A poem about compulsions, with allusions to “2001”.
i haven’t seen any good porn lately oh baby, oh baby who cares
i’m Silver-Surfing around Uranus leaving my traces, as we zoom out to the vastness of space –
there’s one old account still active: a beacon; a still, moldy vessel for public lice with all the water-under-the-surface secrets of a dirty-minded twenty-something’s compulsionary vice, frozen in time
and nothing’s going off there, either.
it’s not for lack of invocation: putting on my web goggles; tightening my gloves like i’m the Baron, speed-cracking my knuckles, despite no chance against Snoopy like Charlie versus Lucy. that’s a thousand hours of dedication i could have poured into anything else.
it’s 11:59 on my Saturday night and His phone is already on silent. i wish i could afford the same capacity to ignore knowing omnipresently that everything was alright.
back to life. back to reality. however do you want me? i’m watching a twenty-something YouTube partner from Australia demonstrate a twenty-dollar iPod rip-off from China while i dig into another box of Extra Toasty Cheez-It’s – courtesy of Kellanova – cronch-cronch-cronch lip-smacking-sounds amok
and at the back of my mind, i can’t help to wander why i still haven’t taken my two scoops of smooth, orange-flavoured fibre, of which consideration is by Procter & Gamble and the cold enamel of the toilet bowl i’ve yet to spackle.
the jester takes comparison pics between the knock-off, his iPhone, and his Pixel of his dog, his mouser, his fenced-in yard – and i know how much pet food costs: while i personally have none, i have family who does and it occurs to me that’s probably where this was
and then the camera flips to face his quaff, looking like i could have fifteen years younger had i kept the same locks, and avoided whatever life conundrum concocted the lump what is the foreign organ from my father in my tum, and the fat it collected as it settled upstream and the broken record’s excuse for skipping is that some things in life are just worth repeating
maybe soon i’ll know what i want. sooner than later is better.
maybe i enjoy eating frozen foods and protein bars and McDonald’s for lunch every day. it’s a choice.
maybe. just maybe.
maybe one day i’ll have the strength after work to make a proper meal that cleans out the fridge and uses all the sauce for a change.
maybe.
maybe on the other end of that hotline she’s laughing at my jokes and not rolling her eyes as i am assuming from her uniform replies. maybe.
maybe i need to slow my roll
and maybe i need to step it to the floor and go full bore – Mad Max form – right now ahead of my fifteenth chance or i’m too old to learn from my mistakes anymore. whichever comes before. maybe.
maybe maybe maybe. maybe yesterday was already too late
and maybe i’ll grow a third leg.
maybe i’ll croak in a week and maybe i’ll pass away peacefully in my sleep
and maybe i’ll get rigor with an endorphin-induced end-of-life dream boner and an open casket will be out of the question. kind of hard when you’re already booked for incineration.
i am pandering to the points that i want on the eve of Jupiter entering Venus and whatnot and comparing it to what i really need,
as i loiter in my Mazda where you can usually find me doing one of the following rhymed list of things:
being alone, playing Klondike on my phone;
listening to a CD on my SUV’s player from my stack of self-burned music CDs, all of which i’ve heard before;
and wet-lipping a big ol’ blunt just for me. i know you’re all joking about my masturbating in the back seat. maybe now that i’ve brought it up.
i don’t really know anything. i blow the smoke out and i ponder my fatty while i cough uncontrollably like i’m acting on TV: telegraphing it for everyone in the audience to see that it is, in fact, ground marijuana leaf. if you priced this thing out it would be a killing, but i don’t have the start-up to buy a booty-babe to do all that tedious rolling.
i forgot where i was going
so i drift for a moment, and in that space, she wanders through in a special guest cameo i can’t mentally defer.
i know that i shouldn’t be driving
but my Saturday is also New PlayStation Deal Day – as nutritional as breakfast cereal and modestly-priced as Extra Foods – and i wasn’t paying interest on my credit card for a bill that, with tax, costs only two-oh-seven
so now i’m in the parking lot of the Seven-Eleven with my twenty-five-dollar cardboard voucher filling up to the tip of my breast pocket, and the rain clouds from my last week of work have parted as a plane flies against a wild blue heaven and you’d think i’d be running home
and so
because it is calm
i think about her again, and the clouds loop back like a Terry Fox race. i guess they were blowing back this way eventually,
everything the boy had ever thought; had done and said –
that’s what the low-budget documentary on Amazon Prime told him.
it was all outlined in a big ULINE box with no lid full of labelled duo-tangs stacked the wrong way on the top shelf – no less important than all the rest – to whom the spirits kindly regressed. the father didn’t necessarily ask for all this. all he did was ask
and he was met with
and where maybe once he permitted himself to forget some things based on nature, his age, now he knew everything. that was the curse of the dead and their wistless blessing
theory of a daskeman 