I'll fancy dancethropy. Stointhropy. Disdains of disdains of misanthropy. Who really matters any more? Numbers can't hold a candle but let's just live in a certainty for once and oh the absolutes that mean so much. I watched children crawl across the ceiling just to see a bug spin down the wall and lick the floor and the feat of my cat. She savored the attention as I ignored her, sipping wine from a friend's cup left here in yet another bout of Baccanalian debauchery. It was fun while it lasted, friend, you should have been here and I'm sorry you missed it in the next day's paper. It was what they call whirlwind and flash you stupid sight. Sure, I wouldn't have seen you if I could. That was the mantle dripping you know. Eyes fucked by eyes. Surely you would have caught the smell. But now we're here. Now you insist I tell the story.
If I cube Pythagoras, or take him to the fourth, the fifth, etc., we won't find the answer in a vin induced discussion. But childlike we'll nod in absurd comprehension. I sit on my deck, you across, because in fact you are the only one I trust. So what stories we bend around because we are smarter than our social existence allows. Well damn all, here's to the ultimate solitude. I've given enough and you weren't even there, or, to the extent I imagined you there, I still awoke to find a puff of smoke still simmering by the bedside, floating gently out to the trees, across the fence, splitting, one half up farther towards the clouds, the other to the ground, spreading and descending, sinking into the soil. I stood at the back door, cigarette in hand, lit but dying, not wanting to mix the smoke, wishing you'd never even made the call.
When I'm dying I'll ask you, to myself, why you even bothered to call. To write. To smile when the last thought floating across your face was permanence. You are flighty like a butterfly that can't control the wind. I'm done with up and down and back and forth. I do seek that constant. It alludes even the most simple and stable hearts. What I could offer is lost in the bricks that make up your wall.
Let's just let me walk the path now . . . absent of smoke and drink yet blind with toxins, stumbling like that Frenchman walking the lobster, buried in his Parisian grace. Montmarte or Pere Lachaise, I can't remember. But I stood at your grave, remembering Aurelia. Foolish romantic searching literature in a foreign country, giving up the pursuit just a year later, knowing that your art was getting me nowhere. Had I known sooner I would have chosen to remain ignorant, stupid, blissfully the dunce of the parking lot. I know now there was no one out there to impress.
Nerval, what insanity haunted you, or demons of Wilde, out there, Sade, whatever, A reboirs, Against Nature, I can't stop thinking of any of you. But, but, but, what story have I told in this foolishness? None, I suppose, I'm just excising flight and fucking my past. I'm absolving, erasing, purging, moving on to the end. I can't accomplish that dance until I make all senses numb or, better, until I've awoken to realize there is no past. I'll go further back tomorrow or closer to now next week so that when I die not a single memory will remain. That's a blast, a shock, to stare stupid and lifeless.
My reason is to swirl and relive what brought me to the day so I can look head down without a memory and wonder why on fucking earth I didn't have a say in this one debacle. That's the laughter, the dance, the insane of insanities. I'll make a mockery of this thrusting.
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