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Friday, October 28, 2011

A Prose Poem


***Author's Note: separate the art from the artist.***

S.B.

Heartbreak is a curious thing. Wounds healed over. Scar tissue grown and then faded. Still, I get melancholic at 4 AM with a flat soda reading old poetry. Past flames seem to burn as bright as the sun during my hangover, and I wonder where she or her is. I wonder and shake my head with the bitter aftertaste of another swig from the glass. What roads would've led to other avenues? And is there any hope in remembering a past I can't change, not even for all the beautiful sentiments of a literary novel? But then failure slips out of eyesight for a moment, eclipsed by the good times eating fast food and talking about Japanese anime...

Her hair, her eyelashes, the subtle twitch of lips poised to kiss or dismiss glare underneath the fluorescence. It doesn't last, never lasts. Like a roundhouse kick to the face a la Chuck Norris, head spins with the grace of a dreidel, falls on its side and reveals the contents of a wasteland called My Fucked-Up Emotional State. See, she loves This, this kind of provocative show-n-tell where my insides are on display for the mangling. See, I love This too, this kind of masochistic catharsis by flagellating my heart with emotional barbed-wire called Captain Save-a-Ho. Don cape and mask and tights and fly for the chance to die another hopeless romantic death! Even Superman never graced such an epic series as this grandiose work of heart-breakingly, staggering genius. Hero saves heroine from falling down drunk on a cock 22 years older than her Uncle. Panels portray the desolation of brown, yellow, purple, and red against the skin, like some goddamn godawful desert that not even T.S. Eliot and Ezra Pound envisioned with their Modernist caps on. (Ivory Towers are such a wonderful place to live without ever having actually been alive.) But I see specks of silver-lining amongst the thunderclouds on the horizon, painted askew to mimic my life's lack of symmetry. I want, just once, to yell at the top of my lungs in a crowded room just to see if anyone else feels the primal need to release a pent up existence. Lions and tigers and bears -- oh my! -- at the zoo stalk carefully demarcated lines but still they can indulge in that last gasp of wild freedom not even my eyes could recognize but for the twilight covering my bedroom in crescent moonlight. Well, that and this bottle of Johnny Walker. Ready to become another dead solider on the far wall before the firing squad's whispers: "you're a nice guy, you're such a nice guy, you're a really nice guy, you're gonna make some girl real lucky someday, you're awesome, but not me, but it's just not me, but I don't think of you that way, but I'm not ready for a relationship, but you're too good for me, but I just want to have fun, but I, but I, but I..." just want to lie & disappear simultaneously. The Cheshire Cat treats Alice better than what I got, but not as good as I deserved -- until The Dark Side swallowed me up with the promise of free pussy and wicked vengeance delivered vicariously through a poor little proxy barfly. (And people wonder why Nice Guys [TM] are bitter, ready to open-fire randomly with a semi-automatic, George Sodini style. They've lost whatever instilled morality people get by the time they're 25 because some girl twisted his ventricles and then some asshole replaced them with whatever keeps Dick Cheney alive.) So I stopped asking myself questions like "why" and "how come" and started instead asking myself how best to unlock the next ending of Chrono Trigger while polishing the pistol I will use to blow my brains out if no girls notice my OKCupid profile, or if that little red-haired girl laughs in my face again when I ask her out for burritos -- it's hard for a face to be laughed in -- or if one more asshole bangs the only broad at the party who glanced at me and smiled. Couldn't take the thought of a beautiful woman's teeth dripping cum from the same frat-boy who listens to Kevin Federline and pops both his collars at the same time... The sarcasm and caustic intertwine so well, as if they were made for loving more than I. Gonna channel them like a lightening rod and deliver the 1.21 jogwatts needed to permanently fry my depression better than Colonel Sanders' chicken. Is that what this is? Depression? All I see are hands too small for a man. Unclenched, impotent, calloused at the palms. Maybe it's time to take a shower and drown beneath the rising steam. Maybe my body will start to float until, like a lost balloon, it ascends beyond the sky and disappears from little children's eyes.

Just like heartbreak.



Cheers

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