Journal 29 - Duessa's Sister

Words were cotton swabs for my inebriated
brain – soaking up the drivelling drool and narrowing
the seeping thoughts until there was at least one
coherent idea. That was long ago – now the words the
broken letters tumble out of my head like pieces of
hurricane soaked scrabble puzzle pieces. Sometimes I
just say, Fuck it. Not as much in recent years – ironic
as it sounds. The toilet doesn’t sound so foreign to
the girl standing alone on the dance floor at her
last prom waving goodbye to her date as the
mascara drips down her cheeks in dirty ash-tray
rivulets like a melting vampire. Black streaks are
much cooler in thought than in practice. I’m all
black-nailed now; look at me – don’t you want
to see the beautiful yellow flower underneath if
only you wouldn’t judge me by my cover. Wait –
what’s the point now? I’ve seen the mirror
pecked away where nothing’s left but the plain
white boring next door neighbor thoughts and
plans – cosmetics is so overplayed. Cosmetics is
a rose garden over a bed of rattlesnakes. I
wonder where the biker cries before he realizes
the other bikers cry too? It’s not unreasonable to
believe that crying is an overflowing of water for
the growth of the soul. I feel that marijuana
cannot do what my two-year old can do –
make me smile laugh and dance without regret
at artificiality later. Alcohol is a kiss on the
cheek or the pecker from Duessa’s lost sister –
daughters of Lethe. It’s not yet time to die –
it’s time to begin to remember and recall and
cast away such secret little spells conjured by
the li’l leprechaun of laughter we call a tall
glass of wine and beer. Thirty four years have passed
like a busted pipe under an overcharged land-
locked dirty apartment – spewing forth muddy
water with no-one to soak it up. Something
should happen in 33 years. Jesus re-defined
humanity in that time. I haven’t defined myself
much less re-define it, or allow a healthy roundabout.

4.5.09