excerpt

Eating a modest lunch of sliced apples smothered in peanut butter, the natural kind, grainy goodness none of that sweet stuff, I grudgingly begin my habitual scan of the newspaper. I picked it up on the walk home needing something to hold, something to keep my mind off of the slow and staggering pace I felt myself make. It was a much longer walk than the previous one had been, going in the opposite direction, mind set to opposite things.

Nothing interesting within. It seems this paper only serves me with dirty hands. Maybe I should take up with dogs, they seem mostly misbehaved, at least then I could roll it up and get some use out of it. It doesn't take long for me to lose interest and turn to the pages dedicated to taste. Even the opinions seem like a waste of my time these days. No new news these days. I'm probably desensitized.

Flipping to the obituaries I decide that 'probably' is grossly understating the state of my dulled sensitivity. It's not that I'm apathetic, au contraire. Only incredibly incorrect.

Since discovering the nature of this section I've felt compelled to educate myself on the expired identities of the surrounding deceased. Just imagine the amount of monikers in mothballs living somewhere inside my head. The smiling faces ironic to the purpose of their last claim to fame. Procured by someone especially familiar from dingy boxes too heavy to be worth saving from mold laden attics, in such a state of despair. I can imagine the teary escapades. Of course some of the photos look brand new, probably downloaded from digital cameras. More tears for these ones, done too soon. Ages read, monitoring the trend, analyst of the unfortunate.

So there is some new news these days. It's the good news that's sorely lacking.

Finis, this rag now belongs to my trash receptacle. As if to finalize the thought I roll the piece up into a rocket and send it soaring into the kitchen can.

The rest of my day is characterized by a shuffle of tunes bouncing through my apartment. I myself am slightly stiller leafing through various novels, novellas, compilations, essays, and memoirs as the whim strikes me. It's really a terrible habit as nothing ever gets read in full and all the pages stand shouting at me from their shelves feeling used and entirely unloved. But it's not to be dwelled on as I am a rigid believer in our innate inability to change. Change is but a temporary and uncomfortable denial of oneself and belongs to a fools philosophy. I prefer to embrace my habits, especially the bad ones. I'm just fortunate that stuffing my face full of trans fats and high fructose corn syrup while slouching in front of my over sized television set aren't within that broad landscape of tendencies. I cross my eyes at the ever growing collective of slobs.

Don't misjudge me, I'm rarely rude in public. 'Rarely' because never would be a denial of the facts. I'm often influenced by the drink (no emphasis on any particular drink as I am not a specific drinker, just a heavy one) and in such cases of jest the insult is usually so obscure (and incoherent) that no offense could be garnered from it. 'Usually' because I can not deny the fact that I have acquired my share of colorful bruises black eyes busted lips and ruffled feathers from the offended end of said slobs meaty fists. Very likely well deserved.

But I digress. I'm meaning to comprehend the words my eyes are reading, they deserve that much. Another bad habit. Splitting my machine to perform two functions, neither of which gets done the way it ought to by the end.

So this is how I spend my day. With Old Potrero, old friend filing my earlier outburst of rage far away, past the outskirts of consciousness into that dark place where dreams find their substance. But I do never remember my dreams so I feel no fear of it. I fill my here and now with words. I burst the seems of my comprehension, jam pack myself with poems and lovely phrases and wanton plots. All the while tapping my toes to catchy notes, to folksy tunes and daunting groups of intricately ordered instruments. Rolling cigarettes up and down my busy fingers, careful not to smother the camel, breathing, breathing.

Sleeping, hardly remembering to think lastly of the last smoke. Yes, I did put it out. No I will not soon show up in the sad black print. Died tragically in a slow burn, no picture, luckily will not be missed.