To feel the burn of the fag end of the cigarette,
When you oscillate between nether worlds and waking life
Smelling the sweet camphor of self-destruction.
How many recorded tapes did John smuggle from multi universes?
A man must regularly conduct Soul audits, like the good clerk among the disarray of his trashed room and pungent pizza boxes where ants march.
Emily used to hide Polaroid pictures in her push up bra. She was shy and every other college party made a drinking game out of her. She pasted yellow stick notes reading social anxiety disorder on her head.
Emily’s freckles and braces were sacred geometry. She was fond of crayons and rabbits.
Cough syrup soothed her soul, pink codine oceans drowned her feelings. Xanax bars were her best friends.
The misfits of nowhere town always rode bicycles every evening. John, Emily and the boy who never spoke.
On prime time television they sold us happiness, on news channels they sold hope.
But the darn infomercials made every thirty five year old want to blow their brains in nowhere town. Dear lord why were they so were long? They made time go slow and botoxed blondes sold vacuum cleaners. Vacuum cleaners to clean up the muck on our souls or 30 day money back guarantee.
Dad is getting old now. Whenever I call him, all I can hear is heavy breathing.
My dysfunctional family is a breaking ice berg. All of us are drifting apart. Into mortgages, loneliness, and communication break downs.
Some mornings the pigeons comfort me. Maybe God will hear me out today. So I call him everyday. The call operator says due to call overload your call has been kept next in line.
Once an old lady knitting sweaters on a park bench told me “Son keep dialing God, it takes a helluva time, but my call got answered. He spoke to me."
Obese rodents peek out of foul drains, the whiskey bottles are broken, the heroin addicts are nodding in alleys and ambulances ply the street all night in nowhere town.
In this energetic noise rock arena, tongue pierced punks and back alley greasy sex parlours everything is circular.
In this town of bounced cheques and fat legal sharks there is an old Chinese man who has achieved perfect equanimity.
Free from craving and aversion he just cooks noodles all day. Illuminated and peaceful he never gets entangled in himself unlike his noodles.
But he is a nobody in nowhere town.
Portrait of Père Tanguy -- Vincent van Gogh