Death By Fugu

       The world is upon me, and fighting against the inevitable is for woebegoners, so instead I’ll wait for it to hit me, thank you very much, like the good little boy you might think I am. But then, that’s the problem isn’t it? Impressions are wrong — first, third, seventh, no matter. I’m not good. Going against the grain of the world might be what some are put on God’s greenery for, but I prefer the path of least resistance. I prefer ignorance to ignominy any day. The problem of course is that leaves me vulnerable to the vultures, and the vultures take all forms. They pick at the bones of contention, the flecks of flesh from open wounds of worry and womb lust, which is like wanderlust but exactly the opposite. Vultures can look like inoperable tumors, or out of order vending machines, or pens that run out of ink. Vultures are dictators and janitors, the cash register guy at the Stop-n-Shop and the woman next door who sometimes forgets to wear her bra when she takes out the trash. I hate them all because they’re out to get me anyway. But I would rather not be forewarned because that would require me to know my enemy, and again I will remind you that my laziness precludes my desire for self-protection. I was not always this way. The world was not always this way. I seem to remember a different perception, like dream state memories of long lost slumbers and a sadness that underlies the hint of what once was. It explains a lot. But the harder I concentrate on it, the more it eludes me. So much the better. I must have forgotten for a reason, and losing my reason makes it right somehow. An eloquent answer to my unspoken question. Perhaps Solomon knows, although he might not tell me. He is forever protecting me for my own good, but the greater good might be the more likely benefactor of his kindness to me. After all, I would not want to unleash me to an unsuspecting society any more than I would want society’s leash on me. It is the impasse of the impossible dream. Like clockwork Solomon comes to visit, but always out of synchronicity for me. He always comes the day after tomorrow, so I am always looking forward to seeing him. He brings me dime bags and bagels for my condition. Solomon says, “You fucking faggoty ass freak, no one takes dime bags anymore” but I know what I smoke. Every experiment has a control and a hypothetical. Parenthetically, Solomon is my control. I live the hypothetical. Today Solomon wears a gold watch on a chain in his pocket, and he sits in the living room. I once tried to explain to him it could just as well be called the dying room, since we’re not just living but we’re dying all at the same time, but Solomon wouldn’t have any of it. He says “fucking freak” a lot, and not much else. It is the silence I value most during his visits, because the unspoken speaks volumes to me. It is not unlike reading between the lines, except that I prefer the between to the lines. If I could only have the between without the lines, I think I might really be content, but you can’t have the one without the other. You cannot have your bagel and eat it too. My favorite is onion and garlic toasted with lots of cream cheese. Solomon always forgets the cream cheese. It’s his passive aggressive way of behavior manipulation. So far I think it’s working. I haven’t left the house in months now, maybe more than a year. Maybe more. The Chinese bring me my groceries, and Mr. Dallas handles the currency and sends me a Christmas card for Hanukah every winter time. I have spent many days watching the lawn reappear after a slow submission. So when Solomon stands to leave, it must surprise him when I say that I want to go with him.

Comments

[Jan]

Very nice, fluent. I like it. I did this piece as radio poerty once, Broadcasted at BBC too. Comments?
http://soundcloud.com/murtomaa/nocturnal-stalking