Lumbar Support Group Reaches It's End.

With chronic lower back pain writhing about his torso like well placed plastic explosives, he descends into the lower eschelon of human thought; akin to the empty junk food wrapper. Lying useless upon the floor so the night aches keep away, a mist like necromancy keeps him lost from the sight up above. Those that torment him, careless bedsheets, washing machines jiving about the inner sanctum, lolling doors opening upon broken heaters, can be forgotten until the pager beeps. Out of season, "We Wish You a Merry Christmas" jingles from the handset and the electrician stares at him blankly while he clutches his shattered inside part lower down with the one section out of alignment twinkling white with pain. He thought he was a young man but he's apparently 27 going on 77 as he stoops slowly. He comes to stop against the breakers and the timer for the electric socket is gone and dear to replace. He nods, taking this in, mumbles something that resembles "I've gotta lay on the ground..." and wanders off to the periphery with the screwdriver spinning. When he returns the man of the wire has disappeared. The boss has arrived and explains his calf trouble. "I hear that, It's frustrating with no where to go at night, this aching," replies the cripple. A torn and crumpled map of Illinois looms on the wall; Northwest section missing, nice messages from home, blue permanent marks encircle where he came from and he's reminded of the transience of his existence here, his existence anywhere. The support of his body could get better, it could get worse. It'll get somewhere for sure and eventually not be there at all. The front door opens and someone has their heart all dripping and human and open faced. We're all here just getting ourselves into situations of pain and happiness.

Quite Contrary, Self Referential Society.

The past flows through me like the blood in my veins as if that blood were a hulking machine careening down a thin alley carrying a woe unknown for the recipients yet named; deliveries all told bringing out the history of an identity gasping. The idea that we could all be just stories relayed within our own skulls, told over and over again to wake upon the laughter of what we are. I don't know where you come from but I've yet to reject a regret. Because you see what isn't there, a dimness that frightens you into thinking you aren't who you are, a knot like a thorn upon a stem or a kink like a joint upon a toe, minor words spinning finer birds further and further abroad so far that they've lost their flight patterns and their family wasn't there anymore. And the future becomes past tense and the dire comedy relieves itself on the CEO's lawn while you loose yourself into the thick waitress without a care in the world. All scattered and rolling, a vase of marbles: your thoughts. They are there and that cacophony won't rest lest some brain aneurysm springs upon you like the Dr. Kavorkian waiting in the lean-to you built for your sanity. So I thought it was interesting, in a worldly way, to listen to a song in Spanish. So I was pursued by an over arching plot of self destruction. So I often pretend that those I wish were looking actually were. So I deceive myself. So yes, I laugh at my own jokes. Ill intent wasn't the point when the latent cause emerged from the depths of the apartment of the past where I drank somewhat and kept passing out underneath the poker table. Just know that what looks like a round light on the ceiling is a skylight that lets natural light in. There is no switch to turn off. At night, some light still comes in. If you need a darker room to sleep tell us as it can be blacked out.

Action Sequence via Suburban BBQ.

Where were you. When I was deep in the woods looking up sighting three legged dogs leaping alongside deer with shines of faraway lights dim in my pupil. Where were you? While I rang up the coroner to inquire of the party supervisor, while I tore my clothes off in the river, while I leapt from the bridge embankment in slow motion with an explosion tearing out my eardrums. Where were you? You were out in the backyard flirting with the lady with the black tooth and shaky hands. Gripping a drink with slow ice cubes revolving like heavenly bodies, looking up coquettishly in a random display of lust, you were coercing some lovely broken waitress behind the proverbial dumpster to have a go at love and dreams and mental breakdowns. That's where you were. While I flung a detonator in the air with the glass of aquariums spiraling about the scene, somersaulting into the nearest cave that conveniently shielded the blast, you were standing with your left fist jammed into your pants in the backyard; at a barbecue that dripped with amnesia. You didn't know where you were to be exact. While I was parachuting downtown with a knife clenched in my teeth you were lumbering about a suburban cliche and summarising plot twists to eight year olds with a dazed look in your eyes.

The Cynic Picks 'Em Off.

When the insightful music chimes in after a profound statement is uttered on the dial he has to restrain his cynicism from putting a red X in the box marked "No Contribution." Whenever he sees a symbol of hope flit across the sky in a blur of white he has to squint further to even get it. It dawns on him like a silly mistake: this life is meant to be cherished. That's why all these cheermongers keep placing samples of uplifting monologues in their positive vibe soundtracks. Why do they seem so complacent, these life affirming sentiments? Why, when he's yet to experience any sort of tragedy or massive upheaval, is it so hard to walk the soft ground without the hard thought? There may be a wicked trench yet to be uncovered, a foreshadowing, a thunderstorm upon the plains in the distance, a death, a love gone, a decades worth of tears, a paycheck like an affirmation of the worst: there may be something in the future that gives reason to these stupid preoccupations. He wants to fall in love, and yes, that doesn't happen. He wants to feel complete, and yes, that hasn't happened. He preys upon contentment like a jackal. He's just full of wants unfulfilled. The skeptic sits upon the ledge of the ominous building across the way with a sniper rifle. All those reasons to be happy come streaming out of the trapdoor on ground level only to be picked off one by one... a self fulfilling prophesy, these bullets laying within the chamber. To pass is to be over, and yes, this too shall pass, all of it.

A Tune Like Smoke and Mirrors.

I want to just keep creaking and swaying and pretending that I'm a pillar of a community that rallies about me like flotsam about a dead branch. A flooded town of doweries, unpaid ransoms, celebrated porn stars and deviant plans bent on production. A valley brought down with the first railroad line cutting through it like smoke through a straw. Collections of dust, like stamps posted upon dry shutters clapping in the farmhouse abandoned long ago when there was a fair that came through every year to keep the children from running terrified into the stupor of crickets and flowing water. Oh I just went too far with them; those thoughts. I built a tree fort that resembled a fortress and convinced my best friend that we were deftly manuevering ourselves away from the clutches of the malevolence next door. We were somehow loose upon a world that was of our creation. The yellow jackets swarmed from the hole and they were the fourth reich and we defeated them with a can of gasoline. We kept evil at bay and looked out over a field just waiting to be turned into suburban sprawl. And the riding lawnmower murmured a tune like smoke and mirrors all wrapped and held warm in the glow of summer and adolescence. We weren't mistaken: this was something free of wrestled thoughts.

Auctioneer Sneers Across the Crowd.

The hope is that you'll be sold and we can all move on from this ordeal. Towards something worth it. Towards something else entirely. Like wine pouring form into a vine. The steak forgetting the steer. The stake laughing at the tree. The castle weeping for the quarry. The soil forgiving the corpse. The idea giving way to the unimaginable. Left alone, these are the things of dreams and longing and feelings unrequited; peeling away to reveal some of those lost in the woods. Tears streaming down their faces, hiccuping in the ash of the autumn, carving a pumpkin with a knife like a prayer. The salt flow washing the dirt from their cheeks as a slap would; that hope that you will be sold. I don't know what you became when you slipped on that suit coat and sold that used car. You are a retired boozehound with nothing left. You are a man with hulking masculinity all shriveled and useless. You lull and sway and mince words to the surprise of the support group you attend. You try to remember the raw materials that you are composed of. You try to remember what you were, what formulated your current self. You want to forgive those that came together to make you what you are: a retired boozehound with hopes of selling yourself.

Nihilism...Fuck Me.

Do not fear, my ever-effluent embodiment of ethos, that which burns is only your body. For it is of flame. You are creased across the middle like a doll all stupefied in the woods when the headlights alight upon its forehead. Looking up from the carcass steaming in the emptiness of a cricket orchestra; dim save a single bulb casting daunting shadows from a porch aslant three acres far. Southwestern desolate states of crossing the lines and edging ever closer to the heaps of lumber to be burned by the ill at ease. You are an exhaustion. You burn up bright, a ball of tinsel dancing in the eyes of a toddler already middle aged and crying in a cubicle. The coming on of a belief structure is a phenomena akin to the tripping of a steel trap. Those teeth just get in there and an amputation is required to free oneself from the idea. The burning point is too up there to let one walk out the door without a detrimental sacrifice. You are just too pervasive. You are a mental itch so delicate and unseen as to envelop every unconscious effort and estimate each divisive action in advance. The building blocks that seem to resemble free will, when built up, suddenly loom as fate does. You create that feeling of endless possibility while curtailing a revolution. The eyes of the blue, blue fox, caught in the springs chest heaving and life all aspun and stopped up; a secret terror is unveiling its invention. At least it's an ethos.