Ballast

Wednesday. October 29. 12:45 am

Careful about your age.
I have been believing in magicians for some cynical sense that all is well and right and that we will become resurfaced at least once more before drowning.

I am making a plan and it is tantric in origin with roots in Oregon and desires for Denver in the cusps of my comprehension, while the other sleeps a desolate sleep. Of obscure longing fought off with drinks and dreaming, while the realist wakes up early and confronts the sunrise without fear and without apprehension for the day that follows the suns arrival into our atmosphere.

Oh yes you can breathe now with your lungs full of tobacco smoke and your teeth gritted green with envy for younger citizens who can write with more angst than you and you worry about how overthought your phrases have become… (super overthought, he thinks). Well this paranoia seems a false alarm when I know they can splay themselves out over the critic’s operating table with a willing ease even before taking such paralyzing medications that keep the blood warm, the heart beating slowly. The brain moves thick through tunnels, the muscles believing they are stretching that eager stretch (though in solitary confinement. the padded room of my thoughts) the fingers believing they are scratching that eager itch, and the drunk lays out a bed of carpet for sleep on the floor.

The Franklins of the world, with clear intention, are out pillaging. The drunk and me, our borrowed time, our ballast, sewn together only by choppy retrospective narration. There is hardly a truth greater than the one that presents itself to you when you are dreaming. My truth now is that my life has become a spiderweb of insinuation and that I hardly have a hope for growth in the lower levels of my psyche even when the higher levels can come to own agreement that English is fucked because it allows vowels to end and begin words in succession without an apostrophe. Oh, wink at me. Oh joy. Oh orgasm with the weight of my vowels, hanging and lingering the rafters of thought and yet so estranged from the big words of Faulkner and the Mississippi queens that lure the sovereign nations into foraging for grapes…. after the wine is sanctioned a solution to all woes.

The morning comes with a quick glint of friction. An ability to supply armor to the troupes or amour when they love natives and spawn and rebirth and settle and build cities in their collective likeness and the history of the world, oh why not, ode to mother, she is sleeping and would wake with a fright to find us fracking up her insides with undiagnosed root canals and cerebral palsy shock therapy treatments and illogical combinations of people and objects makes clarity so difficult to resolve. To resolve to find oneself clarity in this muddled mess of being.

We are stranded in a lake that has no shore.

A seaside epiphany also so close and yet the bedraggled tide of the moons brings us back like an anchor to the depths of total abandonment. I am lost tonight as I have been searching for articulate words to share to my love and she passed out after I said something about our relationship lacking danger, though this took on the characteristic of a person hiding from truth as the famous worst politicians do or as courtesy clerks hide away their failings as if going out and fetching carts for three hours is an affordable waste of paling white button up shirts and black slacks and the conglomerate company edges ever forward with an impaling hue to the ever stretching skyline and the move out took a few days because it never mattered much though it was probably about twenty five dollars a day and the English language comes in handy to form such disparate thoughts yet no one will ever translate this to be mistaken for something that can be counter culturally read.

BALLAST:

heavy material carried on a hot-air balloon to stabilize it, and jettisoned when greater altitude is required.

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