The thought of suicide is a great consolation: by means of it
one gets successfully through many a bad night. — Nietzsche
Dear Muse:
America the Beautiful has just begun feeding itself another year
of reality shows, and I’m sitting alone at my quiet desk with idle
hands and a paralyzing conflict. I’m dressed in a button-down oxford
shirt, pressed jeans and polished brogues: I could surreptitiously debauch
every neglected housewife in my neighborhood. I should be thankful.
But I was telling you about my trouble: I’ve had it easy, too easy—
but no, that’s not it—and who am I, slagging off the popular merits
of chasing the lowest literary lucre (while joking that that flight is
already over-booked and when the fad crashes, everyone on board
is going to be killed because their parachute colors are so last season)?
Who am I, preferring to stay on the ground while shop-worn hookers are
parading up and down the downtown streets, hollering "Happy New Year!"
on infinite repeat, and yuppies fucked up on bad champagne
are forgetting the words to “Auld Lang Syne?”—and why am I too
drunk and dead inside to join in their spectacles of revelry and sex?
But this is what happened: one of my type characters snapped
about an hour ago. I didn't see it coming, never heard a thing.
I was just typing, stuffing a page with something, I don’t know,
religious, and I’m a skeptic , but it was insurance, you know,
just in case, and then it was gone, as I was typing the word “©hrist.”
(Note the amusingly fitting facsimile.) So that's it, that’s my cross:
It’s 2am on New Year's Night, my capital “c” has beheaded itself,
and the earliest I can get it replaced is next Friday , for fuck's sake.
And it’s not a simple matter of buying a new character; it’s buying a new
type-wheel, with all the characters, because it’s only sold as one piece.
But please, not the computer. I'll edit myself to death on a computer.
So, what's your solution? Back to scribbling lines in a notebook?
Back further to a bottle and quill? Perhaps a parchment left for you
at the foot of Mt. Parnassus? I'm guessing you'd prefer something more
tragic but psychoanalysis is out, and the Dictionary of ©lassical Mythology
suggested that I come to you for help—because it’s just not the same without
typing , the sound of all that machinery at work. It's like a miniature factory
that tricks you into thinking you’re producing something. It’s an audible
illusion. And pretty soon you get to where you finally need it, like pain killers
or something even worse—like a ©areer—and you’re not punching keys
anymore, you’re punching a clock, putting on a badge, a clip-on tie,
a standard-issue greeting for semi-literate customers—
“Welcome to Typewriting, Inc.!”—and later you're counting
a fistful of sleeping pills, wondering if it’ll be enough to do the job,
because a man draws nothing but a losing hand if he waits too long
to ask—so I’m asking you now if this is the last poem I will
ever have to write, assuming I forget about killing myself.
I sure as hell hope so. What if my part's been discontinued,
and all the clerk can do for me is smile and say,
“Happy New Year...
Happy New Year... Happy New Year...”
on infinite repeat?
Share this on the interwebz... Like this: Like Loading...
Related
Post navigation
Wow. In a good way.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you.
LikeLike
Yeah, wow. I cant wait to read this over more slowly and thoroughly. Really love your writing.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you.
LikeLike
I really liked this poem. Thank you for sharing it with us.
LikeLiked by 1 person
You’re very welcome, and thank you.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Reblogged this on stopyourstoryisntoveryet.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Man, I can’t believe how amazing your writing is. I love watching it all unfold (bloom).
LikeLiked by 1 person
Awww thanks!
LikeLiked by 1 person
your writing truly sparkles!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you!
LikeLiked by 1 person
you’re welcome! i enjoy your writing.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Reblogged this on elusiveredcar.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks for the reblog!
LikeLike
So well written, and the words “wondering if it’ll be enough to do the job”, are so powerful. Thanks for posting this.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks so much! I’m glad you enjoyed it!
LikeLike
“that flight is already over-booked and when the fad crashes, everyone on board is going to be killed because their parachute colors are so last season” – THIS. YES. Loved this line, and also the one about “C” beheading itself. Brilliant.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks! I really appreciate that!
LikeLike
I love the speed/tempo of this, the way it tumbles and the jagged ending, really emotive.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you. I worked hard to make it stumble–sorry, TUMBLE correctly.
LikeLiked by 1 person
It does both! And extremely well. I keep rereading this and may have to draw myself an illuminated version.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks again! I’d love to see that!
LikeLike
Reblogged this on WildFlower.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Great poem. It is a pleasure stopping here to relax one’s mind.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks, I really appreciate that. Stop by any time.
LikeLiked by 1 person