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Tuesday, May 12, 2009

Where do circles begin?

At the center? The outside? From some indeterminable point that only the circler knows?



The hidden mathematical inconstancy, and I wish I had more answers than these questions. The back of the book doesn't have odds or evens, just more equations, just more x equals y to the nth power multiplied by my loneliness, divided by each new lover, and rounded down to the nearest prime number of whatever age I was before any these problems started to matter.

I am listening to the last gasp of humanity from some corner-store cashier who talks for thirty minutes after I gave him my money about the wife that left him with two kids but took the dog, how he still masturbates to her picture super-imposed over the bodies of porn-stars, because photo-shop makes life that much easier, and would I like a bag? No thanks. I'm not going very far.

I am watching the last impotent fist of compassion as a cab-driver pulls over to stop four kids from beating the shit out of some homeless-man. He honks his horn, looks over with a serious face and passionately mutters. Never gets out of the car. The kids never stop kicking. Meanwhile, hobo bastard bleeds all over the gutter-drain and nobody calls the cops because why should they care? I just want to go home, sir.

I am feeling the last touch of True Love as an elderly couple holds hands in the park and feed the ducks, tossing crumb after measly crumb into a circle-jerk of honks and quacks and snapping beaks. The lady just leans her head on his shoulder and the man just leans right back and they fall asleep just like that, letting the bag of bread fall down off their laps. They don't wake up when this sends the gathered fowls into a feeding-frenzy. They die before the last piece is even eaten off the ground.

I am the last tear-drop crying down the faces of all these strangers who won't let you see them blink them back, pretending to be dry-eyes in a desert, devoid of humanity, emotionless staring back at you and me.

I am last, the left behind, bereft of everything except the days unlived, tomorrow and tomorrow...



This is fiction. This is a metaphor. This is completely contrived. This is only true in theory. This is not to be taken too seriously. This is for your enjoyment, because sadness entertains so much better when nobody feels anything anymore.

Goodnight dear reader.

4 footnotes:

Jasper said...

What circle?

Lex said...

I didn't enjoy it.

Zek J Evets said...

you both fail.

and now i shall have to get a real job apparently, because starving artist isn't really working out.

JDR said...

wow, (nodding my head), wow, even when we win, we lose