Can't Stand It, Much Less Stomach It

We all dig our own graves, and as the Nietszchemeister had it, we mine as well have fun doing it. Whether in three flats in big shouldered cities with effluvial emanations rising from the storm drains, in bed sharing projects with strangers we’ve come to know well within the temperate climes of the left handed Coast, or in temporally configured spaces of worn out houses whose accessories are for sale signs in the front yard and vehicles which no longer run in back – it’s a zero sum game, no matter where it is played or how its rules are formulated.

Nights I am hospitable to; mornings leave me ragged. I have discovered, that at least in the early hours, garbage strewn city streets are no better and no worse than carrion laden county roads, provided that acknowledgement of what goes on demands no more and no less than cognizance of what gets in.

Things that have gotten me out of bed in the morning in the past week or so:

- Track number 6 of the Beatnuts’ “Musical Massacre”

- Debt

- Alarm clock of roommate who had departed

- Smell of coffee

- Smell of wet dog – other roommate’s girlfriend’s dog

- Innate joy at being alive and unmutilated

- Nascent hangover

- Inexorable need to go out and make a difference

Oh my. Solipsism for its own sake is the nadir of this medium: no comments, no trace of having been present to late night musings, no slippage on icy surfaces witnessed by casual passers by who might pause to consider the accident that might have been.

Perhaps we’ve been tricked, symbolist poetry having meant something after all. Sullen acquiescence makes me wonder if it would be possible to borrow some money to pay for three more hours to pursue tonight until it runs its course and have no consequence to pay tomorrow. Which, incidentally, is today. Cheers. Overhung and outlasted, notwithstanding.