chops for the book
6/29/24

 ‘Mold death’; trying hard to kill it softly, would be the eternal battle to keep the dirty house clean. It grows in the walls. It smells like rot. In this heat, without chemicals, you're in for it.

The hunger of the man who lives in this town, is one best not messed with. I’ve seen him blow his mind to bits and I have seen him shoot his kids. His job is stacked high against the framework that got him here, that being the chance of prosperity and personal wealth. 

With next to nothing left except the music in his head, he is loose and crazed. Looking for the next pot of wealth, the next chance to show up his rivaled neighbors. 

No longer tolerated are drunkard burnouts like these. 

He sips his drinks cool, with pennies left to his name, to find the subtle pleasures in life that have gradually sunken him down to wandering around with suntan and skin tags. 

It's a tropical oasis for men who don bowling shirts on weekends. Where the woman love to drink and become contorted enough to be fucked with. It is the place where the southern white man, destined to farm, comes to be adverse to what his father told him to do. Failing him to societal rejection status.

A Strip straight down to each side the waterway, multiplied by forty, all the way up and down the phallic little peninsula that is Saint Petersburg Florida. Gridlining, chattering high, big “Fuck You’s” to the streetlights that stop you every second. Let the intrinsic pattern of failed suburbia pound out your skull like the secondly clock tick – Steering wheel assault and sweat drip all over your body. Soaked in your own fortitude to live in such a gnarly joint. 

The excavation, the tarp, and chain link revolution that divides most of these streets, is making a lot of noise for the bottom feeders.

This is the festering point for all men who read from this aberrant bible, and ‘Amen’ is truly to be said by each and every one of them when finding that just about everybody in the place is as gone as they are. 

“One place to be, where the benches are green, and the booze runs gold.”

A place where tradition, family, and value has hightailed it. The place of the new man, reigned. The boozer, the lost boy, the circus act – Gallivanting as one down the streets, no blue collar here, only loser-type. 

The land of depraved, endless vacationing assholes, this might have been, now dead to the monopoly man who said it shouldn’t. 

Like flipping the rock on a bunch of roaches, the undesirable run for cover, and a paper bag to wrap it in.

 Ponderings.

Life sits at a steaming halt while I decide my fate in the coming days. 

There’s a need for financial independence in this world, a need to be separated from the umbilical cord. There is a written dance to your seventy some-odd years, generously if you won’t smoke.

 A need to pay the due, sitting on top a homologous stack, to fight the random number generation that decides your fate. 

The late fees, 

The orange engine light 

The cops yell, 

The bill missed a month ago.

A big fifty pounder above your head, weighted by spike and deathball, waiting to sink you straight into the damn ground every single day. Strange that it’s gotta’ be this way. 

I sit in the dark, arms up, sweating and deciding what I will do. 

In taking this crossroad horsepill, I’ve got two options, bite the bullet; In taking the chance at being the character I've always envisioned myself as. 

The man who dreads the world, hating it, solemnly forever alone, having on and off sex rallies with strangers and being devoted to the craft of writing essays. Who wants to die exuberantly young and stylish, with the hope of being successful; death by ax, who aims for image in different ways than his father, who is physically unrecognizable, who scopes in and shoots the foundation that has consumed his humanly brethren, who stays wake through night time, through day time, thinking bout’ the ways his thoughts resonate so much with candlelight. 

Who wants to be the cover of a novel, and nothing more, in human existence is so incredibly contingent on un-loneliness that the thought of being that wickedly selfish in nature makes him sick and dead. 

Who wants to be the cover of a novel, paper and skin and spine, 

Who wants to be the words written in an everlasting footprint of human tragedy and war and output of this human selfish beast that runs and pounds the asphalt. 

Aren’t you getting me? I want to be two books and that's it!

Who is isolated, crazed, and writing. 

This requires a slighted noose, one that keeps you from being rung-out by the gallows.

In most cases that is what it is. Said with an exhale.

Life and Treachery, taking the step — in not falling down the giant gaping hole in front of you when doing so, whether that be the devil’s excess or just pure accident, circus spotlighted steps into madness, into the unknown. Trusting that with words and promise and wit and perseverance, you become this thing,

The book in my case,

That you’ve always wanted to be. 

To note the second option would be to re-enlist in service.

Continuing the onslaught of anti-crazy pill and booze combinations,

Steady money, not-so-steady traffic. 

Killing the bugs that crawl around my brain every single day, with 

thoughts of freedom, chance, and famousness.