Remember-- nice words only. This is barely edited at all :|
Winter and a soul
You don’t expect to miss the cold. Not that
brisk breeze of a cold, the whooshing cold
that likes to pull at your hair and grab your jacket tighter. It’s the
missing
of that real cold that won’t go away even after ten cups of coffee
and a long hot shower.
You aren’t supposed to be any
thing but happy when the sun’s come out. Maybe that’s just from
being of a place that’s full of rain that touches bone. You have to
take the brighter weather as a call
for optimism and breathing
in enough Vitamin D for the whole year. But all I really
want is one frost-smitten day to don my
fuck-the-world feelings, crash through puddles, and scare children with my indiscriminately cruel-frozen mien.
This is the justification for a rage denied.
Sometimes, you can get that emotion when you drink, really drink, all alone someplace you aren’t meant to be.
The stacks. In the basement, through a broken win-
dow. Down the stairs.
Walk to the very back where the light can't reach
when the fluorescence reeks its worst. Dusty, musky
place of dead things and books forgotten, covers torn
off decades ago, and a thousand thinning stamp printed dates.
A melancholic place. A place to think, really. A place to drink.
Leaning against Chaucer and Dante and all those
dead men. Lushes themselves, I suppose.
The last bus home only slightly remaining in the mind, cast
aside like the ego, and those drinks become all.
Still though, it’s not the same. You need some
one around to throw that
rawanger
off of, or you don’t get anything out of it
but the inkling that you are slightly
losing it and may one day commit
mass murder and make a spectacle of your
self lasting many generations or not even fifteen minutes of infamy. Wikipedia entry: Your Name (Serial Killer). You have to spill that bad mood onto someone else, feel empowered
through the ruining of someone else’s good time. Raw anger. Rawanger. You only say it through clenched
teeth, spit out without a moment’s pause between.
But all those I know to drink with, they become happy drunks.
Drink away the philosophy and hurt and all the jazz in Paris and New Orleans and Tokyo and my old hometown.
They play darts and miss the board entirely,
or place bets on billiards and can’t manage to touch the ball with their well-chalked sticks.
But these small failures are nothing but amusements in the now.
They laugh so easily at themselves.
Me and June… anyway, we go out to the ocean with raw-
anger. Take our wildness out to sea. It doesn’t feel
much like Melville’s ocean, nothing to draw
you to it but boredom, sweet ennui, borrachas. Nothing better
to do
but breathe in all that salt
water, let it seep into our pores and eyes so that sand joins with our blood streams.
It’s the same one though, our ocean.
It doesn’t much feel like an ocean, not a real one that spits out, bubbles and debris, ignores broken bottles, plastic bags, and even our bodies thrown to its wiles.
Not the kind that would really want to eat trash like me or
a true beauty, my Junia.
When we get a mind to drown ourselves here, we end up back on the beach,
landlubbered sans free will.
And still, at night our tries dry straight
away. The footprints and the cut
remnants.
Not even the sharks would eat us, if there were any. This shallow in the waves. So they say.
The night’s too warm. All they
do is sleep with their mouths
open and hope something good floats
in. Accepting less. Excepting less,
they prowl. I suppose.
“Come to bed,” she says, using that one voice she has that is kind of like the cold only
too fleeting to be real, an Indian winter in a white Summer,
“No more thoughts tonight.”
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