Some kinda shit

I think something may have just clicked. I was always thinking of higher purposes. Felt like I was trying to achieve god-like heights, needed to build a ladder to get to heaven. But every time I built a step, I broke it, threw it the fuck out. And I never looked around myself. What I have, had or achieved or stepped in or on to make an impression.  If we're all just looking for jobs to satisfy that bullshit part of life...arrogance will not help move us forward, neither will ignorance. And if I choose to not live somewhere else because that place might burn or quake, then this place might burn or quake. Everywhere is designed to self-destruct.  Wherever you go, you will die. There is no escape. There will not be a place on surface or in mind where you can stand and escape death and be as happy as you want to see yourself in someone else's mind or movie. So take a step. Eat the map. There is no framing a life so perfect, where doves fly out of your ass while you are draped, dead but smiling. I have struggled, for whatever reason, to find this type of peace, this phony bullshit peace and all the while, forgotten about now. I have forgotten about live flesh and organs, breathing...fucking and killing each day as if there will be another to just fuck and kill and I will never run out of days to fuck and kill or the ability to keep fucking and keep killing.  Self-sabotage has been my vehicle. I have transported myself on the wheels that only roll toward my hell.  I forget the people who come to visit and drink before and with me. How many there are. I love them so. But I looked past so many faces thinking that I would move past or forward or beyond and every face and conversation was just temporary. ...Because there would be this "higher" place. A place that was beyond my father, my sister, my mother, myself. And maybe it took the blood in my spit to realize. Or the blood flowing from my ass to realize.

I wanted to be a writer, well, I am writing, aren't I? To a friend. Possibly an obituary but this is writing. And I wanted to be a musician, so I pick up my guitar and strum chords that no one else will hear...it does not make me less of a musician because I am the only one to hear these songs that come out of my mind. No. A fly doesn't hate itself because it is not an eagle or an airplane. The fly just flies...to wherever, whenever. The light of dawn to the dark of night, there's some fucking place to go or take shelter in. There's always some place to die, but the fly doesn't stop using its wings.

We're not going to evolve into god. And those that are trying to are crying over a drink, just as I am doing at 3 am in a city that is falling apart. Where the flies are laying maggots and I am laying nothing but on a floor soon.

The world wants to grease you up and fuck you and insert you into some fucking place that you'd rather not be but you have convinced yourself that you should be. Not you, but me. You is the I. I am the turd in the pipe that has grown hands and feet and desires to swim, not just get flushed.

And I say all of this. And no one will take it a bit seriously. But I have written it and it took some time. Time away from what? From nothing. It's like putting your face in the river or the ocean, then washing your anus in the same river or ocean. Your asshole and face has been cleansed in clear and cool fish shit.

Oh, but even see how this letter to myself has turned. I started out trying to forgive myself and ended up wanting to kill myself...again. Why do I keep suffering myself? Fuck why. Why does there have to be an answer every time I wake up or fall asleep. Death? Is death the proponent? Is death the facilitator? The flat out fucking reason? The intimidator? Or is life the reason? Is living to see what you have written the next day or ears to hear your own music? Intimidated enough to die, or fulfilled enough to want to live another day, to create? Who knows anymore why we're doing anything. Needs, passions, loneliness.

And as I write, something just grazed me. My haunting, perhaps. Something just came out of nowhere and touched me. Was it my future death? My soul given a second chance? A dead friend telling me to quit while I'm ahead?

I'm not ahead. I'm barely treading. I have no goal. I understand no finish line. And maybe that's why...

But so many faces and mouths, so much skin has sat down and offered me their beds and homes...their company. I keep rejecting as if I was cheating on someone or some code or principle or moral. I can't accept anything. I can't. I don't know why. Or maybe I do know why.

I was 10. I was standing in the garage and my father was swearing as he cleaned the floor. He didn't want me to help but he didn't want me to go inside either, he pulled me away from my Saturday afternoon creature feature. He didn't want me to watch those movies, afraid that they'll corrupt my brain.

So my father tries to dump the previous year's dead flowers into a bag but the dirt hits the newly swept garage floor. "You son of a bitch!" he yells in my direction. I walk away and cry on the porch. He finds me and tells me that he didn't mean it. To call me or anything a "son of a bitch". Like I really cared. I just wanted to talk in that garage. Just like I want to talk now. But I can't . I can nod and smile and assume the conversational load of my guests. I can listen to all of the problems or "awesomeness" of their lives.

So he takes me to a hot dog stand and doesn't smile. He hands me food as if it will take care of everything. A poppy seed bun. An encased meat. I eat it and wonder when it will all end. Or begin. My emotions bought  off by a cheap wiener and silence.  I knew he wanted to get home and finish cleaning that garage. So I couldn't enjoy that hot dog...On a corner, on a cloudy Saturday afternoon. It was as if absence itself, or a ghost tried to treat me. The apology made me feel more alone. I ate in fear. Did I want someone to rub my hair and say, "sorry, slugger!" Who knows what I wanted.

Soon after, my mother told me that I was a mistake. I was at the carnival just a few blocks away and I came home with a Led Zepplin pocket mirror. She put me on her lap, her breath reeking of vodka. "Where were you?" She cried. "At the carnival," I responded like "duh." "I was worried about you," she said. "Why?" was all I thought. And then she told me."We didn't want you, but now that you're here..." She put tried to put some emphatic spin on it. But how do you say "we didn't want you" to my eyes and smile?

I can't explain my life at the bottom of the bottle. Or at the hand on the neck. I probably can't explain the pour or the cry. But it's happening too much.  I recognize. I am not Hemmingway or Bukowski. I am not Malcolm Lowry or Algren or Kerouac.

But you say, "I don't want to hear this on my day off, I just want to do nothing!" I'm standing next to someone who didn't want me and doesn't, and doesn't even offer me a hot dog.

So fuck it.

So I won't feel sorry for myself. We're all victims. We're all victims of some shit...emotions, life...If you've never felt it then you don't know it. If you don't know it, you'll never feel it.

Don't call me on your day off. It might be my day off too.