My gift is my song, and this one’s for you.
No, that was a lyric from a song. An Elton John song, to be exact. Momma used to sing that song to me when I was a kiddo. I remember laying my head in her lap, her hands running through my hair, singing so beautiful and strong. I remember the way she would look down at me and smile.
I apologize, I suppose I just miss her call at midnight, all cheery and bubbly, telling me happy birthday. Some things you just can’t ever change your feelings towards I guess.
Edie always asks “Why?” anymore about almost everything. So there I am, looking down at her looking up at me, explaining the mechanics of leverage and gravity in relation to an elevator, other adults staring at me with a look of horror in their faces…she always waits patiently for me to finish, then asks, “Why?”
I go through each “why” with her, doing my best to explain thoroughly until I’ve exhausted all my knowledge. I do my best to be patient with her, to allow her sponge-brain to absorb and be as curious as it can be. Sometimes I can’t help but tell her, “That’s just the way of things, sweetheart.” The funniest part about all of that is, that is the answer she accepts blindly and goes on about whatever intrigues an extraordinarily hyper 4 year old.
No one ever gets it right. Sorry, that was a lyric from my own song, the one that’s playing on YouTube right now. I should be sleeping. I don’t know. I was tired but then I lied down in bed, and suddenly I wasn’t. So up I went, cooked me a dang quesadilla, and turned on some DragonBall Z on my Kodi FireStick. Damn thing should be called a CrackStick.
So here I am. Again. 4:39 in the morning and the jumble of thoughts screaming in my head are fighting for attention with the music playing, with my inner voice speaking the words before I type them. The big see through ball of yarn is what I envision my jumble to look like. Each long strand divided and broken yet equally solid and demanding.
Missing nights to make me violent, make me quiet.
I wouldn’t ever give it anything, not even a second glance.
Stumbling grace, falling down the stairs.
Filling spaces with light, keeping insanity at bay.
I struggle through the pushing; help is never on the way.
Turn tail, stoicism tossed aside like so many drunken shameful nights.
Familiar scenes of praying porcelain hands and knees, heaving and
praying to God to make it stop for just one fucking second!
Each scream carried with too much energy, too much goddamn enthusiasm.
Please let the credits roll. Please, for the love of God, let the fucking credits roll.
Pretty much like that. Only instead of a beautiful poem it’s like a busy street full of beautiful poems, pedantic arguments filled with logic, winding and twisting narratives leading someone down the path of whatever story I happen to be feeling, and of course, all the goddamn psychotic ramblings I’m not supposed to talk to my shrink or anyone else about for fear of them thinking I’m absolutely fucking crazy. And that, well that is a road few come back from.
Most people fear pain, I fear lunacy. It’s so fucking scary! Especially because to the crazy (sorry, not very PC of me, mentally disturbed) person, everyone else is crazy and your logic and thoughts are the reality. There’s an old movie, In the Mouth Of Madness, it covered this idea. So many people begin believing in these things from outside of our reality that they become the new reality, and everyone is swept up with it. Of course, in that story there’s people running around with machetes, riots, looting, pillaging, oh my.
And I swear to God my pathetic soul just wants to die,
It wants to kill itself, strangled and crushed larynx
Help me do it, my hand strength isn’t quite what it used to be.
Twist the towel around my neck and let me masturbate one last time,
Let me enter Hell with a hard on, show those demons who’s boss,
Let them stare at the full 4.8 inch monster I’m totin between these legs.
The naked dream in front of all those Marilyn Monroe’s,
Crying in self pity. I could cry really fucking hard. I swear to God I could.
6 times today. Oh I can hear what most people say right now, “6 times at 37?? Dude!” No. It’s not cool, it’s a goddamn curse. You go and masturbate 6 times a day every day for a week and see how your genitals feel afterwards. And dude, the porn gets so boring. I mean, the acting is God awful, at least put in a ringer to read the script then stunt cock a guy in when it’s time to get busy. Smellin what I’m stepping in? Shit is beyond real fuckin old.
Oh, I’m sorry, I do that. This, I mean. In conversations, I mean. Duh. HA! In conversations with people, I tend to jump around and go back and forth between topics. I’ve found that I even do that with conversations from previous days, too. I know it drives Carol crazy. Hell it drives me fucking crazy….amongst other things, that is.
Well, this was supposed to be a nice memoir about how Momma used to call me on my birthday and now that she didn’t tonight I really missed it, that I forgot how much I missed it last year and now I’m remembering and it’s really kind of bumming me out so I went off on tangent after tangent interspersing my monologue with poetry and brief little memories and stories because that’s just how my brain works and now it’s just like I’ve been swinging this giant stick through the bone, the horse is so dead already.
One sentence that totally made sense. Yes! I fucking rule!
One more call before the sun comes up,
Yellow teeth portraying a smile; a shitty actor, that mouth
The traffic of the day begins its life, the swelling and contracting sounds
Just like so many people afraid of their own death; their own mortality
I’ll show you what I can do, what we can do together
What we should do together. It won’t be today.
Sad actors miming that they’re out of work; Pictionary ecstasy guesses
They got it wrong, I’m pretty sure.
Don’t let the callouses get you down, you’ve still got some feeling buried
under there somewhere, I’m sure of it.
P.S. Sorry, I couldn’t help myself….HA HA HA! No, this isn’t part of the poem. – Joey