Which Is a Slightly Vitriolic Return (Without Any Explanation for Absence)

03/21/07 - Eveningish

And how fucking crapped am I that this is the thing that I find myself doing? What is this chasing of the tail, the incessant circles to catch that which one already has? Because you want it the way you want it or you don’t want it at all. You couldn’t give a fuck about being and nothingness unless you can have that being the way that you interpreted the TV shows as telling you that it should be. And there I am. Myself again and full of fear of nothing and wishing to feel anything, even fear, to prove myself superior to the dumb and cheap and dishonest.

Cheap tricks towards childish ends and you’d fuck the gutter for a shot at that short, cute girl. If that girl came with a lifetime supply of anti-anxiety meds and opiates. Sometimes, you don’t want a Goddamn thing and sometimes you want it all and you want to eat it with a gold tongue. Open up then and tell me a story. I don’t want anything except the assurance of either heaven or non-being. Then let me fight out my life with teeth and balls for a reason to love one’s God, one’s neighbor and one’s self. Forget it. Unfold the chairs, pour the porter and set up the German board games. I’d start smoking right now if it would make me happy. Not gonna happen. Don’t congratulate me; I’m surviving the ordeal by pretending to be so far above your opinion.

What’s the cost and what’s the point? You can’t tell whose version of God is right. Elijah isn’t here to call down the fire and prove to us the greater power of YHWH. Ba’al might have won in the last few months for all we know. But. One is never excused from fulfilling the obligations of his given faith. And so. Mea Culpa, mea culpa. ‘Twas me that didst chop down the cherry tree. The office of the president was a joke invented by Jefferson and Franklin at the expense of Washington. Washington got the last laught. Ahh well and back to the tomb. Up from the gravy, a rose. Oddly, the Rose of Sharon and where he was, the empty void revealed by the rolling void. We are what we were born. Somewhere before our grandparents, our face serene, smiled upon and through by God. How far and tantalizing, the torture of the fruit tree that grows when you reach up to eat and the pool that drains when you reach down to drink. All apologies, I’m not really real lately, I’m a figment of my imaginary father’s ghost’s hell. All the world eats itself happily to death and I’m damned to the unassurance of things not seen. But there it is. You are and you have to assume or you cut your brain with your brain. Fuck it, Dude. Let go bowling. Someday, the Dude will abide and we will become whatever the hell it was that we are. On earth as it is in heaven. Amen.