Assam
The morning’s first tea’s at hand. I fell asleep in my clothes – on purpose; I hadn’t expected to be down for long and I wasn’t disappointed, the blade in my side that stirs me never being late. I loathe bitching about shit but I feel what I feel and- “God,” I assured myself, “He’s taking care of you,” and He is, but it wouldn’t have been necessary if some form of normalcy had taken root. Some kind of peace. Instead, I got a straight razor’s slash across me and- Fuck. Where is this gonna take me? I’m almost at the end of it. Or there are many years, yet, to come. Between, I wonder about shit like will I revisit the homeless shelter and its violent wrecks pissing across its floor and, there in the alley behind it, lines form for spoons along the fenceline separating them from reality as they wait their moment, each of them, at the torch. There’s precious little keeping me from looking into that hell, again. All it takes is a stamp. Or a single misplaced word, mistimed and ill-conceived.
The echo chamber idles noisily beyond my door. In this world, I’m at the mercy of a legion of randos who churn from their assholes the sweet molasses of disinformation. Certainly, I’m being checked by any who embrace the shit, their outlook influenced by some need to hobble clarity, there, and a craving for notoriety. Recognition by the dead who’ve occupied their lives. Descriptions escaping me once more as I worry about my mind. Does it mean dementia? Will I ever find the words? Meanwhile, another soul goes unimpressed. It’s a waste, going through the motions of grandiosity without a captive audience.
“You would think…” he began. Which irks me. Would you? I mean, you didn’t go over the instructions, first?
These people are amazed by glittering facades. Things built-up not in reality but in their own minds to define Creation. They pocket anything they feel are answers slipped to them, christening them as “ingenious” and what “they’d do” if the opportunity came, but – really – no one’s asking them to. Schlemping through my life with the tools of their trade strapped across their hips, ever at the ready to put up a facepalm. “No,” I replied. “I wouldn’t think that at all.”
The poor fucker. He’s got himself branding me as being unfortunate, though he’s built servitude into the walls of his dollar store castle while lecturing me on freedom but I’ve got little, comparatively, binding me. Little but my own mind. Which I’ve elected to expand rather than fence off from the what-have-you-got. Still, I confess shortcomings. Many, many of them. You’ll not set yourself free until you allow this of yourself.
It'll be dawn, soon…