Life in The Fast Lane
It is almost eight in the evening, and I am on the last evening of my workweek. There is a six-pack of Winterhook Ale, a six-pack of Avalanche Ale, and a small bottle of Jose Cuervo waiting for me, along with my big hairy pussy, back at the apartment. It is quiet tonight, as it has been for a couple weeks now, and I keep myself busy laying out poems and stories into a new layout, between calls. The scary bitches of the office have taken care of their evening crisis over food, and now two or three of us, the skinny menfolk of the office, sit quietly while they eat. There is no wonder why all the women have nacho butts around here! In a few moments, Cindy will return from buying her clove cigarettes and I will borrow her car to make another run for food. Today, like the other three days of this week, they have eaten much earlier than usual, and it has been blowing my one meal and one snack a day pattern.
Anyway, I am psyched to be getting a couple of days off out of here. This week has not been anywhere near as stressful as last week, but I will be glad to get some time to myself, all the same. Of course, it would be a good time to do something heavier than just a little smoking and drinking, these days, but I am afraid my addictive days and crazy ways have passed. Of course, I do have a couple of days to kill waiting for my honey to get home from her vacation. Left to his own devices, the cowboy works hard not to shoot his foot off in the darkness.
First, I sent her the little redheaded Partridge kid carrying a pear tree, wearing a pair of turtle gloves. The next day, I sent her three French deadheads in a van, who pulled up in front of her flat and immediately went to sleep. After that, I sent to her four crawling nerds who had an order of five onion rings from Jack-in-the-Box with them. Okay, I guess that is a good plan. I am trying to figure out how to send you this 2-for-1 coupon for ‘six months lease a paying’ with the seven ‘lawns a swimming’ after the flood hit the neighborhood, and eight rappers a-rappin’, nine snipers a-slayin’, ten ladies a-dancin’, eleven cords a-creepin’, and twelve fiddlers a-twiddlin’. Meanwhile back in the middle of our opinions, our hero was the karma.
“In my bed, you are the only one here.”
Shaved caves make home in his soul with another name. We tumble darkness with history, and there is a quiet here. The child is leering at us just so she can have it her way in the 3:15 AM netherworlds.
“Pass me another placebo,” she says as she takes a long drag off her cigarette, “Just prop me up with another pill. I found myself in the next loser’s revolution stuffed in a gin bottle on my way to Bombay City, but that is another story. Gimme your wallet and we will start our own insurrection!”
“She is a bimbo in the parade of your imagination,” says the Seer.
It is weird to hear what someone thinks about you through a police report. She tells war stories, but she has never been in a war.
“Your wine voice is more expensive than the usual commercial panhandling for stuff. Fuck means a bunch of disregarded mattresses, a bunch of promises, soaked in sugar and syphilis, waiting to come home to you in a three-ring circus circumcision dream. I could really need a vacation from this stupid swell that I call my home.”
“Hit me again, you fucking bastard,” she said with the bloody Mary mouth and a sneer. “You cannot make me believe in you.”
“I can, if I teach you how to lie,” he said.
“I am so tired that I could sleep for a thousand days and still not remember what tomorrow was supposed to mean. If you give me a sedative, I will make the best out of your tomorrow. In the darkness, I prayed to the goddess and made her into my home. There is no recourse but lacerations and apologizes. I forgive you for now. Will you call me, tomorrow?”
Laminating my liver as the Catholics gave up heaven for another day in the zoo with the dancing animals. I wish that there were no Christmas lies to tell or fantasies to make happen. I wish there was a day in the life of Christ that was worth remembering.
