As I sit outside moping in my drunken horror, it becomes painfully clear
that I am alone. Me! Voted most popular by my classmates but not at this hour.
Both phones are secretly silent, why do I pay for 1000 minutes? S’ok, I never really
was a fan
of those awful incessant interruptions known as “the cell.” Mine’s been dropped

so many times it looks like the gnarled eye-knot imperfection of an oak log. Tonight I
guess I’ll use it to score some weed.
That’s all its good for lately, really…just the outgoing calls. My incoming list is stacked
with only one name, my cousin calling from Brazil:
the one causing my incestuous fantasies—absofuckinlutely gorgeous. Eyes the
color of New Mexico’s heavens on a clear summer day, crisp powder blue, and
let’s not forget
those legs, molded from Olympian clay, not even the most eloquent poet could find
words worthy enough to provide a sound image of his perfect 33” inseam, lightly
dusted by fine gold fibers. My mind slips to the region

...control eluding my grasp—desire—concussive lust: knees buckle I’m stuck
to the floor, wiping off in leaves.
Snap back to reality…I’m numb, mind traveling fast like trippin’, the trails tricking the
ominous forest scene.
This forest is my life; paralleled conclusions lead me to believe this: it’s dark—I’m dark,
it’s surrounded by civilization—I’m surrounded by civilization, it’s isolated—
I’m isolated that’s why I fucked it: the closest I could get to fucking myself
and it never said
“No!” like so many of you. Except for R—, he’s never said it, further complicating my
incestuous flirtations inching me to tip-toe society’s judging blade.

So what exactly is the meaning of Nietzsche’s Cause of Altruism? does he mean to say that we can never be truly happy as poets? as people? as lovers? for once we’ve found love, we will yearn for desperation once again? He may have been a great man, but my desperation is more painful than bullets weaved precariously through my sides
and to love is a good thing, but for it to be reciprocated is so much more. You can always tell
from the faint smile those who’ve known requited love—those who, had humans been grapes, would be the only ones appearing ripe enough to pluck from the vine.
And I’ve heard through that same grapevine of course, that I should relish my unwanted
singleness: to have fun while I’m not tied down, to fuck around like crazy, spoil
myself! Deceptions—all of them: meant to suppress harsh feelings of
emptiness push it back so far, you’ll be ignorant, then
you won’t have to worry about thought or feeling, because it won’t exist. Death is what I
call it: livin’ it up is what they call it…the meaningless drones sucking dry
the aquifer roots

of the free world! and I’m still alone, still numb but the trip is wearing off…
gotta keep the mind moving and the hand writing, it’s the sense of purpose
that I need, ensuring my mind’s safety keeping me from breaking apart.


I stumble back into the house, pungent odors of minced garlic and curding milk flare
up my nostrils, toxics to the brain…and for a second there I was back on Nine
talking to God in his NYC bum outfit, cardboard burning in his hair(I guess it
keeps him warm). I invited him over later to smoke out with me and offered
him a bath with clean water
but before he could respond, a sharp pain ruined my buzz seems as if I tripped on
something ‘cause I was laying in a pool of blood, nose flat against the floorboards…couldn’t see straight so I just laid there, and when my sensory
receptors healed I noticed my watch
it was 11:13, getting late so I picked up my cell and dialed M—, my dealer,
he was low on weed, not enough for my usual bulk; offering me shrooms instead. I was livid, I didn’t need fucking shrooms. I got portabella, shitake, crimini,
enoki, white, maitake, oyster, and psych how bout opium? Yes! I can
smoke from my new pipe.

It’s ritualistic in a way: my obsessive use of mind-altering, attitude-adjusting illicit herbs
is an appetizer filling the void until my entrée comes along, usually served plain on
white ceramic, unembellished because in and of itself it’s perfect, like the grain
of the Hope Diamond: flawless. And the hunger I have for him will never be satiated
until he grows up and realizes my heart is where he belongs…his eyes are mine,
his heart is mine, but his penis takes him elsewhere.
Jumping from continent to continent delving into the pleasures of hyper-sexuality, he
fucks anything that’s hot…a true connoisseur. It’s a fine talent he has. He’s stolen
me, jaded me, left me to wonder if everyone he touches feels the same I was never a trick, I could see it in his eyes—
Oh shit, he’s calling my cell… [composure]… “hello?” He sounds somber, “I’m coming
home,” and I think to myself what does this imply?

07/02/2006

Posted on 07/03/2006
Copyright © 2024 S. Pelham Flood