You construct your life from the tip of a pin. Woe is you. Hope is you. Harsh sun is you. Bitter wind is you. The ones who brought you to this world naked and screaming, they were barely twenty-three. A dark alley blowjob and a motel rump and voila, a child and half a mortgage born, with a notebook filled with things they would do, places they would go, oceans, sad eyes, and other dreams.
Now you are old. Your eyes the color of their ghosts. You packed up your suitcase, bore your scars, your stuffed gator and traveled here, outrunning childhood blows, running into me. Like dust colliding, we had met for seventeen days, and I loved you for ten, imperceptibly.
Now I search desperately for an antidote against hysteria. However small the amount of equanimity I have accumulated over the years has diminished of late. I am anxious amidst the calm, irritable before the expected, benumbed by the triviality of life, besieged by a frenzy of the soul that drives me to seek out undue drama. Between the thistle and the thorn I return your gentle glance with furious, interminable love, laden with the sincerity of a beetle. Give me a drizzle and I will raise you a hurricane.
What’s a man to do to still his manic heart? A cat in sheep’s clothing hides in the den of wolves. Pretences become muddled. Veneers fade away. What remains pure in this addled spume I scrap from the depth of madness is the sublimation of me. Memories devour memories devour memories. I know what name to give the bitter monstrous thought that dwells within.
Madness. Madness. Madness, Horror, and Folly.
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