Heart of Monkey, Reckless Indecision Blues
A monkey lady looked at me and I monkey looked away from her. Monkey nothing, look at me, monkey in a monkey chair, listening to monkey music and singing monkey songs. I should have asked that woman to marry me. I sat down in my old, sunken chair and I felt a new and peculiar sort of heaviness, something dredged up from the old existential recess of the human condition, long locked away in the vaults safe and sound, and I felt very overpowered by it.
I looked up to the couch beside me and I saw a woman sitting there, someone very familiar, and I felt myself reaching towards her, gently laying her down and then kissing her, I could feel her skin beneath her clothes, I could push my hands beneath her clothes – watching The Master because it is terrible – monkey sadness, monkey love; and then king monkey depression, I felt sick, and old, and empty. I could feel her hair getting tangled, I could remember the particular scent in the air – and the sunlight beamed in perfect squares, the air was clean and softly falling, I realized I was not heartless after all, but just sick, had been sick now for years, and that I truly still longed, deep inside me, I could hunger after all, I could feel monkey desire and contend with monkey anger, pangs of monkey hunger, rush of monkey blood – tired for all perpetuity, and getting tireder, but capable of precious strength – time is almost lost on me, I am feeling short on time – monkey time and monkey feelings, flashes of synaptic light across proteins, membrane-bound organelles…
I have shut off the back off the house again. Winter is coming and I have finally connected the gas back on. I turn the heat on and bask in the warmth gushing out of my walls and floor. The smell of burning gas reminds me of Christmas and I remember the Christmases I spent in the past, the ones with those people I loved, I could hardly remember – the faces are already gone, whatever they said I know none of it…
I think I have loved once, I remember the insides of a brand new eternity, a compounding desire, driven by passion and hope – and I know what it is like to be romantic, to harbor ideals – but what can I say for myself now? I am Renan getting fat in my solitude. I am pure now – ascetic. I am religious and pure. I come inside cloth and I’m done with it. Monkey fat and monkey come, I drink like a fish and I smoke like a factory, I am downright industrious these days with consumption, I am trying everything I can to withstand my defenses some more, passing all sorts of substances into my system to no great avail – but I am lost in all things, and losers know something of substance abuse. An ascetic and an alcoholic, both.
The dragon between mountains flew, down into the shadowed valley where children play in shallow streams, flowers flattened from the morning rain – cities have burned for less than the sum of my sins, and I am nothing to a city. I hate the city and I hate the country. I hate the ocean and I hate the beach. I hate the movie theater more than anything. I am stuck there, in that cheap morass, I get sick on the fumes from the perfume and popcorn.
Menial labor… wages, payments, repressed masculinity… the dream of the palisade is fading, the penthouse is wiped from the books… A family tumbles, the prodigal son disappears from the world – from the civilized world – eudaimonia – into the abyss by the coattails, onto my knees I am lovingly swept, anchors and all, into the silent compression of a lifetime worth or more of feelings, beating hearts and voices – tremors pull the earth apart, memories dissolve in the stream – faded in the streets of L.A., faded in the delta, on the highway out of town, a team of children to pray for me, a tender dance of regret plays diligently for me, a light at the edge of my vision grows; vacant, I hold the violin of my youth, and I play William Grant Still by myself, I am bad, I am crying. Kill me, I am already dead. I’ve died another monkey death.
Not a creature is stirring, not even a mouse. Monkey silence, monkey house.