The cajoling laughter is a farce. But they think it's real. The reverence & respect handed out w/ a smile to all the clients & salesmen, is nothing more then a sinister joke w/ a punch-line only i get, one made for some type of self-preservation. The orders barked out daily come from a costumed-mouth, somehow pantomiming the idea & phrase: I CARE! & they all believe this sincere. Perhaps my almost-daily-attendance corroborates the former & negates whatever latter i can come up w/.
At home, a cigarette dangling from my mouth, i go over all this finely & meticulously. It doesn't make me feel any better, only worse. But there is nothing else for me to do. i try to turn my attention to the others of past, but the thought of Steven Chamberlain, or Leonard Demoine, Thad Fellows, brings a rumbling sickness to my stomach at the moment; sometimes, on some days, a look back is too much, so i continue w/ the parade of days that is everyday.
i begin to find fault w/ what i do. my life, as it pertains to their living, is nothing more then an empty sack; a writhing devil of a dream unable to awake from.
A cycle of macabre deference to the dying wise.
A glass, & no Pour.
Cause & effect w/ no affect.
"Hey," my wife says, walking thru the front door. "There's an undergraduate reading his poetry at the library tonight. Wanna go?"
No, i state simply.
"Why?"
i have no desire to listen to an undergraduate's poetry.
"But he's a nice guy," she informs me.
i sigh, get up, & walk to the kitchen to pour a Drink.
Tonight will be the same as always. Tomorrow will be no different.
& like a pill, i will swallow the Moon & wait for its effect. It has no thorns, but never-the-less, it wreaks havoc on the lining of a stomach chewing & biting on the limbs of all these blank days.
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