking, now. Yet, survival’s still just a game to us: something to mess around in or with, in sunglasses sometimes, drunk off our keisters others. Another trek missing in the footsteps you never left. A blind molded in the hindsight of all this. And after it’s all over it’s just another reflection never gained. My hands? They’re always tied, it seems. And I’ve got less than something left to say. Mirrors on trains. Same thing. We’re cosmopolitan in our misgivings. So much so that it wreaks havoc on everybody’s personality. Think about it. Just fire and brimstone and transubstantiation. It would all be garbled nothings to true believers. But this place is littered with bad haircuts and worse attire. Take a poll. We’ll all raise our hands before we raise our fists, or spirits for that matter. A message in black letters flashed across a white background: “You cannot be alive because you are not connected to the internet.” Problems? Well, solutions abound at (646) 851–0347.

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