severance is a comedy that i am loving. another television show i’ve been watching is outer limits (did you know that slowis the color of mustard, apparently?),
which i also really enjoy. comedy. drama. i sit in bed, alone, watching each, one after the other.
gosh, i’m so hung over. we got a little bit carried away in area 51 last night. we were all revved up to see the space-people that everyone’s been gabbing about for the past few months. the truth is out there, remember? well, it is the year of the apocalypse, as you know. but we got pretty lucky. and the rumors were true. but it was so crowded i caught almost none of the game. the earthlings beat the aliens by just a field goal, though. that part was the best.
margie’s latest draft of her already sold work of fiction was atrocious. and she knew it. “i reckon when you live in a world like this... i just don’t know...” and she trailed off into a noiselessness so haunting that for about thirty minutes afterward, everyone sat in silence in agonizing introspection about their own made-up stories.
once me and my love entered the ultra-sleek, super-comfy (might i add out-of-this-world?) rocket that was to take us both to our new home somewhere at the end of the galaxy, given the ridiculously unnecessary apocalypse that we found ourselves
swimming in here on the home planet, we zipped ourselves snugly into our pneumatic new-fangled space suits as tight as possible, then flipped the time-folding cryogenics switch and spooned our way to the outer edges where we found ourselves a nice habitable planet and lived happily ever after.
can it be that the whole world is crumbling underneath us and we sort of know this but go about making believe things are pretty much normal? sounds like an understatement to me if ever there was one. people, many of whom we love, many of whom are our very selves, seem hellbent on pushing this tragic course to its end. as nihilistic as this sounds, i mean, does this seem apparent to anyone? where this myopia will get us does not seem an unknown anymore. but dammit, i want to live. i didn’t sign up for this completely unnecessary reversal of progress in my latter years. this i keep saying aloud to anyone who will listen. is it too late to stop this nonsense?
you must have thought me down for the count. every day, for what was way too long, i would take the time to wonder, lost in my own lousy situation, where you might be, why i never heard a word. what a
jerk, each and all of you, i thought. these things we go through are confoundingly difficult. even while in the midst of the worst, i knew this, but yet i’d be so aware of the absence, every single day it would hit me numerous times, and down the rabbit hole i’d go. what a waste, right? this is what comes of believing. of being.
burned out. many of us. yet, our responsibilities do not go away. it doesn’t mean that i am always being good, i’m certainly not at ease with the current hyperbolic nature of our situation. but this world is, while finite, small, it looms large
in the sense that there are burdens to bear, and that there are diabolical neighbors and politicians and camera hogs spread seemingly everywhere upon it, so much so that when hellbent and massive, a wildfire spreads amongst our people, some of us feel so hard we get burned up, more burned out than ever, throwing up our hands in a regrettable, if not lethal form of screwed-up empathy.
i don’t like feeling down. depressed. let’s say love. let’s say loverboy. whatever. ugh. listen to me. hey! i’m right here. nobody likes being down, all in love with what, the end of the world? let’s invent something new. regenerate ourselves into an idealistic notch. no cliffs. no burial.
prithee, love, but i do yearn for thy mouth to be outright unreservedly upon mine own. further to that, with fiery desire, to have your heart o’er mine would send it
ricocheting within until the very organs housed inside my feverish carapace were bruised and broiled like mutton, a stew- kettle of which would sear an entire colony inside out with a rabid covetous thirst.
ideally, there would have been a ton more resumes going out from me this week. but there were not that many that did. all that i will add to that is that i blame the rodents.
del (flutter!) ray is my name. anachronizms are my game. to you, i suppose that might be obvious. poetry isn’t obvious (that’s silly to say) (& for that matter, nor is it a game). 6 lines in & i’ve given you statements that are either obvious or flat-out false. what should a poem (or i) rather do (or say)? find something you love and just keep doing it. that’s something. & also, be yourself. learn to discern the obvious. distinguish the truth from what’s not. (& fly!)
please tell the sommelier that i’d like another bottle of that delicious pinot noir. i don’t consider myself much of an oenophile...i mean, don’t get me wrong, i love wine...but i have neither the taste buds
nor the memory to be such a connoisseur. but given what a pleasure being out with you has been this evening, i’ll take anything i can get to jiggle these clumsy synapses just so i maximize my remembrance of as many specifics of this fine evening as this dim noggin can hold.
today, on this subject, i’d like to focus on the healing power of this genre of american music, not the part where we languish excessively in the sorrowful, sometimes grief-striken or inconsolable aspects woven into the
blues, generally speaking, but more on the complexity, the divine and the sublime aspects leading one out of those more down-trodden stereotypes of the genre itself toward catharsis.
under the spell of the blues, one, to put it simply, when the experience is as it can be, when one wants an escape from the morbidity of depression, one
soars through the maudlin, up and up, near heaven or near enough nirvana that one feels, perhaps, quite literally as if one might burst. not of sorrow, but of joy. to do so, one must really experience the depths, and then settle in, receptive, ready, for some soul-sculpting, life-altering blues.
don’t you just love these paint chips? they are so eccentric. i’d never even heard of a deep-sea vent before, and rather than problematizing things by looking up what exactly one is, the hyphenated part of this so -called word makes it pretty simple for me to imagine the color itself, some sort of 19th century elementary school chalkboard hue that, i want to imagine has some sort of a
very slight glow. dark and eerie for sure, but something maybe comfort to someone who has not until arriving at said vent decided for certain that the impending suicide he feels necessary can now be planned with conviction.
personally, i’d rather not talk about all of the stress, all of the
anxiety that is swirling around within me right now. it’s enough to make me dizzy (and i’m already a ditz) and i really
need the energy and focus to get a lot of things done. and all of it enthusiastically. so what am i doing? mostly just lying here with my eyes closed on the verge of sleeping. because i’ve less anxiety when i’m asleep.
your eyes often make my heart flutter. that, as if under some sort of a spell—and they’re impossible to resist when they are in front of mine—my
entire body, beginning with the area of my heart until i am engulfed, invigorated, yet weakened to a point where my body is, in essence, nothing but sheer potential, vibrant, so ready for flight that for the rest of the day and into my dreams, i am soaring.
underwear- loving twenty- and thirty-somethings these days seem to really revel in their undies fetishes within public arenas (w/easy ogling access: social media, leather fests, underwear parties)—they’re very into these eye-popping skimpy skivvies, often discovered with no backside— let’s call those brilliantine jockstraps—wow—sometimes i, myself, get so enthusiastic about this craze that this fifty-something wants to form an alliance with those exhibiting hotties...but then think better of it.
