My Rapture In 2002

Root all beer of evil I tree?
Beet red bumps on my scalp like the 11 o’clock news and I can’t even see this.
“Too many big words,”
I hear the children complain.
The tall flatmate did hand me a 1/3 bottle of Shiraz out of nowhere, and I asked him,
“are you sure?”
He never said the word, “yes,” and they don’t case fight in stair stare cat fights like the last two did.
One of the two is still one of the two.
One is different.
Cats.

I plan to move into my new place soon. Today was an off day off, and a Monday at that, and I was going to go without. I am cashless and I need to get milk or coffee in the morning. It is good. I drove to the tire store this morning and filled my travel mug with theirs from the waiting room. Did take an eyebrow near my exit but… Then I made Ben a CD of sweet Drake, Belle and Sebastien, Church, Harrison, and the odd Starsailor track which hits me right only half the time as if somehow mood dependent. I too depend on mood.

But I plan to move into my new place soon. It is the upstairs efficiency and tiny like I want it to be. In many ways I can’t wait. I am listening to the made CD as I write this. Ben will hate starsailor, I know it already, but the CD is done, as what’s done is done is… Stacy at work read my book and really liked it. I am getting the, “I like the drug part…” or the “I like the cop part…” stuff consistently, either or. I just finished the wine and didn’t even notice. This now shonky flatmate loves to slam doors too. I have eight evil dollars. There is something quite liberating about putting down whatever pops in. It pops out. It gets out. Gone. Captured.

I have to get more wine. It is good see. I wasn’t going to, but now, it’s like port, but with more acid, and less of a fruit. It sits well on my tongue now. I am as addicted to coffee as I am whhiinnee. That is just the other end of my bipolareality, AM, PM. I am wide awake and I do not have to get up early, this is all coming off the fingers quite easily tonight. I will rush off, but I will be right back. Wait here...

…I- back. I bought white merlot, and had my cards read. White Merlot, guess I’ll go play bingo with the girls and eat potato salad in the morning. I’m in for more problems as far as the cards go. But to me that is life as we all are. I don’t care, but there is to be a point where I “give up.” How could I give up again more than I already have, on occasion? Then it is all too clear as an earth card and do a 180, and then find spiritual love, but then again this is all quite all what I do, and don’t wanna hear. And this musix is all the quite cali dreamin’ late 60’s, but was never there I.

I high my my why? I do in the end tend to recall a lot of things I could not otherwise. I am the reincarnate mate of Prince Albert and Emily Dickinson, with a slight overlap perhaps, and stints in the civil and Vietnam wars. Vietnam was a civil war to me, as a creature stands at my back even now with a high raised knife to spite the “let it roll,” of an ego geo bo, Harrison plays. Hair on my neck is for cutting too.

Hunger into the departure hunts. I love to imagine myself, no more out of my way, going by my observation deck, my writer’s bungalow. Windows! And they are. I can see myself now, already, up there. My new place. I cannot see the street from here. But! But from the future window will I see this street? I rode my bike out into the path of a car one night coming home from work, my mind was everywhere elsewhere. I was sick though when I saw my miscalculation, seconds after. It was such a simple oversight. How long can the average person hold their breath under water?

The cards on the table by the other flatmate, the other one, the new one. I cut them. I just can’t see how things could be any worse. How could I be forced off this plaid plateau? Gainesville? I tend to love those I will never see again most or more than those I see before me, this would be a curse, but love is actually neutral, so it is an illusion somehow. What then is it? Real, but something else, yes.

Maybe, no. There are the many, any lonely people in the word, whether they “have someone” or not. The newer screen savers are good too. I watched “Life as a House” with Dia, her mom, and Melissa tonight. Moving. Meellissaa said it got bad reviews. I am sure Donnie Darko did too then. I will from now on write all the reviews for earth. I am not Whitney Strieber or Art Bell, but I must be a paranormal specialist of some kind. Prince Albert was good intentions mixed with thick mental nonsense. Me too. Skinny dip for me. Show me your tits, on Yom Kippur Disreali June! Show me your priestly rings! I have tried to read the Gnostic texts at dusk but have been sent into the immediate bla blagh. I have tried to write while “out of mind” and only got the morning after blues and it all goes into the trash, torn up.

My, what nonsense drum circles there might be in my future! I am a little too awake but so, as in the same a little, weary now too. I start to fade fore rea,l weather or not the end of page, you analytical bastards!

There is a woman I have seen at many bars and parties who claims to be Debbie Harry. I never believe her, but keep listening each time. I hear her talking but hear nothing. The aching mundane breakthrough has yet to arrive. I can only see her body and calculate the way it feels. If I see her somehow in daylight, she would be another person. And on, on, oh well.

Ahh, I see you. I see two evil dollars left. I have some change somewhere too. Rapture?


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