Impotent Middle Class Bell Blues

tide chart

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.

In Women in Love Winifred cries “Di—Di—Di!” hollering for a child that’s drowned. Prescient pun, I suppose, for “Diana,” a book I read thirty-five years ago.

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.

Kurt Cobain confessed his “will was good.” But flopping around town, I’ll tell you this: his bagged “mosquito” also offed my “libido.” Se fue, hermano.

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.

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