Mossy Knoll Hangover

I think I’m starting to get the hang of it. Though my body has taken all day to recover from sleeping in my car, 50 yards away from a rented bed. I had no desire to drunken stumble into the shared closet, waking up others. My mind was gone and it’s okay, the graduate students were on a fisheries weekend retreat, bitching me out.

Okay then. Walking in a stupor. It is 4 pm and my stomach is sour. I napped on a mossy knoll, as advised through devious teeth. Hey I’m having fun with my words, letting them fall out unfiltered. Is it approaching the flow state? Where the valve is cranked open and the steamy water starts shooting out galaxies? Anyway, unique universe is the term to cherish, to hold as your only object.

Here I am now sitting alone at the dining hall thinking my own thoughts, avoiding the crash of airplanes into one and other. Can it be that abstraction is healthy? Maybe. I couldn’t tell you what kind of good this is doing me – unpacking my bags into a pile on the concrete. No. Shit. I can’t even say anything straightly. I meant to address this piece of art as an absurd testament to my mind as it is wired. I am trying to unpack and then condense and discard.

I have a lot of things floating up there. Flotsam and jetsam. The breccia twist of a swirling eddy. Has that ever been written before? “Endless combinations of the same old shit, sloshing back and forth across some continents.” (Dear & the Headlights). And R.I.P.

Thoughts about a girl. Two girls, maybe three. Walking off my hangover at the Mossy Knoll. Ordering a pitcher. A picture of a drawing of a picture. Levels deeper than I could have prior imagined. There is a tenacity to loving nothing. There is a spinal surgery to be done. I have to realize my potential, this day has been bizarre and I thought the Seahawks game might be happening yet.

I called her a cave troll. M. had his squeaky wheels fixed. We drew on a chalkboard our thoughts at the speed of dust. Now seaplane starting motor – no longer docking maneuver. We have a go at this and then it is gone.

I don’t know what I’m channeling. This hangover has made me hyper aware of my body in space. The acute pain in my head as I move my neck. Those grad students and their Belgian Biers. Deer on the hillside. Foxes.

Aware of how my eyes work. Conscious of the knot in my left shoulder blade. Some strain from the booze factory probably. Lifting cases and letting off steam through my arms as they lift. Cut on my finger from opening a beer. Not knowing how long I spoke to the French Canadian before retiring into sleep in the trunk of my sleeping bag, all bunched up crazily, I had to catch myself in the act before letting the days continue.

Not pity. I felt a little fear and a little shameful. Sitting on the dock and swinging my legs over the biological preserve. Water reflecting lights reflecting my warbling face down there. An alternate me casting suspicious glances up at those lights, those swinging legs, that bottle of whisky in consumption. Does it metabolize for you yet? Can I borrow your lighter?

Weirdo, I think I may have scratched her head like a dog. As mother did perhaps. As European summer Asylum takes advantage of our missing teeth. I can’t say anything direct.

I am writing like this to avoid being read.

“Running down the road, tryin’ to loosen my load, I’ve got seven women on my mind, four that want to own me, two that want to stone me, one says she’s a friend of mine.”

“I appreciate the context clues you leave out of your writing.”

I had to sign the affidavit and continue growing out of my first breach. Godspeed.


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