Recommended Dosage

Hard rock, late at night, has me grinding my teeth, Tom Petty, The Dead, I finally turn off the radio before I go on a rampage and kill a bunch of Supreme Court justices that have their heads so far up their asses they'll never see the light of day. Clarence Thomas is an idiot, seriously; no sane person could possibly believe his line. He's only theoretically black, a locker room ass-grabber with the vision of a three-toed sloth. Don't get me started. I should sit on the court, fucking janitor would be better than the assholes currently residing. Pretty sure I understand the second amendment. Gives me the right to carry a Glock and eliminate the dross. On a roll, I don't like much of anything, it all sucks. I make a crock-pot of grits, but there is no way to assuage my anger, even a perfect meal is suspect. What you thought I meant. I'm way to the left of anything you could imagine: in my world electricity is generated by solar panels and no one answers to anyone else. I can't wait, 4:30 in the morning I have a large helping of cheese grits with a fried egg and a piece of toast slathered with peanut butter and hot pepper jam. Almost calms me down, digging grits out of my teeth with my tongue. Don't know why I'm so mad, must be something I ate. Something I should have smoked or otherwise ingested. Sometimes the world is just too much, you want to go screaming into another dimension. Today, for instance, I started drinking early, because pre-historic art was making way too much sense. I was looking at a drawing of a bison, overdrawn, scratched into the rock, and it was like a video, the way it unfurled. Three-space. I forgot to breathe. Had to hit myself in the chest, to get things started. I've almost weaned myself from time; there's the one digital clock, but after the power goes out, I always set it at 4:20, no matter what time it actually is, how would I know? what is time anyway? and it works OK. I get to work. A given day, I might read for eight hours and write for four, a good day; I deal with other people's shit, but it's not a big deal, there's an argument that dealing with actual shit makes you a better person. I won't weigh in on that, water over the dam, napp over the spillway. There was a perfect sheet flowing yesterday, beautiful, crystal in the light. Allemande, the first cello suite, that opening passage. You know, really, if that doesn't catch your attention, I'm not sure I could spend any time with you. Rimbaud, Rilke. Wait, stay with me here. Benjamin was walking a narrow ledge, better than anyone ever has. If all we had was what he wrote about Baudelaire it would be enough. Rimbaud ended his days as an arms trader in East Africa. Wealthy, by local standards. Consider that. Modernism. Light rain all day. Two more bowls of cheese grits with a fried egg on top during the course of the day, food enough for a couch potato. Read all day. Two books B brought over, Denis Johnson's "Train Dreams" which actually reminds me of B's prose, and G. Cabrera Infante's "Three Trapped Tigers" which is maybe a meta-text and is certainly brilliant writing. I go back and forth between them, drinking coffee and staring off into the middle distance listening to the rain on the roof. Restful. Read a profile of Clarence Thomas that Sara passed along to me. Truly frightening. Beware the bright idiots that actually make the laws. Mid-afternoon, I turned off the computer and killed the breaker for the fridge. I read Emily out loud, to the sound of rain, in a very slow cadence, and it sounded good to me. A poem is a thread (read Stephen Ellis in this regard) and needs to be read as slowly as possible while still maintaining a running sense. I think about that for a while. How meaning is constructed. Not unlike a railroad trestle over a canyon. My back hurts, I've been supine; listen to the blues, do a few stretches. I'm still alive. Drag my sorry ass over to the keyboard.