Staring Back Into Those Beautiful, Baby Blues
His throat hurts. He’s hanging in stasis by the doorframe; safely concealed between two windows to the people talking outside. He is trying not to cough but his throat is on fire. He’s unclothed, except for his brogues and his leather jacket and a neckerchief. He should’ve gotten high in his bedroom, not out here.
The sun is shining harder than ever. I’m feeling blue in my gut. I’m trying to avoid the petty banter. I’m feeling wildly alone. It’s an encompassing feral dis-association. It’s sunny and blue and I’ll never see most of these people again, and I’m feeling ill. My knuckles bleed as they scrape along the asphalt. I see some old friends I never liked. I walk up to them for some petty banter. They laugh along with me when I tell them I’m going home to dose up and eat mealy apples, but when I’m alone there’s nothing to laugh over and I’m left with a shulling husk of emptitude. It’s not so bad, I think. It could be worse. And I blow myself a kiss. The dope knows something I don’t, and with it I’m again enarmored. There are words on a plaque in the hall. There are standards as of yet unsettled and sitting, weak and fertile, to gorge oneself on, if one is apt to gorge. There are books to be re-read. All a man needs is red meat in his stomach and a heart recessed to the left of his chest. I cannae pay for what I would not sell myself. But I am a businessman, and my ethics are like a river upon which to build a castle. If you stay long enough, perhaps I will make a speech. I’ll ask for a moment of silence. I’ll scratch runes in the floor to protect me, for I am prone to self-ruin and need to be protected.
The weather’s changed and already the skies are black and windy. Something stormy is happening here, and it inspires; I haven’t felt inspired in days. What a grand old time. What an elegant ball. When they ask me why I am, I will answer, ‘Decorum.’ Fatherhood, and his yearning last chance at existentialism, sonhood. Crazy, erratic dreams; and that’s how nightmares work. They drag you down with them. No one speaks a word, and then there is no one there to speak. Oh, and friendship… what gloriousness, what distilled fulfillment left to ferment and be drunk up til you vomit. Get some sleep. Sweet dreams.
The Latin rhetors may fain to call me a Grand stylist, but I ain’t no plain speak either. “The pear, the pear, she’s poisoned the pears,” or even, “The aura, the aura, she said your aura was indigo…”