5-21-11, sunned like a lizard
I woke in a cloudy delirium, beset upon by the oxycontin I ingested the night before at Thor's birthday party. The rest of our friends and loved ones were properly drunk and screaming, tracking foam and wet paper and fervor all over the floors of the cabin rented for just such purposes, while no matter how many glasses of whiskey or vodka I poured myself, I felt sober as the day I was born, though without the necessary wonder and innocence with which to glean any real meaning from the situation. So, drug imbibed, my mood improved though my general appearance remained the sulky same, the only noticeable difference maybe a slight curling-up of my lips as I paced and drooled all over the "hunting lodge" decor.
And so today was began in delirium, remembering vaguely but fondly the car ride back to Springfield, when James and I discussed the loves lighting pale fires in our eyes and stamping around in our wimpy hearts (wimpy as contextual hyperbole, though throbbing and vital in the overflowing nature of their abilities).
Paced around the loft, compulsively bored myself to half-slit eyes staring at internet social networking sites, and then walked across town to a liquor store that would assure me cashing a check from Tennessee would be no problem and could likewise sell me a tallboy that sits beside me now in Phelps Grove Park, that I will drink on an empty stomach before work, attempting to finish the lyrics to a psychedelic song about snakes, and not be fingered as a derelict or pervert for drinking beer in the early afternoon mere yards from screaming school children swinging and leaping on squeaking playground equipment, watched over by pretty young schoolteachers whose fears would no doubt remain unalleviated even if I assure them it was upon their breast my tired eyes had been falling.
Instead I'll watch the girls playing tennis from the muddy shade of this tree, and only after I've finished my song and only while I'm turning the pages of this Gurdjieff I've been meaning to finish, for it seems any more that the truest solace I can reach these beautiful lonely spring days is the printed word in my hands, framed by wet grass and eye-piercing sunlight, a blanket of shade falling like a corona upon my head and shoulders, and is not to be found in a female form that may as well be an automaton, hollow as they may well be despite my efforts to fill them with my own desperate hope, a powerful wish but no more than cotton in their lovely limbs.