Tuesday, February 24, 2009
The men, women and children.
Have none yet, biologically at least.
But I’m parenting everyone
from my father to my best friends.
Counseling as both psychiatrist and rabbi,
doling out prescriptions and advice
when they all need me to talk them down
from whatever tree, window ledge
or altar of sacrifice
they have dragged themselves
on top of willingly.
Their instability eclipses my own,
I allow it and that begs the question
of who I should be mad at more?
In them there is a craving
for structure and order
often belayed by
a self destructive pattern.
Yet no matter how much
they polish and fellate
the phallus of chaos,
the worship is pointless.
Eventually backs are turned as they get older
and deny it at the moment of climax
like a time stingy whore would a struggling john.
Those moments are the end of gestation
for the epiphanies that teach us
that everything is an attempt
to crawl back into the womb from
sleep to sex
and asking for someone to care
about anyone else’s woes
is pretty much the same thing.
Any hope of stitching the chord back
between us and the peace
of existing in nonexistence,
the watery warmth of pre-birth
or possibly death, that was severed
on our zero birthday is shed. A waste,
not a pity.
Friday, February 6, 2009
The pill they’ve got me on worries me. They call it one of the “dirty TCAs,” tricyclic antidepressants from the first wave with all the bad side effects. So now, it burns when I cum, I cum, I cum, I cum when I do anything related to the sex type thing. Ejaculation AKA splooging AKA jizzing AKA creaming one’s jeans AKA the most pleasurable part for a man supposedly and I’m inches away from tearing up like a kid who touched the stove after Mommy expressly told him not to. With the sting of salt in my eyes, I wasn’t sure if I should get a cold compress or a Kleenex to mop up. If that wasn’t the worst, I spent most of yesterday without a hard-on for the first time in 15 years. Instead of staring around a classroom thinking about what the brunette, the actress, might look like without a shirt on, I was thinking about some morose shit like the futility of existence and how flawed the search for meaning is. My thoughts a carousel as they spun from the philosophic sublime to the pedestrian facts that I’ve had cottonmouth since I started six days prior and that I haven’t taken a good, healthy shit since two days before that. My nose has been stuffed up for about as long too and I can’t take antihistamines for fear of a fatal interaction. The anxiety, the depression and the stomach aches that it was supposed to cure are sort of gone. Mostly the tummy rumbles and I’m more stoner-mellow-placid now, but I think this is the most melancholy I’ve been in awhile. Speaking of which, I can’t even toke up, because I might go into cardiac arrest. So I’m going to the doctor on Tuesday and I’m going to switch to Prozac, a name you can trust from your mouth to God’s ears, Tom Cruise.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Bigmouth Strikes Again
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