Somebody wants to kill herself. And what can I do about that? Last week I hung fly paper around our home. The week before that ant traps.
I tried to keep my spirits up. I tried dreaming of deep sea whaling, and joining a small crew to catch King Crab in Alaska. Not much luck.
I just was insufficient, too human also. Too foul-mouthed, too conceited, and too effed-up with my own human deficiencies. Not enough tiger in my tank to spare.
The things I naturally saw—bright stars, baby praying mantises, nice people at Whole Foods—their skins had grown over with donut glaze, premature glaucoma.
And Emily, well, everybody in America knows because she “could not stop for death,” you can click on it if you don’t. See?
I know, I know, I know I ran away, pulling out my hair. And when I caught myself doing an Amy Winehouse 180, I saw a little, look-alike man like me was there instead, now sleeping in my baby’s bed. My ghost, my brother, my killer.
Paralyzed, hypnotized, infantilized, Christ! I’m a smart enough dude; I’ve read and comprehended Schiller and what in 1795 he wrote about the “simple” and “sentimental.”
I know, too, from The Tibetan Book Of The Dead, just to sit. That is a great service to the dying, and not much else to do. Try it.
Today, I’m just a solitary organ grinder standing at the street corner in Nabokov, a minor character waiting for an unknown stranger to flip a light coin into his monkey’s cup.
(read more @ egbertstarr.com)